Chapter 13 #2
Thornwood did not respond. Mouse stepped out of the bathtub, carefully toweled off her legs, and pulled her robe around herself.
Although her sleeve was singed at the cuff and shoulder, the nightgown had taken the brunt of the dirt, and the robe’s hem was comparatively clean.
She glanced at herself in the mirror and winced.
Her hair tangled around her in a wild bush. She snatched out the pieces of grass she could see and rubbed the soot from her cheeks.
It didn’t help much, only making her cheeks red and her hair feral.
“He does not care what you look like,” Mouse snapped at her reflection, but she snagged a few more stray particles before she forced herself from the mirror and out to meet Thornwood.
He sat on the bed, his legs folded and his hands fiddling with a book.
Before the war, Bertie loved the poets, and Roger loved the histories, but Mouse and Lord Dewhurst split the kingdom of the novel.
The library did not have enough room to house everything, so the titles her uncle cared for least ended up scattered in guest bedrooms and window nooks to save space on the shelves for “better” books.
Mouse’s aged copy of Jane Eyre was cradled between Thornwood’s fingers, transferred from the library sometime between when she left for the Front and Lord Dewhurst’s death. She ignored the pang of hurt in her chest—what did it matter now, after all?
She slumped down next to Thornwood, her feet dangling just off the floor.
“The first part is dull as anything. Read the first chapter, know that Jane Eyre has a miserable time, then skip to chapter ten.”
“You are a delinquent, Lady Dewhurst.”
“Jane Eyre is an old friend. She would not mind. In fact, she might agree with me.”
He closed the book. “May I borrow it?”
Startled, Mouse nodded. The book vanished into his jacket, either tucked into an unseen pocket or spirited away by magic.
He slipped off the bed gracefully and was at her feet in a second, parting her robe. Mouse felt the brush of his fingers over her skin. She jerked her robe closed.
His gaze met hers, eyebrow arched. Mouse flushed.
“Sorry, it was instinct,” she said, relaxing as much as possible.
She parted the robe until it passed her knee.
No new blisters had formed, but those already there were oozing, and Mouse looked away sharply.
She’d seen her fair share of wounds. Blood did not bother her, but blisters and boils did.
As a nurse, she hid her disgust as best she could, but with only Thornwood as a witness, she let herself shudder.
“So, you enjoy novels?” Thornwood asked. His fingers pressed at the edges of the burn as he spoke, and Mouse repressed her flinch. Still, he let his touch linger on her unburned flesh. “When I was last in the mortal world, they were a relatively new genre.”
Mouse’s skin tingled where his fingers met her skin, and she could barely process his words. The effects of his magic, she thought, ignoring the heat working up her neck.
“I am surprised you know anything about our literature, considering how ‘unrefined’ we mortals are in your eyes.”
Thornwood snorted. “Let’s call it a guilty pleasure,” he said. “My father loved mortal literature.”
Instantly, his head ducked down closer to her burn. Although she could not see his face, his ears had turned pink. Mouse got the distinct impression he had not intended to reveal so much about himself.
“What books did he like?” Mouse asked softly. He did not look up at her, his fingers flitting on top of the burn. Featherlight, his touch made the wound prickle, but it was not painful. The sensation buzzed down her leg to her foot, as though it was asleep.
“Poetry was his poison: ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,’ and all that rot.”
“I never cared much for Milton myself,” Mouse said. “Although the message is appealing.”
“I feel the same. I prefer Shakespeare.”
Mouse laughed. “My cousin, Bertie, loved him as well, although my uncle would accuse you of being pedestrian. Do you have a favorite play?”
“Mine is Hamlet; my mother’s was Twelfth Night.”
“ ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man’s son doth know.’ Twelfth Night is my favorite as well. My father loved it. He played a sorrowful Feste when he read the play aloud.” Her heart lifted at the memory. “Have you read many novels, then?”
“Not many, no. We were all a bit preoccupied at the time.” He looked up at her. “Prepare yourself. This will hurt.”
Mouse braced, twisting her fingers into the duvet. He pressed his hands into the wound, and she cried out, her other leg digging into the side of the bed.
She spoke to distract herself from the pain and, at the same time, mask her fear.
“You will enjoy Jane Eyre. It has Faeries in it,” she said, teeth clenched.
He smiled wryly. “That must be why it’s your favorite.”
Mouse gasped out a laugh. The pain, while still blinding, had lessened enough for her to pry her fingers away from the creased bedspread. She leaned back, her weight on her elbows. “I should have said it has mentions of Faeries in it, not actual Faerie characters.”
“Alas, and so my interest wanes.” He sighed.
“Too bad. I will take my book back.”
His focus shifted to her leg. “You will feel intense pressure and maybe some pain for a few seconds. Then it will be over.”
She looked up at the ceiling as the pressure increased, as though her leg was caught in a vise.
Finally, when she was sure it would break under the weight, the force lifted.
She slumped against the bed, her toes brushing the floor.
Thornwood tucked her robe around her exposed knee.
To Mouse’s shock, he reached for her face.
She drew in a sharp breath as he brushed her loose hair back behind her shoulder.
The movement was almost like an afterthought, as though righting her hair was part of the healing process. He pulled away abruptly.
“It’s done,” he said before helping her beneath the covers. He paused. “Since we are sharing, I am curious. Is it common now for mortals to name their children after rodents?”
Mouse studied the simple embroidery on the sheets. It was a joke, she knew. Still, she wanted to snap at him, tell him to mind his own business, but she caught herself. He had helped her with her leg, after all. A story in return sounded like a fair bargain.
“No, Mouse is not my real name. My uncle could not pronounce my name. Although now that I think of it, since it is an Irish name, I doubt he even tried.”
“And the name Mouse was the natural choice as a stand-in?”
She shrugged. “He thought it was funny after he found me hiding from him in the bend of a staircase. He started calling me Dormouse, which shifted to Mouse. From there, the staff caught on. Eventually everyone called me Mouse, and no one remembered my real name.”
“You hated it?” Thornwood asked, the words only half a question.
“At first,” she said, then smiled at him. “Now, I like that I can keep my true name to myself. And it saves one from wicked, thieving Faeries.”
He took her cue, chuckling softly as he changed the subject. “You should get to sleep. Likely, you will be sore tomorrow, and you may have a small scar, but, overall, I believe the spell was a success.”
“Good,” Mouse sighed, curling up on the bed. “There’s no way I’ll be able to drag myself up to the Matchbox tonight. I’ll stay here. If I’m not down at nine, send Mickelwaithe up to check if I died of exhaustion in the night.”
Before she could hear his answer, she was asleep.