Chapter 14
Mouse woke to wavering candlelight dancing over the ceiling.
She stared in confusion before the events with the dragon rushed over her.
Her robe was gaping open under the covers, tangling around her legs.
She rolled over, kicking her feet out to free herself, only to find Thornwood watching her, amused.
Although the blanket brushed against her nose, she clutched it to her with a squeak.
She fumbled with the opening of the robe under the sheets.
“What are you doing here?”
He held up the book in his hand. “Reading,” he said, as though it was the most natural response in the world.
“I can see that, but why in this room?” She finally managed to right everything beneath the covers.
He laid the book aside with an exaggerated sigh that set Mouse’s already tattered nerves on edge. “Mickelwaithe and I kept close throughout the day. Both of us have experienced magical fatigue before, but you have not.”
Mouse gulped. “Magical fatigue? What did you think would happen?”
“Hopefully, nothing but a night of deep sleep. However, it was not outside the realm of possibility that you might develop a fever or have a seizure. I’ve seen both.”
He leaned forward, placing a placating hand on top of the sheet.
“The odds of either were much lower than your wound getting infected if left untreated. Besides, now that you are awake, there is an even smaller chance of serious fallout.”
She groaned, falling back against the pillows. Despite her exhaustion, the pain in her leg had faded to a buzzing soreness.
“You said ‘throughout the day,’ ” she said.
“Yes. You fell asleep around two last night, and it is now half past midnight. I went out to speak to your Mr. Hobb. He was not happy to see me but seemed to accept my story that you had a cold and were sleeping it off. Probably best if you make an appearance in the morning; I sense that he does not trust me.”
“I wonder why.” She pushed herself up onto her elbows and moaned in pain. “God, I feel like I was hit by a train.”
“The feeling should wear off by tomorrow.”
Mouse gasped, clutching at his hand. “The dragon? Did it make it through the night?”
“Yes, it did,” Thornwood said, returning her tight squeeze. “It slept until noon and spent the rest of the day following me from room to room like a shadow.”
“Did Mr. Hobb see it?”
“Of course not. At least, not as a dragon. It is a clever creature. It has adopted a glamour.”
“What kind of glamour?” Mouse asked, the image of a deer or a raccoon traipsing through the house blossoming in her mind. What did a Faerie think would be a good disguise?
“I’m sure it is outside the door now, if you want to see it. As I said, the creature is very intent on staying near you or tailing me.”
Mouse tensed as he stood and strode toward the door. She watched as he grabbed the doorknob, telling herself to prepare for anything. As soon as it cracked open, scrambling scratches sounded just out of Mouse’s sight, and the door swung open.
A dog, no taller than Thornwood’s knee, bounded into the room. It leaped upon him, and he sneered. A startled laugh burst from Mouse’s lips, and the dog turned to look at her. It threw itself up onto the bed, leaving the Faerie forgotten in the excitement.
“Stupid animal, she is not in a fit state to play with you.”
The dog ignored him, although it moved slower now.
It was all black, except for the bottoms of its front feet and from the top of its eyes down past its nose to its neck, where its fur turned golden.
Its eyes shone black, a dog’s eyes except for the slight points on its pupils.
Its tail was missing, although its hips shook in a pantomime of wagging.
Delicately, it laid its gold paws next to her shoulder.
A pink tongue darted out of its lips and licked her chin.
“I would not be surprised if it stayed in that form even after it recovers its strength. It appears happy enough,” Thornwood said. “It managed to enchant your Mr. Hobb where I failed.”
Mouse lifted her fingers to its jaw, and it leaned into her touch. The texture of its fur did not change from the gold fur to the black, although Mouse could not help wincing at the memory of burned silk and scales.
“Smudge,” she said. It licked her fingers.
“Oh, you’ve named it already.” Thornwood sighed. “Mickelwaithe said you might. I must warn you not to get too attached. Dragons are mercurial—this one might fly away at a shift in the wind.”
“I’m glad. She suffered too long in that room. She deserves freedom.”
“She?”
Mouse nodded solemnly, her fingers finding a good scratching point on the dog’s shoulder. Smudge let out a cheerful bark and sank onto her stomach, her back legs sticking out straight behind her and her head balanced on her front legs.
Thornwood settled in his chair with the book propped open in his lap. “Do not blame me if it starts coughing up fireballs on your bedspread.”
“Don’t listen to the rude Faerie, Smudge.”
Silence fell, and soon Smudge was asleep at her side, paws pressed against Mouse’s shoulder while Mouse stroked her belly. In the dark, candlelight illuminated Thornwood’s face and the pages flipping between his fingers.
His hair caught the colors of the fire, and his scar stood out on his cheek, a white line against the flickering shadows. She wondered what had happened so that even a Faerie’s magic could not heal the wound.
His black robe pooled around him, and the juxtaposition of the dark color sharpened his jaw in the soft light.
A line formed between his brows as he read, as though he was trying to make out a puzzle.
She traced the lines of his jaw with her eyes.
The initial power of his magic had worn off, and she could look at him without her eyes watering as though she was looking into the sun.
He was attractive, Mouse realized. Beautiful, even. Before, he was gorgeous, but it was a terrifying and untouchable beauty. Now, the lines of his face were still sharp, but some of the glints of malicious disdain were gone, made soft.
His gaze snapped up from the page to her face.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m just trying my best to read from here.”
“Bored, are you?”
Mouse flushed. “Yes.”
The Faerie smiled. “You are right. The beginning was very dull.”
He flashed her the cover of Jane Eyre.
“You read it anyway?”
He shrugged. “Your contempt made me curious.”
“So, where are you now?”
“I am sitting in a chair at your bedside.”
Mouse rolled her eyes.
He continued, a smug smile leaking into his voice. “But in the story, she has just set off for her new position.”
“Ah, so where I told you to start.”
“I must admit it is already more interesting.”
“Fancy that.”
With a jolt, Mouse realized he was being intentionally kind to her. How strange.
“Why do you like it? Just for the Faerie bits?” he asked.
“No, not just for that. I relate to Jane. She is an outcast in both the upper and lower classes that populate her life.”
“And you felt that way yourself,” Thornwood said. Mouse nodded, still caught off guard by his kindness. The Faerie lifted the book from his lap slightly, as though saluting her with it. “If you are polite, I will read it to you.”
“I can behave.” Smudge shifted in her sleep.
“One interruption, and it will be back to the boredom of entertaining dogs.”
Mouse did not dignify that with a response.
Thornwood was an exceptional reader. Although Mouse’s family always read things out when she was a child, the gift of telling a story was rare.
Her father was delightful, but he often got too bogged down in words, and the performance would stutter.
Roger was too solemn, except when reciting facts about ancient battles and navy squabbles on the high seas, which he told without enough detail, so he left listeners flailing.
Bertie was blessed with the gift of storytelling, like Mouse’s mother.
He could tell any story with a flourish that would command attention but would not overrun into dramatics.
At parties, he would hold court, and those in his power were happy to be there.
In his hands, a story that was innately dull or sordid glinted like gold.
Thornwood did not have Bertie’s level of talent. However, his voice lifted the words off the page, sending them dancing through Mouse’s mind and painting a seamless image.
Mouse prepared herself for the first mention of Faeries. She knew Jane Eyre almost as well as Blakeney’s. So much so that when she closed her eyes, she could hear the beating of hooves as Rochester’s horse raced toward Jane and their shared destiny, for better or for worse.
Smudge grunted in her sleep, loud enough to break through Thornwood’s concentration. He snapped the book shut.
“You may feel strong now, but you will regret staying awake longer in the morning. Get some rest. I am sure that the animal will not abandon you tonight. If it annoys you, call Mickelwaithe’s name, and he will retrieve it.”
“Where would he put her?” Mouse asked, thinking of how cold and exposed most of the house was, especially with Thornwood’s dwindling magic.
“He would likely keep her with him. Mickelwaithe likes the creature as much as you do.”
“Will you sleep?”
“No, I will work on the house. We’ve lost time, and I need to make it up.”
“But won’t the house reject the magic? That seems like a waste of time.”
Thornwood rose from the chair. “This is not the time to discuss it, but I have much to show you tomorrow. Not all of us could afford to sleep the day away.” The sparkle in his eyes softened his words.
“Good night,” Mouse said. Something had changed between them, but Mouse was too exhausted to examine it for long.
Thornwood nodded, his lips pulled into a tight smile, before he shut the door behind him.
Mouse woke to Smudge’s tongue lapping at her ear. She squeaked, her heart nearly bolting out of her body. Smudge sat back on her hind legs, her teeth shining and her tongue lolling out.