Chapter 14 #2
“You are lucky you decided on such an adorable form,” Mouse grumbled.
Although it took her much longer than usual, she could pull herself up from the pillows. She held the bedpost as she parted her robe and held up her leg to the light.
The yellow welt was gone, as was the string of red blisters. A white starburst the size of Mouse’s palm stood out on her flesh, raised slightly above the rest of her skin, but the scar was the only remnant of the burn.
“We were both fortunate,” she told Smudge severely. “We cannot be so careless in the future.”
The dog blinked at her before biting its front leg. Mouse patted Smudge’s head.
She found fresh clothing laid out on the dresser, a sensible muted red dress with shoes and stockings to match. The message was clear—she would not be gardening today.
She knew Thornwood was being high-handed, and she would certainly tell him so when she saw him, but she could not fault his logic. She barely felt fit to pull her stockings over her ankles, let alone take on garden work.
Carefully, she padded through the halls with Smudge panting close behind. The dragon-dog kept pace with her in solidarity, but Mouse could feel the burbling energy forming with every step they took, and holding back only made Smudge vibrate more.
“Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Smudge was gone, a black-and-gold flash down the hall and out of sight.
Mouse chuckled.
We must not buy their fruits…
The voice sounded just next to her ear. She froze.
“Who’s there?” she whispered. “Answer me instead of trying to frighten me to death.”
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?
“Quote poetry at me all day. I still don’t know what you mean,” Mouse said. “Is Thornwood your goblin man? Would it truly be harder for you to give me clear instructions, rather than verses?”
Trust Faeries little, the voice said, softer now, but trust men less.
“Sound advice,” Mouse said. “But what am I meant to do when I need to rely on them both to keep Thistlemarsh?”
The voice did not respond. Mouse’s heart pounded, but she pressed on. “Let me know when you solve that puzzle, and then we can talk about goblin men.”
Hungry thirsty roots…
The words followed her down to the breakfast table, and it took three sausages, an egg, a jam-covered piece of toast, and half a pot of Mickelwaithe’s expertly brewed tea before she could banish them.
“I was starving,” she explained around a mouthful of toast when she noted Thornwood’s raised brow.
“That’s natural,” Mickelwaithe said. “The first time I experienced magic fatigue, I was hungry for a month.”
Alarmed, Mouse set her teacup down.
“That won’t happen to you,” Thornwood said. “Mickelwaithe’s first act of magic was destroying half an army. And you did not cast any spells yourself. You were just in proximity to that enormous fire spell. Mickelwaithe is a powerful magician, for a mortal.”
Mickelwaithe grinned, and Mouse smiled sheepishly back, thinking of his shadowy reflection in the mirror.
Tucked under the table and out of the reach of Thornwood’s disapproving gaze, Smudge merrily guzzled down a link of sausages.
“Last night, you mentioned that you have something to show me,” Mouse said, tapping around her lips with a napkin.
“Yes, it’s an exciting discovery, but we still have much work to do,” Thornwood said, rising. Smudge bolted out from under the table after him, licking grease off her mouth. Thornwood glared at Mickelwaithe, who deflected the look by expertly turning away and vanishing down the servant stairs.
With a final bite of toast, nicked from Thornwood’s untouched plate, Mouse followed them. As soon as she stepped into the entrance hall, she felt the shift in the magic, like the loosening of tightly pulled cords. Thornwood grinned.
“The spell working against me has weakened since we escaped the boiler room spell.”
He held up his hand, revealing the nest of magic vines again. The broken jewel on his ring pulsed green. Snapped threads of gold littered the floor. Some of the strings held, glowing stronger than ever, but they were the exception.
“Look here,” Thornwood said, ushering Mouse into the parlor. She sucked in a ragged breath—the room was restored. Paint sparkled with color, and shining fabric enticed Mouse to feel the curled arms of sofas and the backs of chairs.
“It won’t fade away in the night, like last time?” she asked as her fingertips touched the fabric. The material was soft and stiff, as though purchased yesterday rather than a hundred years ago.
“I finished this room yesterday morning, and nothing has diminished since. I’ve also tried some of the others with varying degrees of success. The rooms that take to the magic well are in this corner of the house, up and down.”
“The magic worked upstairs?” Mouse asked.
“Yes, although I have had mixed results venturing further into the house.”
“Then we need to find the next part of the spell and dismantle it as soon as possible.”
“That we do, but today you need rest.”
“You said yourself that we are running out of time!”
“I need to make up for time lost in this section of the house,” Thornwood said.
“And you need to recover enough that one blast of magic won’t blow you over.
That includes physical rest. When I spoke to Mr. Hobb yesterday, he agreed with me.
A boy from the village is coming up the next few days to help him. ”
“So, what do you suggest that I do? Embroider?” Mouse asked.
“No, you will visit your clergyman. He was here yesterday, causing a fuss. I’ve arranged for my driver to escort you there.”
“John visited yesterday?” Horror flooded over Mouse. John knew nothing of her Faerie bargain, and she had not even supplied him with Thornwood’s mortal cover story. Her cowardice had finally caught up to her.
“He did. I told him you were too ill to be seen, and he threatened to hit me with a broom handle if I laid a hand on you. It was all extremely dramatic. Thus, the best use of your time while you recover is to calm him down. If we want to get back on schedule, the last thing we need is an interruption from a mob of angry villagers.”
“You’re right. I’ve been terribly remiss in that corner. I should have at least told him something,” Mouse said. “I don’t want John to worry over me unnecessarily.”
“Considering how reckless you are, I think he worries just the right amount. However, I would prefer he had turned his ire on you, rather than me.”
“Very gallant of you.” She peeked out the clean windows, taking a moment to wonder if she’d ever seen them this clear of dirt.
“It looks like rain. My driver will meet you outside in five minutes,” Thornwood said. “And do take this animal with you—I can do more without it underfoot.”
“Want to go on a trip, Smudge?” Mouse asked. The dragon-dog bounced merrily, and they left Thornwood to his work.
Thornwood’s car rumbled in the drive, a sleek black line against nature.
The driver was cloaked in shadows and did not move to open the door.
Mouse did not mind, as she had opened many automobile doors by herself over the years, but it was off-putting when matched with the overly formal vehicle and uniform.
Mouse ducked inside with her coat pulled tight. Smudge slid in beside her, shaking out her fur as Mouse tugged the door closed. The interior was warm, and the air smelled of magic and cigarettes.
“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” Mouse said. The driver did not look at her, instead pulling out onto the drive. “John’s vicarage is just beyond the woods, but we’ll have to go through the village to get there. Funny how it’s sometimes more sensible to ride a bicycle or walk than to drive.”
He was silent, his gaze focused ahead. Smudge tilted her head, nose twitching.
They rode through the village in silence.
Mouse could see familiar faces as they passed the bakery, the school, and the town center.
She wondered if parading her out in front of the villagers in his car was part of Thornwood’s attempt to strengthen their cover story.
If so, he certainly chose the best time of day to send her.
Bells studded the bunting in the town square, silver glowing against the pink, yellow, and green triangles.
She had forgotten the Spring Festival was near, coinciding perfectly with the deadline to finish work on Thistlemarsh.
Everyone was at the market vying for the best deal before their neighbors snatched them up.
Mrs. Colt waved at her from her bread stand, her face broad and jolly. Mouse waved back, aware of how wan her smile must be in comparison.
She hadn’t practiced much lately, at least not with other people. She realized with a jolt that Thornwood and Mickelwaithe had seen her smile more than anyone else had in years, even John. She felt like a traitor as she tumbled out of the car and through John’s garden.
Smudge sat patiently at her feet as Mouse knocked, panting steady as a clock ticking.
No one came to the door. Mouse felt foolish in her dress, with her hair done up and melting in the rain, like a little girl dressed in her mother’s clothes, unsuccessfully disguised as a lady. Determined, she knocked again.
There was no answer.
“Let’s go,” she whispered to Smudge. She turned up her coat collar, annoyed with herself for not remembering to take an umbrella on her way out.
“Mouse?” John emerged from the path through the woods. He held a sensible gray umbrella, and the sight made Mouse bark with laughter before hurtling toward him.
He met her halfway, holding the umbrella above them as she threw her arms around his shoulders.
“I just went to see you,” he said, an uneasy smile sliding into place.
“I was about to leave. But, luckily, here you are,” Mouse said, shivering.
John tensed. She turned to see what put him on edge. Thornwood’s car purred on the roadside. The chauffeur still stared forward at the wheel, unmoving.
“Lucky indeed,” John said. “You have been locked away in that house by that new friend of yours too long. The villagers have nothing else to talk about but the scandal.”
“Scandal?” Mouse choked. She dug up the cover story Mickelwaithe had circulated in the village. “Thornwood’s just here from London to help repair the house.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “We can talk inside.”
He pushed open the gate to find Smudge trapped on the other side. She sat and gave a long, pitiful whine.
“Who is this?” John asked, bending down to the dog’s level. She nuzzled his hand, chirping as he scratched behind her ears.
“Her name is Smudge.”
“Would Smudge like a delicious cut of ham?” John asked, his voice taking on the wobbly quality he always adopted around animals, even his bees. The dragon-dog bounced merrily in place, happy to play along.
After toweling off, they took seats in John’s kitchen. He placed a plate covered with a thick slice of ham on the ground. Smudge lay down next to it and chewed on one side slowly, savoring the salt for as long as she could.
“What a well-behaved little lady,” he said, scratching between her ears. Smudge preened. Mouse knelt, taking up John’s scratching as he moved back to the stove.
“You love this attention,” she said quietly. Smudge smiled, her teeth more dragon than dog. Mouse snorted.
John poured two cups of tea, and as the steam lifted, an idea struck Mouse.
“Can I get another cup for the driver?”
John frowned but went back to the counter. He returned with a tin cup and a biscuit wrapped in parchment paper. Raincoat back on, Mouse dashed out to the car. The driver turned to look at her as she stood next to his window.
“For you,” she said, holding the cup up to the glass. She met the driver’s eyes and was struck by how large they were, fully round, like tea saucers.
He rolled down the window, gingerly took the cup, and opened his mouth. He did not have teeth, although you could not tell by looking at him. Instead, his mouth split his face in half. Mouse gasped, the biscuit pressed tight in her shaking hands. The tea went down in one gulp.
The driver held out the empty mug, and she took it. His focus shot to the wrinkled wax paper, and Mouse handed it to him wordlessly. It was gone in seconds, wax paper and all.
“We won’t be long,” she said shakily. He tilted his head at her, blinked once, and then turned back toward the road.
“That was quick,” John said as Mouse handed him the mug as soon as she was inside. “He did not need to finish it while you were out there.”
“He was thirsty,” Mouse said, then quickly amended. “He doesn’t want another cup.”
She did not want to venture out there again, without Smudge, before she had to.