Chapter 17
Tithe’s train station stood outside the village, a short walk from the market center. The hills crowded around it, hemming the tracks in on both sides. The station was stone, framed with bright red paint.
While Mouse purchased the tickets, Thornwood waited at the door leading to the platform. He stared at the mosaic of the Faerie monarch procession that encircled the room.
When she turned back to him, Mouse blinked in confusion, her eyes stinging. He’d thrown up his sunshine-bright glamour again, heightening his looks to something painful.
So, Mouse had not gotten used to Thornwood’s magic after all. He had let his glamour down. But why put it back up now?
“I see that the trend of artists using pointed ears to distinguish us from mortals is still in full force,” Thornwood said, breaking Mouse from her thoughts. She tucked the tickets into her handbag, not looking directly at him.
“When everyone is so beautiful, there has to be some visual cue which are mortal and which are not,” she said.
“So, you acknowledge that this is a piece of propaganda?”
Mouse shrugged. “I suppose so. This country treasures the relations that used to exist between Faerie and England’s monarchs. You can hardly walk anywhere without Faeries popping up in stone or paint.”
“Was it the same way when you were abroad, or is this an English trait?”
“No, it’s all saints and Faeries there. We can thank Henry VIII and the battle against Catholicism for Britain’s special flavor of Faerie iconography.”
Thornwood hummed. He was focused on the last Faerie stepping off the tile and disappearing into the entryway before Victoria emerged on the other side, alone.
The final Faerie King’s silver hair was distinctive, cascading down over his shoulders like a bright flag leading the parade of monarchs into the unknown beyond.
His clothes were those of a Georgian gentleman: a green coat decorated with embroidered silver leaves.
Roses twined nearly up to his shoulders.
A pink blossom was threaded in his hair and caressed the side of his face, almost as though whispering in his ear.
It framed a single narrowed eye and the edge of a smirk, crowned with a wild silver eyebrow reaching almost to his hairline.
They lingered, Mouse watching Thornwood as he took in the artwork. His gaze did not stray from the final figure.
“Come on,” she said at last. He moved without comment, and Mouse found herself glancing back at the mosaic until they reached the platform and it was out of sight.
Even early in the morning light, vendors sold coffee and books to drowsy passengers. Cigarette smoke floated in lazy curls above the bowed heads of well-dressed men, their faces pressed into their newspapers.
As Mouse and Thornwood approached the coffee cart, the vendor gave her a concerned look, and she blushed, all too aware of how haggard she looked.
To combat the dark circles beneath her eyes, Mouse had selected her finest walking suit, with a burgundy jacket and matching pleated skirt.
It was utilitarian, and clearly made during the war with its sensible pockets and wide lapels, but the shade was pretty and brought color to her cheeks.
It was strange to wear something so rich, after weeks of worn work clothes.
She had hoped the color and flattering cut would hide how exhausted she was from Beckett’s penetrating gaze, but clearly it was not doing the trick.
She felt even more drab next to Thornwood’s unnatural handsomeness.
Mouse paid for two coffees, pressing one into Thornwood’s gloved hands while counting out her coins with the other.
Another traveler tripped on an uneven dip between the platform and the station building, nearly spilling his cup on Mouse’s suit.
She had to hop, holding the change out while balancing her cup.
With a sigh, Thornwood took the coffee from her.
“Sorry, miss!” the man shouted over his shoulder before joining a group at the end of the platform.
She shelled out for a newspaper as well. The feel of the thin paper between her fingers grounded her in the mortal world for the first time in weeks.
A photograph of the prime minister was splattered across the front page, his hand held up to his chest. Mouse scoffed and flipped through the following pages but found nothing interesting. She supposed that the war had a way of making all other news seem dull.
“What is that?” Thornwood asked. Mouse jerked her head up. He used the rim of his empty coffee cup to point to something on the page. Mouse turned the paper around to find an advertisement for a Gilbert and Sullivan production.
“It’s an operetta.”
“An opera?”
“No, although we still have those. An operetta is a mix between a play and an opera. It looks like this theater is putting one on at the end of the month.”
“Isn’t it remarkable: so much about the world changes, yet also stays the same.”
“Have you seen any operas in your time?”
“Many. My mother had a passion for Purcell and Handel.”
“Ah, an admirer of the baroque style.”
Thornwood stared at her in surprise.
“I’ve seen my fair share of opera, even as a lowly gardener’s daughter. Bertie liked them. I wonder what you would think of Puccini,” Mouse said.
“I look forward to experiencing it.”
“Him. Puccini is a composer, not an opera.”
“Ah, yes.”
Mouse folded the paper and held it out to him. “Here. You may want to prepare yourself as best as you can before we get to London. It might be overwhelming after all this time in the countryside.”
“I was very accustomed to the city before my enchantment,” Thornwood said loftily, but he took the paper from her nonetheless. Mouse finished her coffee, returning the cups to the vendor.
The train approached, a blue engine coughing up smoke. Mouse straightened her hat. She pushed the pin in, tugging at the sides to ensure the whole thing would not come tumbling off in a gust from the oncoming train.
“Should I hold on to anything?” Thornwood asked, eyebrow raised.
“Just be careful of your hat. You won’t get it back if you lose it on the tracks.”
The train pulled in, billowing steam across the platform. When it cleared, Mouse saw that Thornwood was clutching his hat and the paper for dear life.
“Was that all?” he asked, belligerent. “I was expecting a storm.”
“Well, either way, you were more than prepared,” Mouse said. “Come on. They won’t wait for us forever.”
“It’s only just arrived,” Thornwood snapped. However, the platform was nearly empty of passengers, both embarking on and finishing their journeys. The conductor ushered them on board.
They found an empty compartment. The train was not an express, so there were quite a few stops on the way into London.
“When we arrive, we’ll find our way to Mr. Beckett’s office. I will talk to him, appeal to his sense of duty and kindness, if he has one. But I feel that we should be prepared to take the key and run.”
“Do not fuss. I have Mickelwaithe on call, should anything disastrous happen.” Thornwood patted his suit pocket.
Mouse stared, alarmed. “You didn’t pack him like a handkerchief, did you?”
“Of course not. I can summon him with this.” He produced an acorn from the pocket. “If I rub the cap, he will appear.”
She eyed the acorn. “And you’re sure that this is going to work?”
“Certain,” he said.
At the third stop, a meek woman shrugged her way into the compartment.
Her luggage was nearly as large as she was.
To Mouse’s amazement, Thornwood offered to place the woman’s handbag on the shelf above her.
When he caught Mouse staring, he turned back to the newspaper in a huff.
Five minutes down the track, the woman slumped back against her seat, asleep.
To calm her trembling hands, Mouse produced a deck of cards from her handbag. Intricately woven butterfly wings decorated the back of the cards. The foil glinted in the low lights of the compartment and the shadows of the passing trees.
She laid out a game of solitaire, watching from the corner of her eye as Thornwood attempted to restrain his curiosity. Mouse finished her second game, reshuffling the cards. The newspaper lay abandoned at his side.
“Would you like to play?” Mouse asked.
“I do not know the rules,” he said, looking over the formation. “Is it a fortune-telling game?”
Mouse laughed. “Nothing that complicated, but this is a solitary game. We could play Kings in the Corner, if you’re up to learning.”
He nodded. Mouse explained the rules, and much to her annoyance, he caught on quickly. She squeaked by in the first game, but the next two fell to Thornwood.
“Are all Faeries as good at games as you?” she asked after losing for the third time in a row. Thornwood looked at the old woman, still sleeping, before shuffling the cards.
In his hands, the cards danced. They performed flips and twirled, floating from one palm back to the other.
“We all have our talents, but I will say that most of us are adept at games.”
“Do you train from an early age at strategy? Chess tournaments in the nursery?” Mouse asked archly.
“You are teasing, but yes. Perhaps not in the nursery, but in court, it is evident that you cannot survive without learning some strategy.”
“Speaking of strategy, we need to think of a plan. It won’t be easy to convince Beckett to give me the key.” As she spoke, Thornwood went very still. “What is it?”
“We could make a bargain,” he said.
An electric pulse went through Mouse’s body. Slowly, she laid her palms in her lap. “What would that entail?”
“I could grant you some powers of persuasion. But, before you ask, it would not grant you full control over Beckett’s mind. There is also a time limit; the magic only lasts a few hours, but it might give you enough of an edge to convince him to give you the key.”
“And what would I need to exchange for this persuasion power?”
“Your eye,” he said without hesitation.