Chapter 19
It was a day before Mouse saw Thornwood again.
Each time she asked Mickelwaithe, he brushed aside her questions, explaining that Thornwood was resting to regain his strength.
Mouse spent the day outside, watching with restrained excitement as new growth wiggled its way out of the soil and into the sunlight.
The structural portions of the garden were finished, which meant that only the final touches remained.
Of course, it still looked bare and trimmed back, but Mouse had to believe that the improvement was enough.
That night, she visited John with Bertie’s box tucked safely under her arm.
John glared at her as she came up the path, undoubtedly still upset with her over their last conversation.
But Mouse could not feel angry anymore, not with the shreds of Bertie’s life held in her hands.
She offered the box to John. He eyed it, dubious, until he lifted the lid to see Bertie’s cigarettes, the medals, and his poetry journal, which Mouse had placed inside as soon as she returned from London.
Grief washed over him, followed by a wavering smile as he touched Bertie’s things.
He lifted a star-shaped medal from the box, tracing his fingers over the blue, red, and white ribbon.
“He wrote to me when they gave him this one,” John said. “Would you mind terribly if I kept it?”
Mouse could see his eyes were wet.
“Of course I do not mind,” she said. “I brought them for you.”
He slipped the medal into his pocket and retrieved the journal, but he did not take anything else before he closed the lid again. Mouse extracted the photograph of them all out from Blakeney’s, but he pressed it back into her hands when she offered it to him.
Then, they dug a small grave in his garden between the beehives and the nearest flowers. Neither of them spoke as they buried the box, but when it was over, Mouse leaned into John, and he leaned back.
It was easier to speak to him afterward. They did not talk about Thistlemarsh or Thornwood. Although it tugged at Mouse’s heart that John still did not believe her, she did not press him. She was too happy to be back with him to touch on anything that might break the peace.
Instead, they spoke of the Spring Festival and of village rumors. Silly things, really, but the topics were familiar and warm and easy.
The next morning, Mouse was working in the garden with Mr. Hobb when Thornwood materialized beside her. She jumped, then glanced at Mr. Hobb, but he was hard at work on an unruly bush. She pulled Thornwood behind a bend in a hedge.
“That was a little bold, don’t you think? Mr. Hobb could have seen you using magic.”
“As bold as poisoning me?” he snarled.
“Poisoning?” she said. “I did not poison you.”
“Ah, so I have been under the influence of a sleeping draft for an entire day, and you were not at all suspicious?”
Mouse frowned. “Mickelwaithe said you were resting. I did not realize you were still affected by the draft.”
“Still affected by it?” he repeated.
“He told me that he used it on you after we brought you to bed,” Mouse said.
“You did not think to come looking for me? Do you realize how much time we have lost?”
“You needed rest for this enchantment!” she said. “And the magic has not deteriorated while you’ve been asleep.”
“By pure luck, as far as we know.” He marched away, pausing only when he reached Thistlemarsh’s side door. “Come on, then.”
Mouse rolled her eyes and followed behind, waving with a half smile to Mr. Hobb. Once inside, Thornwood cast out a ripple of magic. A few thin golden threads crossed the hallway leading to the entryway. They followed them to the tapestry, where Thornwood lifted the corner to reveal the two locks.
Mouse pulled the necklace from under her collar. The two keys rattled against each other. She unhooked the clasp, pulling Bertie’s key from the chain and handing it to Thornwood.
“Shall we?” she asked.
They pressed both keys into place simultaneously. The locks clicked, the movement vibrating through the door. But it did not open. Instead, a mark ran along the surface of the wood.
“Ah, I see.” Thornwood sighed.
“What is it?”
“This is the sign of a Faerie toll.”
“A Faerie toll?”
“Yes, and we will have to pay it to get past the doors.”
“Always a price. What will we have to pay?”
“The standard toll is a fist full of lies.”
“Lies? How does one hold a lie? And Faeries cannot lie. Why make that the toll to get in?”
“That’s the point. If we were both Faeries, we would have to go about collecting lies from mortals until we had enough to get in. Luckily, you can produce enough for both of us.”
She huffed. “What do I need to do?”
“Press your palm to your mouth and whisper something untrue. Then, do the same for me. The stronger the lie, the better.”
Mouse frowned, searching for any lies that could be considered strong. The first that came to mind were simple lies, like lying about the color of the sky, but even the thought of those felt empty. She could not imagine those words held much magic.
The more powerful lies were painful, and when Mouse thought of one, she hesitated to say it out loud. Thornwood did not interrupt her thoughts, but she could feel his impatience in the air.
After taking a deep breath, she cupped a hand around her lips.
“I am sure that I am doing the right thing,” she whispered. Immediately the air there in her hand felt heavy, as though she was holding a bag of coins.
“Perfect,” Thornwood said. He held out his hand to her. “Now do the same for me.”
“Can I reuse my lie from before?” she asked, taking his fingers and holding them to her lips.
“It may be safer to use a new one,” he said, distracted. Mouse kept herself from rolling her eyes at his impatience. “We don’t want the magic wearing off.”
She felt her own breath on her tongue as she lied into his hand, “I do not trust Thornwood.”
When she finished speaking, Thornwood pulled away abruptly, leaving the last word hanging where his hand had been.
“That should be enough,” he said. His shoulders hunched, and Mouse flushed. She’d been so wrapped up in thinking of a strong lie that she had forgotten that Thornwood could hear her. “Our toll should open the spell. No matter what, do not let go of me until I tell you to.”
Mouse took hold of his hand again, and they cradled the invisible toll between their palms. At their touch, the door opened.
The moment the door swung inward, the great elk antlers shook, sprouting further and further into the room into a bevy of interlocking branches.
The doorway expanded, then was absorbed in the walls, which then split into thin tree trunks.
Beyond, a canopy of green stretched back, the occasional flash of navy sky tipping down through the trees.
The forest flooded the entry hall, swallowing Mouse and Thornwood in a rush of close-knit trees. Flowers sprouted from the carpet in full bloom, filling the air with their heady scent. Thornwood pulled Mouse closer to him.
Mouse instantly recognized the forest as a mirror of Thistlemarsh Wood, fleshed out and embroidered with foreign foliage but with the same bone structure. Above, the leaves shook, although Mouse could not feel the breeze. The hair on her arms rose, and her skin prickled.
“We need to move,” Thornwood said, releasing her hand.
“Right.” Mouse pulled her shoulders back, throwing off her discomfort. “Is there any chance you can use your magic this time to defeat whatever is in here quickly?”
He lifted his hand, and his magic fizzled out into nothing. “We’ll have to trust our instincts alone, I’m afraid.”
“Well, at least we vaguely know what we’re looking for now. And the likelihood of captive dragons and wicked mermaids is slim in a forest.”
“Do not jinx us,” he admonished. Mouse stuck out her tongue, and he wrinkled his nose. Thornwood looked away first, peering into the trees.
“This way,” he called over his shoulder.
Although the trees looked like the familiar oaks of Thistlemarsh Wood from the path, every few steps Mouse caught a glimpse of something odd about the trunks that tickled the back of her mind.
“Wait,” she said. “The trees are flat.”
“Flat?” Thornwood asked, following her gaze off the path.
She pointed to a tree about twenty feet from them. “They are a practical illusion. The trees that are further away are flat, like cutouts on a stage.”
Mouse stepped up to the edge of the path, then held her hand across the boundary. Nothing happened.
Tentatively, she stepped into the undergrowth. A tingling sensation radiated over her arms. She could see something behind the trees, although she could not tell what it was.
“Mouse, come back here,” Thornwood said.
“One moment,” she said, taking another step forward.
“Mouse.” The panic in Thornwood’s voice cut through Mouse’s haze. The tingling in her arms transformed into a stinging pain. Mouse hissed and stumbled backward onto the path. Blood spots stood out against her sleeves.
“Oh,” she said. She brushed her hand over one of the spots, and it came away red. The pain was not unbearable, but it did sting as she rolled her sleeves up above her forearms. With her hands raised, blood pooled at her elbows, and she pulled out her handkerchief to wipe it away.
Another kerchief pressed to her other arm, supported by Thornwood’s shaking hands. Mouse looked at him, but he did not meet her gaze.
“I’m all right. It’s only a scratch,” she said.
“Don’t,” he rasped. “That was reckless.”
“Honestly, there’s no reason to worry. I hardly even feel it.”
“That means that the wounds are deep.”
“An old wives’ tale. It’s nothing some bandages and a bit of antiseptic won’t fix. I almost turned to stone a week ago, remember? This is nothing. Now we know not to stray from the path. We just have another reason to get out of here quickly, right?”