Chapter 22
She barely saw Thornwood the next day, or the next, or the next, but Thistlemarsh bore the marks of his power.
Entire rooms gleamed, leaving Mouse with lungfuls of errant magic.
Thornwood darted between rooms, his eyes flashing with what Mouse assumed was the hunger that his magic gave him to create and change.
Around the house, old furniture was gone, replaced with fresh flowers and woven rugs so intricate they hurt Mouse’s eyes.
He redid the floors in the entry hall five times, using different patterns of wood and stone, before settling on the one he had chosen first. Often, Mouse caught Mickelwaithe watching Thornwood from the shadows. She could not read the servant’s expression.
On the first day, Mouse returned to the tapestry to retrieve the keys, but they were gone. She felt a sting of regret over losing a gift from her mother and a part of Bertie, but she rallied. After all, the loss of a few keys weighed nothing against keeping Thistlemarsh away from Carlyle.
The only place in the house unaffected by Thornwood’s magic was the Matchbox, except for the heat in the radiator and the painting by her window.
At night, Mouse could smell the forest as though it was in the room, and when she woke, leaves littered her hair.
A knot of roots threaded from the painting over the edge of the frame before boring into the wall.
Mouse often found herself staring at it, running her hands along the branches weaving into the wallpaper. There was something unsettling about the magic inching into her space, bit by bit, unasked for in the Matchbox.
She knew that this should upset her, but it did not. It would have worried John, had he known, although Mouse could not recall why it would have bothered him. She tried to remember, but the thought always escaped her almost as soon as it appeared. The twisted feeling in her stomach did not go away.
When she was not working, waves of melancholy rolled over her. Her emotions warred inside her. Happiness that they would finish repairing Thistlemarsh in time was combated with the newfound loss she felt as more of the old house melted away.
Then there was the matter of Thornwood. They had not discussed what would happen after their allotted month was up. Would he leave, job done? Was that what she wanted?
Unwilling to confront her swirl of emotions, Mouse focused on her work in the garden.
Her time outside the Hall was her respite from the magic, although she still felt drained.
The gardens were nearly complete, and the new growth started to expand, like a stray animal filling out again after returning home.
Smudge spent most of the day in the garden with Mouse and Mr. Hobb, lounging near them as they worked with her face tilted into the sun.
It was not until the day before Mr. Beckett was due for his inspection that she noticed the stuffed birds Lord Dewhurst used to decorate the study bookshelves were gone.
From there, she saw the nicks in the paint from Bertie and Roger’s childhood roughhousing had vanished, replaced by soft pink wallpaper.
Any sign of wear on the staircase faded, leaving a plush burgundy carpet that ran to the top floor.
No touch of Lord Dewhurst remained. No touch of her mother or her father either, and no touch of Bertie or Roger.
Then, that evening, it was over. Mouse was in the kitchen, unsuccessfully teaching herself how to make a chicken-and-mushroom pie, when Thornwood materialized next to her. He took hold of her shoulders and spun her around to face him.
“It is done,” he said. His pupils were slits.
“What is done?” Mouse asked, flustered by his sudden appearance.
“The repair. It is finished.”
He let go of her and slumped in the chair nearest the fire.
“Finished?” she squeaked.
She pulled Thornwood to his feet and dragged him behind her as she rushed through all the rooms. She marveled at the magic, overwhelmed again and again by the power of old things made new.
Eventually, she noticed Mickelwaithe trailing behind them.
Exhausted, Thornwood pointed out details in the walls that Mouse never saw before, like a faint bird-nest pattern decorating baseboards and plaster roses on the ceiling.
“Will you stay for Beckett’s visit?” Mouse asked him. The quiver in her voice cut through his excitement and exhaustion.
“Of course,” he said. “I will be on hand if anything goes wrong.”
Still, that night Mouse wept. She had not noticed the remaining traces of her family fading away, and now it was too late to do anything about it. Shame that she was part of their removal flooded her, followed by a rush of self-loathing for preferring Thistlemarsh this way, wiped clean.
In the early hours, she forced herself out of bed and down to the study.
Moonlight shone across the books decorating the shelves, catching on gilt letters.
Even in Lord Dewhurst’s study, Thornwood’s heating spell filled the room.
Mouse frowned. She was looking for a distraction from her guilt, not a reminder of it.
Mouse plucked up the first dull book her fingers landed on.
“I did not expect you to be up so late.”
She shrieked, and the book clattered out of her hands onto the floor. Thornwood raised his eyebrow, a smile tugging on his lips. He was draped over her uncle’s armchair, his legs hanging over one arm while he sat propped up against the other.
“What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?” Mouse asked when she regained her breath. Thornwood rose.
“Smudge was making a racket in the kitchen, so I left Mickelwaithe to handle it. I thought I might do some cleaning.”
“Cleaning?” Mouse asked. Thornwood frowned, then rubbed his hand along the back of the armchair. His fingers came away glittering and golden.
“There is still a bit of the broken spell lingering about the Hall, like dust. I am doing my best to sweep it out, but it is stubborn. Nothing for you to worry about, mind. It is powerless. Now, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
Mouse eyed the glinting dust on his hand, suspicious of its supposed powerlessness until its internal light faded. It was just a speckle of powder on Thornwood’s skin when he banished it with a silent spell.
“I could not sleep,” Mouse said. Thornwood knelt, picking up her book.
“And you thought that The Complete English Farmer would entertain you?”
“More like lull me to sleep, if you must know,” she retorted.
Thornwood laughed and held out the book. When Mouse reached out for it, her fingers brushed his. His expression shifted from sun to moon.
“You are unlike any human I’ve ever met,” he said.
“So you’ve mentioned before.”
Thornwood tilted his head, with a puzzled expression. One of his hands drifted up to her face. His fingers ran over her cheek, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
“Then are all mortals as unruly as you are?” he asked. “It seems that every time I see you, something is out of place.”
Mouse did not know how to respond, and she did not have the chance to do anything before he leaned toward her. She froze, her eyes glued to his lips.
It took her a moment to realize that he had stopped a few inches from her mouth. When she looked up into his eyes, Mouse saw a question.
Softly, she nodded. She was not sure if it was her or Thornwood who closed the distance. All she knew was that his lips were on hers and her mind was fractured into a million pieces.
She thought of the Canadian soldier who’d kissed her during the war.
Although it was not bad by any means, it was an uncomfortable experience, smelling of cigarette smoke and disinfectant.
When he pulled away, all Mouse could think of was how desperately she wanted to wipe her lips and get back to her post.
Thornwood’s kiss was nothing like that. All of Mouse’s thoughts flew away like a flock of birds, leaving her mind empty and light. Her skin prickled where it touched his, and the sensation spread through her face like sparks.
His hands were in her hair, with his fingers spreading out against her skull. Mouse’s fingers moved across his shoulders, then down to his waist. She remembered him by the pond, stripped down and ready to plunge into the water.
She shuddered, and she could feel his lips pull into a smirk against hers.
“Smug bastard,” she panted.
“Always,” he said, then went back to kissing her senseless.
He pushed her back against the desk, sweeping paperwork and open books onto the floor. Polished wood met Mouse’s back, cool even through her nightclothes. Thornwood parted her robe, and his fingers ran up the inside of her calf. The feeling was as strong as ice water.
“Wait,” she said. He pulled away instantly. Mouse buried her face in her hands. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. That was not proper.”
“Damn proper,” Thornwood said, jaw tight. “But are you all right?”
“Yes,” Mouse said, willing away the warring urges to cry, or hide, or, worst of all, kiss him again. “I’m just tired.”
“Of course,” Thornwood said after a beat of silence. “Would you like me to call Mickelwaithe to escort you back to the Matchbox?”
“No, that is quite all right. Thank you,” Mouse said. Then she was out of the study, up the stairs, and back in the Matchbox before she realized she’d left the book behind.