Chapter 23
Mouse woke on the morning of the last day of April from the deepest sleep she’d had in years.
The Matchbox was warm from the sun and the gentle hum of the radiator.
Overnight, the tree broke further from its frame and grew a mantle of white and pink blossoms, which drifted down to carpet the floor.
Petals dotted the bottom of her bedspread.
For a moment, she could not tell if she was still asleep, dreaming that her room had transformed into a bower overnight.
The abrupt appearance of the food tray across her lap bumped her out of her daydream.
The clock on her mantel reported that it was seven in the morning.
Mouse shot out of bed as her dreaminess wore away, taking in the magic that carpeted her bedroom.
She doubted that Beckett would bother to investigate her room during his inspection, but still, she felt a twinge of regret at the transformation.
The Matchbox had been her sanctuary as well as her prison in childhood.
Changing it further still felt like a betrayal of her younger self.
She wondered if Thornwood’s magic had run a bit wild without the house’s web of spells counteracting it.
Then she remembered the night before. Thornwood’s lips on hers, her hands running over him, his fingers parting her robe.
She furiously brushed the memory away. It was something she could deal with after Beckett’s inspection.
Mouse dressed quickly in a sensible pink gown she’d laid out the evening before. It was one of her mother’s, refitted for Mouse before the war. She wove a posy of blooms from the painting through her hairpins. Their delicious scent followed her as she opened the door.
Mr. Beckett would be at Thistlemarsh around noon, and although there was nothing left to do, she had to be moving, or she would end up wearing a hole in the floor.
Thornwood apparently felt the same, as he was already pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs when Mouse started down them.
He’d opted not to slick his hair back in his usual style, instead letting it curl on the top of his head.
Mouse noted that he had not thrown up his blindingly handsome glamour. She smiled.
He paused when he saw her, his eyes widening. Mouse’s hands flew to her hair.
“What? Did a hairpin fall out?”
“You look lovely,” he said. Mouse flushed, recalling the feel of his lips on hers again.
“Thank you,” she said. “You look almost as nervous as I am.”
Thornwood smirked, holding his hand out. Relief flooded her that they could still be comfortable together. She took his hand, and he tucked her arm in his. She shook her head.
“What?” he asked.
“I was just thinking. I feel I’ve known you all my life, yet it’s only been a month.”
“It has been a strange month, hasn’t it? For me, over the last century my years were only marked by the phases of the moon and the thickening of forest paths.”
“Well, I think we should bask in our achievement and take a final look at the grounds before Beckett arrives. Then, after he leaves, we can treat ourselves to a bottle of fine wine in the garden. Celebrate our hard work and our victory.”
“Yes, that sounds delightful.” His words were light, but there was a darkness to his gaze that made Mouse feel slightly sick. Was he doubting the effects of his magic? Or her work in the garden? She did not want to ask, too afraid of his answer to contemplate it.
As they walked, Mouse scanned the great hall for a furry face. “Where is Smudge?”
“Mickelwaithe took her to your vicar’s cottage. I did not want traces of her magic affecting anything.”
“You brought her over so early in the day? Hopefully, she doesn’t terrorize him too much.”
“He told Mickelwaithe that he planned to take her around for the Spring Festival on a lead with a crown of flowers, so I don’t know who will be more of a terror.”
Mouse giggled as they wove their way through Thistlemarsh’s rooms, all restored beyond their original beauty.
Although she noted that the eyes in the portrait hall moved, following Thornwood and her with disapproving stares, he insisted that the overflow of the spell would go unnoticed by Beckett’s untrained eyes.
“What’s this?” Thornwood asked, his fingers hovering at the side of her head. It took Mouse a moment to remember the flowers.
“The painting in my bedroom is escaping its frame,” she said as they slipped into the study. Book spines gleamed on the shelves. Thornwood missed a step, but he recovered quickly.
“It must be another place where the magic is spreading unevenly. But, like the portraits, Beckett will not notice it.”
“Are you sure it’s nothing to worry about?”
He took both her hands, pressing them tight between his fingers. “I’m sure.”
She hummed. In her anxiety, she was reading too much into his behavior, she thought. “I am sorry. I know I am being ridiculous. It’s just that we have worked so hard, and it’s all culminating today.”
“I know,” he said. “There is nothing to worry about now. If anything goes awry, I can curse him after the fact.”
Mouse laughed. “Tragically, I have to put my foot down at cursing.”
“Damn, my plans for tomorrow are foiled,” he quipped.
Thornwood stepped out into the gardens, leaving Mouse to follow him. It struck her again that this was the last day of their partnership.
She felt as though she was standing on a cliff and the doorway out to the gardens was the spiked precipice.
The task had so consumed her that she had not even considered what she would do next, but now the uncertainty gaped in front of her.
She would return to Le Temple des Fées to collect Roger, of course…
And she would say goodbye to Thornwood and the world of Faerie.
“Mouse, did you get lost?” Thornwood shouted back at her, breaking through her spiral of anxiety.
“Coming,” she called. She shook herself. These were questions for tomorrow. She needed to focus. After receiving Beckett’s approval, she could worry about the rest of her life. Including the Thornwood question.
A leaf fluttered in front of her face, landing at her feet. She looked up to find a branch shooting out from the corner of the doorframe. A budding rose nestled between the wood and the window, sprouting directly out of the wall.
More magic slipping through the cracks? She decided she would mention it to Thornwood as soon as she caught up to him, but the idea fluttered away as she stepped into the sun and gasped.
Overnight, everything in the garden came to life.
Bushes grew to their full breadth, flowers flourished, and the patched-over scars left by Mouse and Mr. Hobb’s work healed over with lush swatches of grass.
Hiking her skirts up to her knees, she dashed across the lawn to Thornwood. He fought back a smile.
“Did you use magic on this?” she panted.
“Just a bit. The greens were dull.”
“I did not deal for this.”
“No, I’ve already taken my payment.”
Mouse frowned. “I do not like the sound of that.”
“Please, it’s nothing. Think of it as a gift.”
“I…I’m not sure what to say.” A tear rolled down her cheek. She desperately blinked it away, fishing in her dress pockets for a handkerchief. “What’s wrong with me? I’m sorry, this should be a happy day, and here I am sniveling.”
“You are not sniveling. I am sure I would feel the same if I were in your position. But there is nothing else we can do.”
“You’re right, of course.”
He laid his hand across his jacket lapel, mock shock painting his features. “I never thought I’d see the day Lady Dewhurst would admit I was right.”
“Oh, hush,” Mouse said, swatting at him. He smiled down at her, his mouth and eyes soft. Wind played with the ends of his hair, and Mouse had the urge to brush her fingers through it.
“She always was rather difficult, even as a child,” a nasal voice sniped from across the lawn.
Mouse froze, her heart sinking to her stomach. She turned toward the driveway. Thornwood squinted into the sun.
Beckett teetered nervously toward them, swinging his briefcase like a pendulum counting down the minutes until he could return to London. Beside him, dressed in a sleek navy suit and with his pencil-thin mustache, was Carlyle.
Beckett bowed shallowly to Mouse when he reached them and then turned his attention to Thornwood. She could not tear her eyes away from Carlyle, who followed lazily behind. His smile was all oil.
“I am sorry for the surprise, Lady Dewhurst,” said Beckett, “but the phone at the Tithe post office broke, the operator could not get through on yours, and I only thought to send a telegraph when I was already at the train station. We’ve beaten it.
The later train from London was canceled, and Mr. Carlyle met me at the office this morning, requesting to join me.
I am aware that you’ve already met Mr. Carlyle”—he turned from Mouse to her companion—“but I believe you must be Mr. Thornwood. I heard about you in town.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Thornwood said, bowing to Beckett.
“The same to you. I do not think you are acquainted with Mr. Carlyle,” Beckett said.
“No, I am not,” Thornwood replied, his voice overly friendly and his eyes bright. “Although I have heard much.”
“All good things, I’m sure,” Carlyle said, his eyes flicking over Mouse with distaste, although his smile stayed fixed. “I went to school with Bertie and Miss Dunne’s brother. Oh, forgive me. It’s Lady Dewhurst for now, isn’t it?”
“For now?” Mouse questioned, mimicking Thornwood’s sweetness as best as she could, although she knew her eyes betrayed her.
“I meant ‘now,’ of course,” Carlyle said with a slight bow.
Beckett checked his watch. “We best get moving. There is much of the house to see and only so many hours in the day.”
“What would you like to see first?” Mouse asked.