Chapter 24
Mouse wilted, her courage evaporating. Thornwood took her shoulders, steering her to the chair behind the desk.
“It’s over,” Mouse whispered.
“Just let me think,” Thornwood said, pacing the room. He reminded Mouse of a cornered dog, trapped and ready to bite. Or perhaps she was projecting.
“It is over,” she repeated, more loudly this time. “We lost because of my uncle’s bloody animal trophies and our own stupidity.”
“There must be another way.” He shot her a look, something between pleading and furious. “Are you willing to hand everything over to Carlyle so easily?”
Every fiber of Mouse’s being hummed with rage, boiling through her blood and skin.
“What do you know about it?” she bit out.
“At least I am attempting to think of something while you sit there, accepting your fate.”
Mouse breathed deeply. Her hand flew up to rest at the juncture where her chest met her throat.
“Every hour of every day, my anger pierces me like a thorn,” she said.
Her voice sounded strange, as though transmitted through a poor connection on a radio.
“You think I feel nothing? For years, I’ve felt so much anger that it is killing me, as sure as any poison.
Every day the burr sinks deeper. There is no closure.
There will never be justice for my brother, cousin, father, or mother. Or for me.”
Words rushed from her like a train with the brakes gone out. Thornwood stared at her, his eyes wide in shock. She didn’t care. The air felt hot and thick.
“I hate what Thistlemarsh represents; my uncle, the family that threw away my mother—they looked down on my father and his entire country as somehow lesser, but still my happiest memories are here. The only memories I will ever have of my cousin and brother are here, and my last memories of my father are here. But my uncle is here, too, and that family tree of vile snobbery and superiority, just like Carlyle’s. ”
Even if Uncle gave everything up to protect John and Bertie’s memory, she thought, trying to press away the barrage of feelings and failing.
Lord Dewhurst was a bastard, but he had truly loved his son.
Mouse now even understood his reason for setting up his impossible task for her and his reason for highlighting Thistlemarsh’s Faerie covenant.
He tried to give Mouse time (if only a month) to say goodbye before Thistlemarsh fell to Carlyle, while still protecting John from Carlyle’s blackmail.
Something wet was dripping down her cheeks. She took gulps of air that stung in her chest. Her vision blurred black at the edges. Thornwood was at her side as she slid to the floor, propping her against him.
The only sound in the room was the fire crackling in the hearth. Mouse wondered if Thornwood had lit the fire with magic. She did not remember seeing it burning before.
“Breathe. Slowly.” Thornwood’s voice was soft in her ear. He was being kind again, damn him. She did not know what to do with his kindness.
Her vision was still blurred. She sucked in a breath but could not let it go.
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“I know you can. We’ll do it together.” He breathed, and Mouse could not join in. “Come now, breathe.”
Thornwood’s breath flittered over Mouse’s face.
Her lungs unlatched, and she breathed. With each inhalation, the rage faded and the darkness lifted.
Thornwood smiled. He had a gap between his front teeth that she had never noticed before, and his incisors were more pointed than she remembered.
Or had she ever seen them before? She couldn’t remember.
“Did you just use magic on me?” she asked. Thornwood tilted his head at her.
“What did Carlyle do to make you hate him so much?” he asked.
Mouse frowned. “You evaded the question.”
Thornwood shrugged. “That is not the same thing as lying.”
“It might as well be,” she whispered, taking in the ceiling. New cracks had formed in the plaster. It almost looked like a branch strained through the gap, but when Mouse blinked, it was gone. A trick of the light.
The fire filled the room with the smell of smoke. It should have been comforting, like a bonfire on a frosty night, but Mouse was beyond its reach.
“Carlyle was at Eton with Bertie and Roger. He was in Bertie’s year, although he knew them both. They thought he was their friend.”
Mouse scrutinized the lines of Thornwood’s face. There was knowledge there, but also curiosity.
“Bertie told Carlyle something. A secret. He should not have, but he thought he could trust Carlyle with it.”
“But he couldn’t,” Thornwood said.
“No, he could not.” Mouse looked down at her hands.
Crescents of dirt stood out under her fingernails.
When had that happened? She breathed in deeply.
“Bertie told Carlyle about his feelings for another young man in our village.
And, because Carlyle was not his friend, he used that fact against Bertie.
I do not know if you are aware, but Bertie could have been arrested.
And that is only what would happen to him according to the law, not what other dangers he might face if it came out.
“Carlyle blackmailed him at school, extorting nearly all the money Bertie had available.
Bertie could do nothing without revealing the very secret Carlyle was blackmailing him with.
It went on for more than a year. When Roger found out about the blackmail, he was furious.
My brother boxed in school and was as strong as an ox.
“Roger broke Carlyle’s nose, then was suspended for the rest of the semester and labeled a rabble-rouser, just like his father.”
“Did Carlyle go after Bertie again?” Thornwood asked.
“No. Roger did not return to school—he would have graduated that year but he decided it was best for everyone if he stepped away. Bertie was devastated, though. He felt like he had ruined things for Roger. My uncle behaved like a human for once in his life. He contacted the dean of the college, threatening him with the loss of not only his financial backing, but also that of the other members of his club in London. The dean took the bait, and he suspended Carlyle. It took Carlyle another year to graduate, but he did not bother Bertie again. At least, not directly.”
“And that made him more spiteful.”
“You know humans better than you think.” Mouse smiled limply at him. “Bertie was never ashamed of who he was. It was fear for my uncle and for…someone else he loved that kept Bertie silent at Eton, not fear for himself. At least, that’s what he told me.”
Mouse groaned. “But I’ve failed Bertie. Carlyle gets everything, all because of the bloody taxidermy and nonsense about us staying in the same house together. We should have lied. Why didn’t we lie?”
Thornwood raised an eyebrow.
“Why didn’t I lie?” Mouse corrected herself.
She drifted to the radiator under the window, pressing into the warmth.
“Thistlemarsh will be Carlyle’s in the morning,” she stated. The words tasted like ash in her mouth.
“If we do nothing, yes. It will be his,” Thornwood said. “But there is another way.”
Mouse almost laughed. “I don’t think giving you a lock of my hair or my back teeth will prevent Carlyle now.”
“I am not asking for a lock of your hair.”
Mouse tore her eyes from the window. Thornwood’s features were even sharper, his mouth wider, and his hair mussed as though he had just been out in a storm. The flames in the fireplace reached toward him, sparks curling in his direction before guttering in midair.
“What would you ask for?” Mouse asked. “If we were to deal.”
“Your name.”
The fire stretched further into the room at his words. She shuddered. How could it still be so cold? Thornwood’s eyes fixed on her, and when she met them, she could see that they were brighter, inhuman. Something strange was happening, although she could not focus on the cause.
“What do you want with my name?”
He tsked and started to pace again. “It is not about what I want. We can beat Carlyle at his game, if you give me your name.”
“How would that change anything?”
He leaned closer. “You told me that your uncle’s will stated that to keep Thistlemarsh, you must either complete repairs on the house, which was frankly impossible and ridiculous without the use of magic, or marry, correct?
You assumed your uncle thought the second demand would be even more difficult.
After all, who would you find in such a short period willing to overlook the state of Thistlemarsh and your unsavory background? But it is not impossible.”
Mouse stared at him blankly, her mind tripping to catch up.
“Must I spell it out for you?” he asked.
“Are you asking me to marry you?”
“Yes, for the last few minutes now.”
Mouse blinked at him. His features seemed to shift in the light. “You would marry me in exchange for my name?”
“Isn’t that the custom among humans anyway? It would just be the groom taking the name of the bride. In a more literal way, perhaps, but the idea is the same.”
“But we barely know each other,” Mouse said. “Not to mention the fact that you aren’t even human.”
“Neither of those things matters in this case. To any onlooker, you are marrying a deposed foreign lord. You will follow in the long line of aristocrats who marry for convenience. Besides, this morning you said that you feel as though you’ve known me for years.”
Everything was happening too fast, and her mind was slower than it had ever been before.
As her thoughts shouted out reasons for her not to accept Thornwood’s offer, she could not focus on a single one.
She tried to recall anything from Blakeney’s.
What were the consequences for a mortal marrying a Faerie?
What happened to the woman who had escaped the guillotine with the last Faerie in France?
Or to the Faerie Bridegroom’s first wife?
Mouse wondered if she would share their fates.
But what choice did she have? She did trust him, despite herself.
Her silence spurred Thornwood’s frantic energy. “We can find another way—”
“A marriage of practicality?” Mouse asked.
Thornwood nodded, but it was more a jerk of the head.
“If you would like. But it does not have to be,” he said. “I would prefer it if it were more.”
His gaze met hers, and Mouse felt heat rise up her neck.
Thornwood was clever. Not only clever with magic, but witty, too, when he was not trying to annoy her. They made a good team; they kept each other in check.
He was handsome, his hair unkempt and his eyes wild. He’d let his glamour down for her. She cared for him…perhaps, she admitted to herself, even loved him.
“We like each other,” he continued, then pulled away as he looked down. “Or I thought we did. It was a foolish idea.”
“I will marry you,” Mouse said, breaking through his last word.
He shrank back, and for a moment, Mouse could have sworn horror and regret flashed across his features.
She turned to follow his gaze, but there was nothing out of the ordinary behind her, only the stone wall, the window, and the radiator.
When she looked back at Thornwood, all traces of distress were gone.
He smiled at her, sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.
Mouse felt dissected by that smile, caught out doing the wrong step in a complicated dance.
“Well, we best prepare. If we are throwing a party, there is much to do. Besides, we must look the part.”
It happened quickly. Mickelwaithe met them in the doorway of the study, his stoic face creased with worry. Thornwood spoke to him in the Faerie language. The Faerie servant went rigid, and he stared at Mouse with growing disbelief as Thornwood spoke.
Thornwood was calm, but there was an underlying tension about him, as though he was waiting for something vicious to attack. It was not as if Carlyle could harm a Faerie, so it struck Mouse as odd, but the thought dissipated almost as soon as it materialized.
When Thornwood finished speaking, Mickelwaithe stepped forward, then fell to his knees in front of Mouse. She squeaked, hopping back as though he was made of hot coals. Mickelwaithe whispered an incantation, almost a prayer, at her feet.
“You’re making her uncomfortable,” Thornwood said. Mickelwaithe rose, smooth as a shadow. “We will need a wedding dress. Something grand. And I will need a suit that complements.”
Thornwood turned to Mouse. “Will your friend the vicar marry us?”
“I believe so. It will catch John off guard, but he won’t say no if I ask him.”
“If he does refuse, it does not matter. We can be married in the Faerie tradition. But I know that you would prefer it if he is there. The driver will take you to his cottage. Be back in by half past eleven, and everything will be prepared. Have the vicar come here separately.”
Thornwood turned, with Mickelwaithe at his heel, but he paused before the doorway.
He looked back, and there was something in his eyes that Mouse could not pin down.
He was back at her side in a blink, taking her hands in his.
Warmth spread from his fingers to hers, and she realized how cold she’d been. “This is what you want, yes?”
“Yes,” Mouse said. The world had sped up around her, or perhaps it was she who had slowed down. Until he mentioned the time, she did not register it was already night.
Thornwood nodded, but the look in his eyes did not change.
“My magic will be spread thin while I prepare. When you get in the car, only touch the seat and the floor directly beneath it. Otherwise, the enchantment will unravel. And you must be the first mortal to step foot into the Hall. Do you understand?”
Mouse nodded. Then, Thornwood was gone.