Chapter 31 #3
Faeries unhooked themselves from one another.
Their wounds mended as they moved. In moments, it was as though nothing had happened.
Mouse was near enough to the vase that she could see the thin gray lines decorating its sides.
The clean scent of the roses cut through the musty cacophony of perfumes like a cool breeze on a hot day. She edged closer to it.
“So, where is she?” the Faerie King asked Thornwood.
Mouse made eye contact with Thornwood, and he looked away quickly.
“On the mantel,” he said. The court shifted. Taking advantage of the Faerie King’s distraction, Mouse shuffled toward the vase, keeping her eyes on the confrontation.
“The mantel,” the Faerie King repeated.
“Yes,” Thornwood bit out. “Enough—you’ve had your fun. Let us go.”
The Faerie King leaned in to whisper in Thornwood’s ear, although the words were clear to Mouse from her spot near the fireplace.
“Wrong.”
The moth next to the vase dissolved into dust. Thornwood keened, and the sound was as shrill as an animal’s scream. Mouse’s own choke of surprise was lost in a wave of applause that rose from the court. Mouse felt sick as she watched the remnants of the moth drift to the floor.
The Faerie King drew a new moth from his pocket. Its feathered antennae reached toward Thornwood as it tried to crawl off the Faerie King’s hand. He lifted it to his lips.
“Your son could not tell you apart from any other insect,” he said. He raised his hand in the air, and a cruel pin appeared between his fingers. “My word is my bond.”
“You said she was in one of the jars,” Thornwood interjected.
“I said that I transformed her into a moth and that if you found her, you would both be free. You were the one to assume she was with the others. An amateur mistake. All that time away from court turned you into a fool.”
Thornwood dropped to his knees, his hands outstretched. The bloodstain from his wound oozed up past his elbow. “Please—do what you want to me, but let my mother go. She has suffered enough.”
“It is amusing. She asked the same, for you. Rest assured, neither of you will suffer much longer.”
Mouse was just behind the throne. All eyes were on the Faerie King. He pressed the pin between the moth’s wings. It squirmed. Chains rang as Thornwood struggled against them.
Mouse grabbed hold of the vase in both hands. She hoisted it above her head. It was lighter than a piece of paper. The roses clinked inside as though they were made of glass.
“Mr. Hobb!” she shouted.
The Faerie King whipped around. When he saw her and the vase, his eyes narrowed to menacing slits. The pin vanished, and he dropped the moth into a heap on the ground, just outside Thornwood’s reach.
“Have you come to challenge me with an old vase?” the Faerie King asked lightly. Mouse could not see any trace of Mr. Hobb left. She wondered if he even recognized her, other than as his enemy. Perhaps his memories as Mr. Hobb were far away, as though he had dreamed them.
The crowd around the room laughed, but their eyes devoured her.
“We both know that this vase is more than what it seems,” Mouse said, hoping with all her might that she was right about the pottery in her hands.
His smile was the kind that cut like a knife. “The prodigal child returns. How like your ancestors you are—willing to die over a pile of crumbling stones.”
“The stones hold no interest for me now,” Mouse said. “I am here for Tithe village and its surrounding land.”
The Faerie King barked out a harsh laugh. “Tithe village? Its purpose is in its name. It is a gift for me, and I intend to take it. The Dewhursts stole it from me, and I want it back.”
“What will happen to the villagers, if you take it?”
The Faerie King shrugged. “I have not decided yet. Perhaps I will make some of them Faerie servants. Or roses for my gardens. Or statues, perhaps. One can never have too many statues, can they, Thornwood?”
“Those people do not belong to you, and they never did,” Mouse said.
The Faerie King laughed. “Such a strong sentiment. What have the villagers of Tithe ever done for you?”
“Nothing—I don’t owe them anything. That concept is something Faeries seem to struggle with, so let me make it plain. I want to protect the village because it would haunt me if I didn’t try.”
Behind the Faerie King, Thornwood looked down at his knees. His hands shook so badly she could make it out from across the room.
The Faerie King scoffed. “They would not thank you.”
“I’m sure some of them would. As for the others, I don’t care about their thanks. As I said, I am not doing this for them.”
The Faerie King’s eyes focused on the vase. She tipped ever so slightly forward, and he winced. Any doubt that this was the source of his power slipped away.
“Any other requests,” he jeered, “since you have my attention?”
“My husband will be returned to me, unharmed, along with his mother.”
Thornwood’s eyes met hers. Shock suffused his face, and Mouse saw something flicker back to life in his eyes. Was it pride? Admiration? Perhaps even love?
She could not think about it.
The Faerie King stalked closer. Courtiers closed in on all sides. Still facing them, Mouse took a firm step back onto the seat of the throne. She rose, her fingers planted firmly on the seat cushion before she wobbled up onto her feet. She hoped that none of the Faeries could see her trembling.
“He betrayed you!” The Faerie King’s shout, unexpected in the flow of calm conversation, nearly sent Mouse tumbling. She steadied herself with a long inhale, then held the vase to one side. The threat hung unspoken between them.
“So did you,” Mouse reminded him.
“You understand nothing, foolish child. Thistlemarsh Hall belongs to me as much as the trees and the flowers belong to me.”
“You are right,” Mouse said. “They belong to you just as much as the trees and flowers. Which is to say, not at all.”
He laughed again, and the cruel sound bounced off the mirrors.
“Shall I treat you to an exhibition of my power to prove you wrong?” He closed his fist, and the fire roared to life behind her. The flames licked the back of the throne.
Heat cut through to her arms, but she did not waver. “All this proves is that you are desperate to control something in this world. I know about Viola. I know how much her death must have hurt you.”
“My daughter is none of your concern,” he said, his voice dangerously low.
“Isn’t she? She is my ancestor.”
“So what if she is? She still does not concern you,” the Faerie King said. “I am the only one who knows what she would have wanted. What was best for her.”
For a moment, Mouse considered telling him about the conservatory. However, it had seemed as though Viola did not want to see her father, and Mouse could not betray her trust. Besides, the last thing Mouse needed was another Faerie enemy. Still, an idea struck her, and she fell into it.
“The best thing you could do for Viola is to leave Thistlemarsh alone.”
“Did Thornwood whisper that idea into your ear?”
“No, I did not hear it from anyone in this Hall,” Mouse said. The words felt strange on her lips: not a lie, but not the truth. The conservatory was not technically part of the main building, after all. To defeat a Faerie, one had to speak like one.
“A story from that little red book of yours, then. I should never have given it to your mother. She was too clever by half and as stubborn as a weed.”
A touch of Mr. Hobb snuck into his words. Mouse tried to keep her heart from lifting at the sound.
“Not my book either,” Mouse said.
Any trace of amusement left him. “How, then?”
“Thistlemarsh Hall told me.”
The Faerie King wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You have not mastered the art of speaking in riddles.”
“Marks of Viola are everywhere,” Mouse continued, ignoring his attempt to stop her. “Haven’t you noticed? Even the bloody mermaid statue in the pond looks like her.”
“What is your point?”
“That this was her home, more than it was ever yours,” Mouse said. “If you really loved her, you would respect her wishes that it should remain undisturbed.”
With a growl of impatience, the King pounced. Everything moved in slow motion. Mouse felt the cold of the vase in her hand. Then, she dropped it.
She opened her fingers wide, willing the vase to fall quickly.
The Faerie King snatched it from the air as soon as it left her hands. She clawed at him, but he merely snapped his fingers.
Mouse found herself floating a few feet off the platform, suspended in the air by magic. She struggled, but to no avail. The Faerie King twisted the vase, and it vanished.
“Mortals.” The Faerie King snorted. The crowd laughed.
“Mortals do not hold a monopoly on foolishness, Father.”
Startled silence flooded the ballroom.
Viola stood in the doorway. She was even more beautiful in the light than she had been in the dim heady air of the conservatory.
The gleam clung to her, dancing in her hair and over her skin, lingering in her eyes.
The embroidery in her skirt climbed up to her bodice like silver vines in a sea of glimmering blue.
The Faerie King went as still as stone. He did not even breathe. His eyes were wide, unbelieving, and the aura of danger around him wilted.
Viola took in the other Faeries; her lip curled. “Really? I thought this kind of feast was a thing of the past. Have you regressed in your time among the mortals?”
“You died. I was there when your son buried you,” he said. It sounded as if he had swallowed glass. “The humans betrayed you, just as I told you they would.”
“That is true,” she said. The Faerie King swayed. “But, Father, why does it matter now?”
“Of course it matters!”
She waved her hand. “It mattered then, yes. If there was no justice, then perhaps it would still matter, but when my son took his place as heir, he had his uncles exposed as murderers and liars.”
“That did not bring you back. I would still have you with me if it weren’t for that horrid Dewhurst boy.”
“Nothing in this world can bring me back.”