Chapter 33
Smudge met them at the cottage gate. Mouse cheered, rushing along the path ahead of the rest of the group. Her feet stung in her borrowed shoes. As soon as Mouse reached her, the dragon-dog leaped up, licking Mouse’s fingers.
Thornwood’s mother loitered behind Smudge.
She had changed into a plain brown dress from the parish charity collection.
Despite the moth-eaten holes dotting its arms, she somehow managed to look glamorous.
Still, the bags under her eyes had darkened overnight, leaving her beautiful face hollow and sharp.
She studied the group warily until her gaze landed on Thornwood.
She gasped, then joined Smudge at the gate.
Thornwood met her there, throwing his arms around her.
His mother ran her hands through his hair and over his face, committing touch to memory.
Smudge bounced between Mouse and Thornwood.
“Horrible beast,” he laughed, patting her head. Smudge barked merrily as he scratched behind her ears.
John, Mouse, and Smudge ducked into the house while Thornwood and his mother walked arm in arm toward the beehives.
Throwing open the larder, John pulled out a circle of cheese and a loaf of bread.
“Toasted cheese?” Mouse suggested.
“With honey.”
“Brilliant.”
They sat at John’s wood table with blankets pooling from their elbows to their feet. Mouse toed off her borrowed shoes and socks to expose the bandages beneath to the air. The fire in the kitchen hearth kissed Mouse’s cheeks, and she felt warmer than she had in days. She sighed.
“What is it about hot food that makes you feel all is right with the world again?” Mouse asked.
“No idea, but if I could bottle it, I would sell it,” John said, wiping his hands on a napkin. He continued. “So…”
“So?” she returned.
“Thistlemarsh is gone.”
“It is.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I’m not sure,” Mouse said. “Ask me again in five years.”
“That’s probably the shock. Luckily, you are accustomed to dealing with that, Nurse Dunne,” John joked. “But really, you can stay with me as long as you like. I’ll even let the Faerie and his mother stay, for your sake.”
Mouse raised her eyebrow at him.
“And Mickelwaithe?” she asked. John flushed bright red.
“Him too, should he like to stay,” he said.
She laughed. Smudge ducked under the blankets and nestled at their feet beneath the table.
The fire lulled Mouse’s eyes shut. She felt her breath even, and the rise and fall of Smudge’s chest pressed to her leg set a comforting rhythm. She did not remember falling asleep, but when she next opened her eyes, John was sitting in his chair, reading a well-worn red leather book.
She shot straight up, jostling Smudge. The dragon-dog whined pitifully. Without a word, John held the book out to her. Hands shaking, she carefully took the edges. Blakeney’s wasn’t damaged except for a lick of burned leather at the corner.
Tears gathered in her eyes. “But how did you find it? I know that this book was in the Matchbox. I saw it right before I went down to the ballroom.”
“One of the men from the brigade brought it over last night. He said it was buried under rubble near the entryway.” John grimaced. “I am sorry, Mouse. I should have done more the night when you came to talk to me about your marriage.”
She sighed, pressing the book to her heart. “What could you have done to stop a Faerie King? For that matter, what could you have done to stop Thornwood?”
Thornwood’s mother entered the room, with Thornwood close behind. His cheeks were stained red, and Mouse wondered if he heard the tail end of their conversation. His mother bowed, and Mouse stood, bobbing a curtsy back.
“Please, I would like to thank you,” the Faerie woman said. “Without your help, my son and I would still be apart, or worse, dead. You must forgive me. In the whirlwind of the last day, I have not properly introduced myself. You may call me Lady Thornwood. Or, if you are comfortable, Theodora.”
“Thank you, Theodora,” Mouse said. “Your son has helped me very much.”
“Has he indeed?” she asked, an arch smile spreading across her lips. “From what I’ve heard, he made quite a mess of things for you.”
“He did warn me he would. I should have taken better heed,” Mouse said. Thornwood winced.
Theodora leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “His father always dove into trouble headfirst. A charming trait when things go well, a terrible one when they do not work out. Luckily, my son also inherited my good looks.”
The Faerie woman leaned back and pasted on a serene smile, turning toward John. “I smell toasted cheese. May I have some?”
John nodded. Thornwood started toward Mouse, but she held up a hand to him.
“I need at least one hundred years of uninterrupted sleep,” Mouse said, tucking Blakeney’s under her arm. “But I will settle for a few hours.”
Thornwood’s expression sank. He held the door open for her as she hobbled into the hallway, and she felt his eyes on her as she walked up the stairs.
Smudge followed and jumped up on the bed as soon as Mouse pushed open the guest room door.
John still had her half-packed bag barricaded in the closet. It sat quiet and lifeless on the floor.
Mouse shrugged out of her clothes, not even bothering to find anything besides an oversize shirt of Bertie’s before slipping under the cotton covers. Sleep overcame her instantly.
Her dreams were jumbled, scraped together from memory and inflamed by imagination.
In them, Thistlemarsh had already settled into its ruined state, overrun with greenery and roses.
Wicked Faeries lurked in its dark corners, and Mouse could not escape from them, as when she looked down, she was slowly turning to stone.
She awoke with a gasp. The soft darkness of night met her.
Gently, as her heart rate slowed, she came back into herself.
Her hair was slick with sweat, sticking to her face and neck.
A glance at the bedside clock told her that the promised “few hours” of rest had extended well into the night.
Everyone else in the cottage, and the village, would be asleep.
Smudge stretched as Mouse pushed herself off the bed. A washbowl full of clean water and a rag stood on the vanity, courtesy of John. Mouse was unsure how she would ever repay him for his help.
With the wet cloth, she cleaned away the sweat. Refreshed, she slipped into one of Bertie’s oversize coats, pulled on a pair of his spare trousers, and toed into her borrowed shoes. Smudge whined.
“You’re coming, too, don’t worry,” she whispered. The dragon-dog let out a wheezy bark. A puff of smoke billowed out from behind her teeth. Mouse bumped Smudge’s nose with the tip of her finger. “None of that, please. I think we’ve had enough surprises lately.”
The night air felt lovely against Mouse’s warm cheeks. The moon beamed down on her. Once in the woods and past Carlyle’s statue, she allowed herself to think of the future.
All her life, she had thought of Thistlemarsh Hall as an eternal presence. Her goals would either align with it or move away from it, but now it was gone.
Finally, she was able to pin down the strongest of the errant emotions buzzing in her chest. The most predominant feeling was simple to name: joy.
Joy at the release of unwanted responsibility, but also the freedom before her.
She could do as she wanted, and the prospect was both exciting and terrifying.
Her other emotions were more complicated. Flashes of deep sorrow swept over her, soon followed by numb grief, and then by bubbling joy. Sleep had freed all her feelings from where she’d bottled them, letting them raise havoc through her mind and body.
Subconsciously, Mouse searched the shadows beneath the trees for moving vines and Faerie figures. Nothing leaped out to attack her. It was only when she stepped onto Thistlemarsh’s grounds that she realized it had been her intended destination.
Smoke danced above the ruins. To Mouse’s amazement, most of the main facade was still standing. Through the glassless windows, Mouse could see the night sky spilling in from the other side. The front door stood ajar; beyond it, she could see the scorched stone floor.
The doorknob was warm when she shrugged through the opening.
Mouse took in a long, steadying breath. The ceiling above the entry hall was gone, showing the jagged bones of the four collapsed floors above and leaving the stone bare beneath the stars.
Speckled dust composed of wood, plaster, and ash blanketed the room.
Piles of tattered tapestry lay in clumps of mangled string.
The same lone Faerie face peered at her from the floor.
The weight of everything that had happened pushed down on Mouse’s shoulders, and she found herself rushing back outside onto the grounds.
Tranquil and green, the rose garden was still perfectly intact. As she looked back at Thistlemarsh, the moon touched the burned ruins, highlighting the dark lines where the fire had licked the stone.
Moonlight illuminated the empty windows, and for a moment, Mouse saw silhouetted figures dancing, lit from behind in gold. Then, the image was gone, leaving only a tumbledown ruin.
Yet, despite the destruction, the young roses in the garden opened, pushing aside their green cocoons. The buds tilted upward, as though waiting for the sun. Their stems curved around the crumbled rock, and a line of bluebells sprouted at the base of the wall.
Exhausted, Mouse lay on the bench in the rose garden, her face pressed down into the cool stone. She drummed her fingers against it, picking out a steady rhythm for her heart and breath to emulate.
“Are you all right?” Thornwood asked.
Mouse turned her head enough to see him, unsurprised by his presence. They needed to talk, after all.