Mouse ignored him. “Luckily, as you see here, all my father’s training came to good use.”
“Yes, yes, very well done.” Beckett lifted the list of required repairs to his nose, ticking off a box. “Shall we go inside?”
She frowned, stung. “Wouldn’t you like to see more of the grounds?”
“No, this will suffice for my purposes,” Beckett said.
“Do you have something to hide indoors?” Carlyle asked. “I never imagined you to be domestic, after all.”
Mouse’s hand clenched at her hip. “Nothing to hide. We’ll go in from the front and work our way through.”
They all turned, and Carlyle took the lead. He walked confidently, and Mouse could see how he had trampled over the meek Beckett that morning. Mouse wondered why she had even needed to trade her eye for her hour of persuasion in London, if he could be manipulated so easily.
The solicitor kept looking back at her, a worried frown pulling athis lips. She pointedly ignored him, and after the third time, he tripped.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to curse them?” Thornwood whispered as they followed behind.
“Stand by. I’m more open to the idea by the second,” she said.
Beckett gasped the moment they entered the entry hall, which made Mouse smile despite herself. Tasteful strings of flowers looped across the banisters in honor of the Spring Festival, at Mouse’s request. The deep brown of the polished wood walls paired beautifully with the fine dark red carpet leading through to the unused ballroom and the study. Thornwood’s magic had not retouched the bones of the great elk, but the horns were free of cobwebs and glowed white in the daylight drifting in from the clean windows above.
The tapestry stood out like a diamond in a crown, winding around the stone portion of the wall. The threads glittered in green, gold, red, silver, and blue. The faded Faerie and mortal faces were bold again, telling the story of the hunt. A chill crawled up Mouse’s back as she looked at it, but Beckett clapped in delight.
“Remarkable! I confess, I am astounded by these results.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking to Thornwood. “I cannot claim that it was all me. I had help from some excellent restorers.”
“Modest, as always,” Carlyle said. “Was this your handiwork, Mr.Thornwood?”
“I offered my services as a restorer, yes. I am well acquainted with historical styles. With Lady Dewhurst’s excellent eye, I believe that we managed to modernize without disrespecting the original material. However, I wish we could have had more time to work on some of the details,” Thornwood said.
“Yes, I know it has been a rush,” Beckett said, “but Lord Dewhurst had precise instructions. Faerie-blessed house and all. So far, I am pleased to see that you have done well.”
“Yes, but of course, this room has a special significance. Shall we look at Lord Dewhurst’s study? I remember the furniture nearly dissolving anytime the door opened, and that was years ago,” Carlyle said.
Though it only showed through the sharpening of his smile, Carlyle was disappointed by the study (still bathed in golden light), the ballroom (glowing with sunshine that danced off the mirrors lining the walls), the bedrooms (all puffed up with fine silks and linen duvets), the conservatory (glass mended and plants vibrant, if still saturated by the overwhelming scent of orange), and even the kitchen (bright and lively). He had a comment about each of them, spoken to Beckett, but with a barb intended for Mouse. His arrows lost power with each room they entered. Beckett marked each room off one by one on his list even as he cast nervous looks at Carlyle.
They returned to the study for tea, which Mickelwaithe served in the Dewhurst livery. Mouse gawked. She had not seen the uniform in years. The Faerie servant winked at her.
Mouse had to keep herself from winking back. Her joy was catching up with her. The visit was a massive success, and having such success in front of Carlyle made it all the sweeter.
Beckett took his tea without looking up from his list. He compared it with a set of documents tucked under the saucer, drops of black tea and sugar speckling the letters. Carlyle leaned across the table to Thornwood.
“So, Mr.Thornwood, I understand you are from the continent?”
“I’ve lived in many places,” Thornwood said.
“The people in the village believe you are a deposed Russian prince.”
Thornwood laughed. “I am certainly no prince. You went to Eton, correct? Are you in line to be a lord, like Lady Dewhurst’s cousin was?”
Carlyle’s smile dipped for a moment. “No, that is the lot of my older brother.”
“How lucky that you both survived the war,” Thornwood said, taking a biscuit with determined earnestness.
“Yes, it was fortunate. Thank you.” Carlyle’s lips thinned, a crack in his careful facade of politeness.
“What is your responsibility, then? You have enough time to venture out to the country yourself, so I assume you are not a solicitor like Mr.Beckett,” Thornwood continued. Immersed in his papers, Beckett did not even twitch at the sound of his name.