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 wasnot 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.
25
The inside of Thornwood’s motorcar showed all the seams of the spell that held it together on the outside now. Mouse could see the strings of magic clearly, as though she was looking at the reverse side of the spell’s embroidered design.
Branches crossed to create the seats, with worn pillows thrown over them in heaps. Another pillow lay on the floor where Mouse’s feet rested. The windshield was composed of a net of spiderweb, strung tight between the remains of an old carriage front, torn from its previous frame. She could see that the driver was part man, part owl, with bright gold eyes shining like headlights. Mouse wondered how much of the driver was magic and how much was a living being, as the only time it acknowledged her was when the door opened on its own and she ducked into the car.
Vaguely, she remembered Thornwood telling her that it was a willing servant. The owl crooked its head at her, and Mouse was glad she thought to put on a light coat and a pair of gloves that covered her skin.
Owls eat mice, she thought. The owl man looked away, and the car pulled out onto the drive.
They sped through the village, and she could feel the wide eyes of everyone they passed in the dark. Thornwood’s car was instantly recognizable. Surely the villagers did not see the spellwork as she did now. To them, it was just a beautiful motorcar.