It was pitch-dark beyond the halo of light on the step. On the drive, the crumbled remains of the Rolls rose in a loose hill. An owl perched on top of the mess, its head twisted to look at her as she tripped toward the trees.
“Focus, push through the haze,” Mouse whispered to herself. She squinted, attempting to pin down the line where the woods beganand make sense of Mickelwaithe’s words to her. The gravel of the drive shifted beneath her boots. The air was thick with the scent of flowers. There was no breeze to dilute it, although the night was cold. Laughter echoed from inside the Hall. “Focus, run.”
Once in the woods, the smell of flowers died, but a cacophony of noise filled the trees. Birds chattered, and all manner of creatures spoke to one another through screams, caws, and cries.
The fog in Mouse’s head began to lift. How long had she been enchanted? Her last clear memory was with Thornwood in the study, making a deal with her heart on her sleeve. And then he betrayed her and tricked her. She didn’t know if she was angrier at him or herself.
“He is a Faerie. What did you expect?” she hissed. The leaves rattling in the breeze seemed to laugh at her.
She thought of Thornwood’s horrified expression, of him begging the Faerie King not to hurt her.
He is a liar, even if he didn’t speak the words. He only wanted Thistlemarsh for himself.
She pushed it all away. There was nothing but the path and the cold and the trees.
She turned down the fork to John’s cottage. There were smaller tracks she could take advantage of on the way that could not accommodate a rider on horseback. Mouse knew the woods better than anyone else in the village. Surely, she would have an advantage over a Faerie hunt who had not been there in at least a hundred years.
John was right from the beginning. What did she need Thistlemarsh for, now that Bertie was gone, and Roger could not remember it?
A figure stood just off the path in front of her, and Mouse’s heart jumped into her throat. Had John started down the path to stop her wedding? What if the Faeries caught him in the woods?
She would never forgive herself.
Mouse ran harder. Her enchanted shoes bit into her feet painfully.
“Get out of here,” she shouted. “Run!”
The figure did not move.
“I said run!” She was ten feet from it now. It was still. She wanted to cry as she skidded to a halt beside it.
It was a statue, and it had not been there before. A shaft of light broke through the trees, illuminating its face.
Carlyle stared out at her, his lips parted in a grotesque howl. His hands were caught halfway up, and he wore the clothes she had seen him in earlier that day.
She screamed.
A hunting horn sounded from the direction of Thistlemarsh. Every other noise in the woods ended at once. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves did not reach her ears, but the idea of the Faeries on horseback, with the Faerie King at the front, sent her mind skittering. She could feel the hunt baying for her. Mickelwaithe’s words came back to her, clear as daylight…better to turn to stone.
Run. The voice in her head cut through the darkness. This time, Mouse ran.
Every part of her body burned as she followed the twisted path. She could not stop, not when her feet began to bleed and peel in her shoes, not when her stomach twisted in agony, and not when the contents of her lungs clogged her throat. The path went on and on, turning in ways that she did not remember.
She heard the horses behind her just as John’s cottage came into view.
Just a bit further and we are out of the woods, she thought.All you have to do is make it to the tree line before sunrise.
Was the sky changing from deep blue to navy? How could that be? She could not have been in the woods for hours, could she? Thedrumbeat of hooves on earth sounded behind her. They were on her heels. The edge of the forest was there. Closer. Just close enough.
She crossed over it just as the sun peeked above the hills. Her body screamed at her to lie down, to bury herself in the grass beyond the trees, but she did not stop until she threw John’s garden gate closed behind her. Only then did she allow herself to look back.
A white horse stood out against the canopy of green. The Faerie King sat astride it, his face split in a wild grin. Other Faeries flanked him on either side, their eyes flashing dangerously. The Faerie King bowed to her, then turned back into the woods.
Mouse watched that spot as the sun rose over the hill, illuminating the world in a protective blanket of light. It was only then that she toppled over and vomited on John’s rosebushes.
27
She did not know how long she lay in John’s garden, curled up with her back to the stone wall. Bees buzzed somewhere above her, and a snail crawled over her hand, but she could not make herself move. Her mind skipped through the events of the night before like a scratched record under a gramophone needle. The adrenaline that had pushed through her grogginess before was gone, leaving her floundering in her own memories. There were things she could remember in vivid detail—the owl driver’s eyes, Thornwood whispering in her ear to stay close, the look on Carlyle’s stone face in the darkness—but everything else came in splinters. They would appear briefly, then tumble into a completely different memory. She remembered mirrors and jumping frogs, but as separate entities divorced from time.