The way back through Thistlemarsh Wood was eerily quiet. No birds sang, and although the wind tugged at her hair and clothes, the leaves made no sound as they moved. Mouse shuddered as she passed the statue of Carlyle. Moss already dusted his legs up to his knees in the direction of the Hall. The golden magic illuminated the lines of horror on his face. His pupils and irises were gone, leaving only wide, lifeless orbs. Still, Mouse felt his gaze on her.
Trees bent down to her as she passed, the bark shifting on their trunks into distorted faces. The branches snatched at her clothes, like long, snarled fingers. She bit back her scream, painfully aware of the Faerie King and his hunt in the house on the other side of the forest.
She had to hope that the Faerie King believed he’d scared her away and that the other Faerie courtiers were too busy to think of the possibility of a mortal sneaking into their lair. The skill of making herself small that she learned as a girl in Thistlemarsh under Lord Dewhurst’s tyranny, paired with her knowledge of the house, might be enough to help her in without anyone noticing.
Other elements of the forest also strained toward her. Flowers pulled against their roots to drape themselves on the path, and the grass flowed like waves back and forth. They coiled toward her, a lusher green than they had been before the touch of magic. As she passed, a vine slipped around her ankle. It pulled her back, biting into her flesh.
Her knee gave out, and she collapsed, limbs splaying across the path. Stones bit into her palms.
“Let me go!” she said, her voice hoarse. The plants ignored her. She could feel the other tendrils stretch along her leg and wrap up her calf, twisting around her knee like a vise. Mouse dug the toes of her other boot into the bands and scraped down. One string came away, but as she tore out one vine, another slithered to replace it. Her legs dangled off the path. Desperate, she bore her fingers down between the stones. The compact earth came away in her hands with another pull.
“Let go!” She threw the stones, aiming at the roots. As soon as they hit, the stones bounced away, but a shudder ran through the plants, giving Mouse the moment she needed.
She finally had the leverage to pull the sword from her belt, striking the vines below her shoe. They snapped, curling off the path, and Mouse sprang to her feet and ran.
She did her best to ignore the pain in her arms and legs until the forest ended and the Thistlemarsh grounds began.
Hedgerows pressed along the wall of trees, grown wild with magic. Mouse darted behind them, careful to avoid the threads of light passing between them into the woods. She peered through the interlacing branches, pressing herself into them as much as possible.
Thistlemarsh’s exterior walls were the same, although the light shining out from inside the windows highlighted the cracks in the facade, like a poorly mended teacup. Figures brushed past the windows, resplendent with crowns of feathers, horns, and hooves. Behind the hedges, she could see their jewels twinkling, matching their bright white teeth.
To Mouse’s eye, it seemed that the Faerie King’s magic had dethroned Thornwood’s, and that the Faerie King had added his own menacing signature to the building.
She leaned further into the hedge, letting it hold her up so she could focus on the faces. Thornwood was not among them. Mousebarely had time to tamp down the knot of relief, anger, and fear that tangled in her breast when the hedge cracked in two before her.
She fell into the space where the plant had been before, and its sides came together around her, swallowing her whole. The light of the house illuminated the inside of the hedge, where moving branches worked like clockwork to pull her toward Thistlemarsh.
She panicked, reaching for the hilt of John’s sword, but she paused. The touch of the hedge was gentler than that of the wild branches in the woods, almost soft compared to its feral cousins.
Mouse stumbled over a root. Both the branches above and below cradled her, sweeping her back to her feet with the grace of a courtier. She realized that many of the bushes had grown up with her, tended by her father and then herself. She could understand why the magic here might help her, unlike the wild trees in the forest. She remembered Mickelwaithe’s hint, that not all the creatures in the house would serve the Faerie King.
The branches brushed through her hair again. Emboldened, a single stem slid across her cheek up to her eyebrow. Mouse gasped as she felt the ghost of her father’s movements reflected in the plants he tended for so long. A knot formed in Mouse’s throat.
The hedge opened just wide enough for her to slip out onto the lawn. The glass of the conservatory twinkled a few feet away.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The sigh of a thousand leaves brushing against one another echoed from the hedge.
Mouse dove from the opening into the shadow of the conservatory. The gold of the Faerie King’s magic was muted close to the house. She could only assume that most of the spell was creeping outward toward Tithe. Although she was not completely sure of his intentions,Mouse knew enough of the story of Thistlemarsh Hall to assume that the Faerie King intended to take back Tithe, his original payment for the Faerie-blessed house all those years ago. She was not sure what interest he might claim on that payment, but she would not put it past him to take the surrounding villages as well.
Even if Mr.Hobb would never do something like that, the Faerie King of the old stories would. And so would the Faerie King who’d appeared at her wedding.
Dread at the thought blew through her like an artillery shell. If the last few hours proved anything, it was that Faeries could be cruel indeed. The Faerie King’s magic was strong, and if he wanted to subjugate everyone his magic touched, she knew he was powerful enough to do so.
During the war, mortals had longed for the return of Faerie magic. Hell,Mousehad yearned for the return of Faerie magic. But now she knew that it would not have helped at the Front. Magic would have only prolonged the war when wielded by unfeeling masters. She thought of Roger, his mind addled by magic as well as gunfire. She grimaced.
Still, she had to move on.
The glass conservatory billowed up at the side of the Hall like a shimmering black cloud. The frosted outline of orange trees pressed against the glass.
A twisted bronze handle jutted out from the conservatory wall. Mouse palmed her keys, still tied around her neck and tucked beneath her collar, but the door swung open at her touch. She wavered, her arm extended forward into the darkness.
She saw the outline of Thornwood’s ring, the gem glinting on her battered finger. She closed her fist tight and followed it into the conservatory. Behind her, the gap in the hedge snapped shut.
29
The air trapped under the glass dome fizzed with the scent of overripe oranges. In the span of a day, they had transformed from blossoms to bursting fruit. A round, fuzzy bee tapped listlessly at the large windowpane closest to the door, trapped by the spiderweb of lead and glass. Mouse held open the door, and the bee bumped against the doorframe once, then jolted as it met the fresh air. It zipped away. Mouse wondered if it was one of John’s bees as she ventured further into the cluster of hothouse plants.