“Wait,” Viola called.
Mouse turned back toward her. “I know, better than anyone, that he’s a deceiver and a bastard. I thought he was the bloody gardener my whole life. I trusted him more than anyone here besides my father. So, please, I understand you might have a complicated relationship, but someone I care about is—”
“I am dead,” Viola interjected.
Mouse’s mouth snapped shut. “But…you are here. You have been doing magic all this time, protecting the house. And Faeries live centuries longer than humans.”
Viola drifted past Mouse toward the entryway. She slowlyextended her hand out into the garden. The sun shone straight through it, leaving no trace of a shadow across the doorframe.
“A ghost?” Mouse whispered.
Viola shook her head, and her lips pulled into a tight smile that did not reach her eyes. “Faeries do not have souls the same way that mortals do. We cannot haunt. But we can be bound.”
“So, someone bound you here. Do you know who? Maybe I can release you and then you can confront your father.”
Viola let out another rabbit-scream laugh. “Silly girl, I bound myself.”
“Why would you do that?”
“My father was wrong about my husband. Lord Dewhurst was a good man and very kind. Too kind, some might say, and they would probably be right.” She smiled softly. “His kindness is what first drew me to him. It was so off-putting. I came here to slit his throat, first metaphorically through the power of my wit and magic, then literally when Thistlemarsh was firmly returned to my father’s hands. But the first time we met, he offered me an orange.
“Of course, I immediately thought he was trying to poison me. Still, after I threw it back in his face, he peeled it and ate a slice. ‘See? No poison,’ he said and handed me the rest. He heard that I particularly enjoyed them, so he had a tree brought specially from Italy. The orange was horrible, of course. The tree was much too young.
“I tried every trick to outwit him. I was cruel and cutting. My magic was brilliant. He was a decent magician, although he was no match for a Faerie. But even when he failed, he would bow to me, kiss my hand, and give me another orange. I still do not know why it intrigued me.”
“What happened to him?” Mouse asked.
“After I forfeited everything to be with him, my father disowned me. He was disgusted that I should fall into such an obvious trap,trusting a human. He was right, although not in the way he thought. After my child was born, my husband started to balk against the advice of his younger brothers. Infighting is common enough in Faerie, so I did not think much about it, but the quarrel troubled him deeply. He went to make amends. He kissed me the last time I saw him. I remember it was raining, and he worried he would look disrespectfully wilted. I told him to take an orange as a peace offering.”
“They killed him.”
“Yes, and then they pinned the blame on me. It was an easy story to swallow—the Faerie bride sent by her father to seduce and kill the Dewhurst heir. Really, I am surprised I did not think of that plan myself.”
“You were more honorable than them,” Mouse said.
“Honor—a mortal illusion. Still, I knew they would come for me. The brothers laid their trap, and they caught me. Poison was their weapon. I could run back to my father for help, but that would leave my son and all his descendants unprotected in their hands. So, I did the only thing I could think to do.”
“You bound yourself.”
Viola pointed back to the patch of orange trees by the door. “Yes. I used the orange tree my husband brought for me as a touchpoint. From there, I could exist through the walls and the floors.”
“And you have been here all this time?”
She held her hands out, gesturing to the outline of Thistlemarsh beyond the conservatory. “This body bears the magic of the house. The spell I wove through Thistlemarsh kept my son and his children safe, so long as they were within its walls. I have kept it up all this time. Even now, when the fight of my magic is diminished, no one can run me out completely. I am still the bones of the house. We are entwined together until the end.”
Mouse attempted to absorb Viola’s words. She remembered the poem the Faerie woman whispered to her through the mirrors and walls.
“Why didn’t you show yourself to me before?”
“As the years went on, it took all my remaining strength to maintain my web of spells. I could not waste magic manifesting to my descendants, although I did try when I felt your Faerie friend tampering with my spells.”
“So, you knew that Thornwood intended to betray me? You tried to warn me.”
“I apologize for being so cryptic. I am not as strong as I once was. I cannot move beyond the conservatory; my magic is my only link into the Hall, and it could not see his intentions. Whatever spell you and your Faerie bridegroom worked dimmed my power. I was trapped in darkness for a long while, although I could feel that Thistlemarsh still stood. If it falls, I fall with it.
“Then a great bell chimed and, little by little, the light returned. I recognized my father’s magic, as familiar as his voice. The power of a Faerie King’s magic is infectious and has unintentionally restored my strength. I have not been free to move as I am now since I bound myself.”
“The bell you heard must have signaled the stroke of midnight, when I lost Thistlemarsh,” Mouse said, lining up the events in her mind. “Thornwood said he could still feel your spell lingering after we dismantled it.”