The sounds from below were boisterous, and she could make out the shapes of words. They muddled together to form strange sentences about hunting roses, gazing at rabbits, practicing magic on embroidered butterflies, and cutting villagers to pieces with tiny scissors.
The threat of gleeful violence billowed up to the Matchbox like smoke. Walking down the grand staircase with so many Faeries lusting for blood would not work, and they might catch on to herhumanity before she even reached the ballroom. No, she would need to avoid them until it was necessary, when she would sneak into the heart of the Faerie King’s lair to destroy the source of his power and return Thornwood’s ring. She needed an alternate route in among the wolves.
Mouse took stock, pulling up her dollhouse map of Thistlemarsh in her mind’s eye.
The best option, she thought, might be one of the bedrooms in the west wing, where she knew a few hidden servant stairways melted into walls and tucked into bookshelves. The only room she would have to pass through was the portrait gallery, ornate with the frowning faces of all the Dewhursts dating from before they were even called Dewhurst. She did not know if the lines of condescending mortals would draw in the Faeries or push them away, but the choice was clear. It was either brave the gallery or try to take on all the Faeries in a full-frontal attack.
Slipping out the door onto the landing, Mouse felt all the weight of her humanity. Her steps were clumsy and loud as she crept down the stairs to the third floor. Anxiety hummed under her skin, making every windowpane an enemy and every dust mote a villain.
“Steady,” she whispered to herself.
The strokes of magic that had only trickled from the walls under Thornwood’s touch flowed freely under the Faerie King’s. As she picked her way through the winding hall, she passed a room crafted entirely of spun sugar. Its contents had melted, leaving slumped furniture like uneven stubs of melted candle wax. Another room was made of glass, and another of something that looked disturbingly like bone.
When Mouse reached the gallery, she closed her eyes, listening as hard as she could for any movement inside the room. The sound of her frantic heartbeat was all she could make out beyond the thrum of the court below.
Mouse gasped when she entered. Portraits were pulled from the walls like weeds, left in broken frames. Horrid black ink stains blotched out faces, burn marks covered others, and trails of wax dripped down gilded frames. Paintings were left with long gashes bisecting them and leaving the canvas gaping like torn flesh.
Worse, the Faerie King’s magic had enchanted the subjects of the paintings as well. The portraits’ eyes followed her, silently pleading as she slipped past them. Those newly without eyes had their lips pulled down, grimacing in pain. For the first time, Mouse was glad that her uncle never added her mother and Roger to the walls and that Bertie’s portrait still hung in Lord Dewhurst’s room. She hoped that it remained untouched.
If there was one thing that the scene impressed upon her, it was that the years had done nothing to cool the Faerie King’s anger at the family.
Inky booted footprints darted between the pictures. The trail stopped beneath a miniature portrait of a young man with gentle eyes. The other faces dwarfed him, and Mouse found it challenging to focus on the small patch of natural color among the behemoth jewels. However, the portrait had a delicacy where the others were gauche, and the strokes were so fine that Mouse could almost imagine the man was there.
His eyes did not move, nor did his soft smile change. A whirlwind of destruction battered everything around him, from the other paintings to the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling, yet his portrait was untouched, caught in the eye of a storm.
She could only guess that this man had been Viola’s husband, and the Faerie woman’s magic protected him, even if this was just his image.
Mouse did not linger.
She ducked into the servant entrance at the end of the gallery. Toher surprise, the servant staircase was as enchanted as the rest of the house, but as far as she could tell, it was unrefined, harmless magic, almost an afterthought extending through the walls. Rocky stairs swirled downward, and moss grew like an ornate carpet. A trickling waterfall flowed across each stair, winding left and right as Mouse followed it down.
As she journeyed lower, she heard more Faerie revelers. Clinking glasses rang out from the servant door to Bertie’s bedroom, and sounds were coming from her uncle’s bedroom that she did not linger on for long.
Trained fruit trees clung to the walls, bearing what looked like peaches but smelled distinctly of cinnamon. They were ripe and fragrant. Mouse ignored them despite the temptation.
Behind one of these trees was the hidden entrance to the ballroom.
Conversation roared, but so did the music in the ballroom. There was a sweep of violin and an underscore of cellos, undercut by the screech of a damaged gramophone from another room.
Mouse pressed her hand to her chest, touching the keys one last time for luck. Then, she cracked open the door.
31
Candles crowded the room, and the chandeliers dripped with melted wax. Golden flames danced on top of them, reflecting off the mirrored walls and bouncing to every glinting corner. Dancers floated by in elaborate costumes better suited for a medieval ball than the twentieth century. A few wore stylized Elizabethan clothes, with ruffs and bubbled breeches. Others sported full-face masks shaped like unnamable beasts, while some wore masks that only covered them from ear to ear, leaving their grinning, hungry mouths exposed.
Every guest had a visible weapon that glinted at their waist or on their wrist. Long rapiers extended like tails from some, while others had sharp-toothed axes crossed over their backs. Mouse was grateful for John’s sword cinched at her waist.
The Faeries seemed to have an aversion to gunpowder, as Mouse could not spot a single pistol among the hundreds of Faeries crammed into the room. She wondered if that was another reason they left the mortal realm. Did the creation of guns and cannons disgust them? Or frighten them?
Luckily, the Faerie courtiers were more interested in their conversations or their dance partners than they were in Mouse, so she could dart unseen into a corner to strategize. Nearby, two Faeries huddled against each other, whispering conspiratorially. One had ribbons hanging down off her craggy horns and framing her face. The other had long black hair tied back into a knot. It took Mouse a moment to register that his hair was a flurry of feathers that ran down his back and burst out of his cravat. They both drank from golden cups full of liquid the color of starlight. Mouse could smell the alcohol from her post by the wall.
“Did you hear that Thornwood gave his source of power to that mortal girl?” the Faerie woman asked, her voice rough as sandpaper. She took a sip of her drink, her eyes keen on the Faerie man’s face.
“Of course, that’s all anyone here wants to talk about,” said the Faerie man. He coughed every third word, and his eyes dropped as though he was struggling to stay awake.
“His father was just as foolish.”
“I suppose so.” The Faerie man’s eyes scanned the room, blatantly searching for more exciting gossip. Mouse wondered how the woman managed to rope him over to her, considering his disinterest.