Faerie servants stood out in the crowd like ink stains. All were dressed head to toe in black, as Mickelwaithe had been, although Mouse did not see him. The Faeries buzzed around them, taking the drinks and food as quickly as they arrived. The servants moved briskly through the crowd, avoiding the dancers with ease. They flitted between different groups, restocked trays appearing in their hands as soon as the previous ones ran out.
A tall Faerie servant with red hair tied on top of her head worked through the crowd nearest Mouse. Mouse followed her at a distance. It was easier to pass through the group while following the woman, and soon Mouse was free from the crush of bodies.
She saw a raised platform in front of the fireplace. The fire roared, and a throne stood like a shadow in front of the flames. Mouse could not see if anyone sat on its seat. The darkness felt like deliberate magic in such a bright room. Her heart croaked in her chest as she dodged to see the throne through the dancers.
The redheaded servant changed course, diverting from her path toward the throne to another group of Faeries forming a circle around something Mouse could not make out yet.
Mouse followed close behind. Laughter rang out from the Faeries in the circle. Sparks twinkled near their heads before floating down and mingling with their hair and clothes as they drank. They spokein elaborate riddles built of English, French, German, and a language Mouse did not recognize. It almost sounded like Irish Gaelic, but the words were strange cousins of those her father would sing under his breath while he worked.
The Faeries pressed in around the servant, vibrant birds of paradise surrounding a stoic crow. A spring of unseen magic refilled the items on the servant’s silver tray, and Mouse used the distraction to slip through to the middle of the circle. She froze.
Thornwood was there.
Dark chains bound him to the floor. A purple bruise marred his left eye, and his scar stood out against his haggard, pale face. His eyes flashed dangerously at the surrounding Faeries.
His elaborate wedding suit hung off him in torn swaths. The left sleeve was missing below the elbow, and a ragged wound dripped blood down onto the cuff of the iron chain that trapped him. Angry black marks showed just under the cuffs, and as Mouse watched, the marks extended out like lightning along his veins. He grimaced, and the crowd broke into cruel glee. The uproarious laughter of the drunken Faeries drowned Mouse’s gasp. She had seen him injured before, but his magic had wiped his wounds away instantly. Now, bound in iron and without his ring, he could not heal.
Despite her anger at his betrayal, Mouse had to strangle the urge to try to help him then and there, rather than keep to her mission.
“Are you dissatisfied with your new accommodations, Thornwood?” The Faerie King’s voice echoed across the room. The light flickered, and Mouse could make him out, his legs propped over the arms of his throne. Any trace of Mr.Hobb’s gentle hum was gone, replaced by a voice as brittle as the branches of a hedge in winter.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Thornwood said offhandedly. “The quality of accommodations has changed since the last time I was in your court.”
The Faerie courtiers’ mirth died, leaving the room silent and airless. The crowd parted between the King and Thornwood.
“You are a fool. I would have rewarded you just for weakening whatever spell the Dewhursts placed on Thistlemarsh to prevent me from recapturing it for all these years. Yet, you went for the girl to try to cut me out.”
A touch of pity sprouted in Mouse’s breast. The Faerie King truly did not know that Viola was behind the magic that protected the house against the very violence he summoned with his viciousness. The Dewhursts destroyed his daughter after tricking him out of Thistlemarsh. Of course, that did not justify his actions, but she could sympathize with him. Mouse filed the information away, keeping close to the crowd of Faerie revelers.
The Faerie King pulled away from his throne. Watching him emerge was like watching the Regency Faerie in the Tithe train station step out of fiction into reality. His braided silver hair twisted around the points of his crown. His dark velvet jacket was studded with tiny silver stars, and it contrasted with his cream trousers and the elaborate cravat at his neck. A smile twisted his lips, and his upswept eyebrows highlighted his condescending gaze.
“Do your worst. There is nothing left for you to take from me,” Thornwood said.
“Oh, I would not say that.”
The Faerie King tilted his head, and five clear jars materialized around Thornwood. Ornate moth wings fluttered through the glass, stacked on top of one another like playing cards in a disorganized pile. The bugs were varying shades of cream, run through with stripes of brown and green. Elaborate faux eyes winked from their wing tips, and their frilled antennae brushed frantically against one another.
No one moved or spoke, and Mouse had the distinct feeling thatall were waiting to see how their king wanted them to react to the odd display.
“Does anything strike you as familiar about these insects?” the Faerie King asked. His tone was light, almost bored.
Thornwood did not reply. His lips pressed into a thin line of contempt.
“No? Look closer.”
When Thornwood did not react, the Faerie King scoffed and thrust his hand above his head. Strings of silver wound around Thornwood’s arms, and he rose like a marionette. The chains jingled with the movement. The Faerie King dragged Thornwood to the surface of the closest jar. His face pressed into the glass, emphasizing his purple bruise. “I said, look closer.”
The crowd laughed, catching on to the tone of the game. The magic dragged Thornwood from jar to jar, pressing him against the glass until a streak of his blood smeared across each one. Finally, the Faerie King released him, and he collapsed into a huddle on the floor.
“Do you recognize anything now?” the Faerie King asked.
“What do you want me to say?” Thornwood groaned. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and rolled to his knees. His blood stained the floor in a jagged swirl. Red ran from his arm across his body and up his face, mingling with his fair hair.
“One of them might be particularly recognizable to you,” the Faerie King said. “How quickly the son outgrows his affection for his mother.”
Thornwood went still, and any remaining color drained from his face.
“No,” he whispered.