“This is not the time,” she said, but her heart pounded. So, had he felt something real for her? Could she believe it, after everything he’d done? He could not lie outright.
When she did not pull away, Thornwood’s gaze flicked to her lips. He leaned in, and Mouse’s breath caught.
At that moment, the ceiling collapsed. Thornwood dove on top of her, pushing her back behind the throne. The last thing she saw was a flash of Thornwood’s panicked eyes and the back of the throne coming down on them before all crumbled into darkness.
32
When Mouse woke, she heard muted voices shouting above her. Floundering to remember anything, she took stock of herself and her surroundings. Her head hurt enormously. The pain radiated from the back of her skull. Her stinging forehead and her left hand competed for attention. She could wiggle her toes and fingers, although she could not see them.
There was something soft on top of her, obscured by the darkness. Thornwood, she remembered. Beyond his shoulder, Mouse made out the back of the Faerie King’s throne. From there, it was cracked wood and glass mixed in charred powder. The walls were packed tight around them.
Thistlemarsh had collapsed on top of them, she remembered. Who knew how deep they were buried, trapped in a cave of rubble created by the angle of the throne’s back? Her heart pounded, and she struggled to breathe.
“Thornwood,” she whispered.
He groaned and shifted above her. “Hell, I feel terrible,” he said.His hand went to his head. They were so close that his fingers brushed Mouse’s nose. “Where are we?”
“Under Thistlemarsh, I think,” Mouse wheezed. As he shifted, sprinkles of debris drifted down onto her face. She clutched his shoulders. He went still.
“It collapsed,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I suppose that makes sense—it was mostly held together by magic in the end. When the Faerie King and Viola both released their spells simultaneously, Thistlemarsh could not stand alone.” Magic lit Thornwood’s fingers, rising from his ring, but it sputtered and died. “I’m still too weak to get us out from here.”
“Please, be quiet,” she said.
“Why—” he began before Mouse pressed her finger to his lips. Her hand was covered in dust and left a chalk-white mark across his mouth. She could hear the voices again. This time they were closer, nearly above them.
“Down here!” she shouted. “We’re down here!”
The voices stopped, then resumed, louder this time. Thornwood caught on, adding his call to hers. The debris overhead shifted. After what felt like an eternity of desperate work, a ray of light cut through to them. They were not as far down as she feared. A few villagers she recognized beamed at her, including Old Tom and the butcher’s boy. Mouse could see John’s face at the top, smeared with ash.
“Thank Christ!” he cried.
“Blasphemer,” she called back weakly.
The men surrounding John laughed too hard for such a paltry joke, but Mouse appreciated the sentiment.
“We’ll get you out of there soon,” John said. “They’ve gone to fetch a rope.”
“My mother,” Thornwood asked, his shout cutting through John’s elation. Mouse saw John stiffen.
“She is well. Mr.Mickelwaithe brought her to the cottage.”
Thornwood sagged against Mouse, his weight going limp on top of her. When she looked down, she found that he was unconscious. The purple under his eye had deepened, and the scar on his cheek had darkened from white to black.
With Thornwood unconscious, it took longer to pull him and Mouse out from beneath Thistlemarsh’s remains. He was the first out, and the villagers had carried him away before she could think about where they would take him. She scaled the hole as best she could in her silk shoes. Every few steps up, another piece of the Hall would tumble beneath her. She clung to the rope.
As she went, she saw flashes of her past broken into slivers. She saw herself as a child, tiptoeing around Lord Dewhurst’s ire. The child transformed into a young woman, dashing through cascades of artillery fire, her forearms stained with blood. Finally, she saw herself running from the Faerie hunt, horrified statues watching her flee in silence.
With each passing image, a weight lifted from her shoulders, as the memories fell behind her.
John pulled her up the last few feet, drawing her in for a crushing hug. She felt his tears on her neck and began to weep as well. They did not speak. The surrounding villagers kept a respectful silence until one mustered up the courage to cut in.
“Forgive me, Reverend Martin, but the house,” he said.
“Right, of course,” John said, pulling away and wiping his face on his sleeve. “It’s not safe here. Plenty can still fall on us. It would be very inconvenient if we spent all that time looking for you and a wall collapsed on top of us as soon as we got you out.”