Mouse took in the Hall as they scrambled over the ruins. It was as though they were inside the ribs of a giant laid down on its back in the English countryside. Beams crumbled as she watched. The stone walls remained, with black char marks running upward in horrid waves. At the base of the stairs, Mouse saw that the large mirror had cracked, but the pieces clung to the frame. She wondered if the flames melted them into place or if the mirror was still in the grip of some residual magic. In the reflection, her pinky was still absent from her hand.
In the entryway, the roof had collapsed from an upstairs room down to the cellars, and Mouse could see up to the windows on the fourth floor. The glass was gone, leaving only stone and ashes.
From the remains of the tapestry, a single Faerie face winked out at her from the ground. The fire had consumed its body below the neck.
With a grim smile, she pressed her shoe into the charred edge of the fabric. Marked with soot, the Faerie looked as exhausted as she felt.
She hobbled slowly as glass shards studded the bottoms of her shoes, but soon they were out in the fresh air. The sun sat like a toad above the trees, dipping further and further into the night as though descending into a pond. Pink clouds enveloped the sky, only parting to allow glimpses of the star-studded navy beyond. Mouse bit back her surprise. Her journey to defeat the Faerie King had taken the whole day.
Villagers with steaming mugs dotted the lawn. The civilian fire service members carried buckets from the pond to the waning embers still dancing in the lower windows. She wondered, absently, if anything had survived—the books in her uncle’s study or the poetry in Bertie’s room?
Not now, she told herself firmly.It will keep until tomorrow.
Still, Mouse struggled to stop her emotions from swelling. Nearly every able-bodied villager attended the remains of the fire. Those who could not help directly rushed about with buckets of water and sand, delivering them to those battling the flames.
“They knew something was wrong even before I arrived to raise the alarm,” John said, joining Mouse.
“What happened when the Faerie King’s magic reached the village?”
“Everything feels like a dream now. It was as though the magic drained all the color and life from the things that it touched. After mining the energy, the magic carried it toward Thistlemarsh on a golden cloud. But the spell was slow-moving. Most villagers were able to escape their homes, and then the magic started to retreat. When it did, I knew it was your doing. The color came back, and those who were caught in the initial onslaught came out of their houses confused but unharmed. I went to Thistlemarsh, and the villagers were only too happy to join me.”
“Aren’t they dreadfully curious?”
“Some of them, yes. But others seem to already have forgotten that the magic ever happened. I’m not sure how it will all play out.”
Mouse and John observed the villagers in silence.
“It was kind of them to help. I would not have expected it.”
“They know they owe their lives to you, even if they cannot remember why.”
The harried village doctor arrived. He frowned at the gash on Mouse’s forehead, and the line of his lips deepened into a scowl when he heard about the pain in the back of her head.
“You should stay at the village hospital tonight for observation,” he said, pressing a gray wool blanket into her hands. It itched terribly, but she obediently wrapped herself in it and nodded. The doctor patted her shoulder. “You’ve always been a smart girl. I wish the same could be said for your friend Mr.Thornwood. I told him he should stay overnight as well, but he refused.”
“That sounds like him,” John said.
Mouse rolled her eyes at them both.
“I must ask—is his scar a war injury?” the doctor asked.
“It is an old wound,” Mouse said, feeling oddly Faerie-like as she avoided the question. “He tries to minimize it as best he can.”
She did not elaborate. When she looked out at the other villagers, she saw a few lean away. Let them gossip, then. At least they would think Thornwood was a war hero, if not a bit of a vain one for hiding an injury under white makeup.
She was not sure how Thornwood would proceed now, but she would not be the one to reveal his Faerie nature to the world. And she did not know how much they would remember when the night was over.
John pressed a hot mug into her hands. The heat traveled through her like a shot. She waited to take a sip until she could feel the warmth from her fingers to her chest. The tea was too strong, but Mouse was grateful for it.
“I would kill for a bath,” she said at last.
“There’s no need for violence,” John replied, “but the bath might have to wait until the doctor has cleared you.”
“I’ll tell him it is necessary for my health.”
“I am sure he has never heard that before, after dealing with entire companies of injured soldiers.”
Mouse wrinkled her nose.