“One of the men from the brigade brought it over last night. He said it was buried under rubble near the entryway.” John grimaced. “I am sorry, Mouse. I should have done more the night when you came to talk to me about your marriage.”
She sighed, pressing the book to her heart. “What could you have done to stop a Faerie King? For that matter, what could you have done to stop Thornwood?”
Thornwood’s mother entered the room, with Thornwood close behind. His cheeks were stained red, and Mouse wondered if he heard the tail end of their conversation. His mother bowed, and Mouse stood, bobbing a curtsy back.
“Please, I would like to thank you,” the Faerie woman said. “Without your help, my son and I would still be apart, or worse, dead. You must forgive me. In the whirlwind of the last day, I have not properly introduced myself. You may call me Lady Thornwood. Or, if you are comfortable, Theodora.”
“Thank you, Theodora,” Mouse said. “Your son has helped me very much.”
“Has he indeed?” she asked, an arch smile spreading across her lips. “From what I’ve heard, he made quite a mess of things for you.”
“He did warn me he would. I should have taken better heed,” Mouse said. Thornwood winced.
Theodora leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “His father always dove into trouble headfirst. A charming trait when things go well, a terrible one when they do not work out. Luckily, my son also inherited my good looks.”
The Faerie woman leaned back and pasted on a serene smile, turning toward John. “I smell toasted cheese. May I have some?”
John nodded. Thornwood started toward Mouse, but she held up a hand to him.
“I need at least one hundred years of uninterrupted sleep,” Mouse said, tuckingBlakeney’sunder her arm. “But I will settle for a few hours.”
Thornwood’s expression sank. He held the door open for her as she hobbled into the hallway, and she felt his eyes on her as she walked up the stairs. Smudge followed and jumped up on the bed as soon as Mouse pushed open the guest room door. John still had her half-packed bag barricaded in the closet. It sat quiet and lifeless on the floor.
Mouse shrugged out of her clothes, not even bothering to find anything besides an oversize shirt of Bertie’s before slipping under the cotton covers. Sleep overcame her instantly.
Her dreams were jumbled, scraped together from memory and inflamed by imagination. In them, Thistlemarsh had already settled into its ruined state, overrun with greenery and roses. Wicked Faeries lurked in its dark corners, and Mouse could not escape from them, as when she looked down, she was slowly turning to stone.
She awoke with a gasp. The soft darkness of night met her. Gently, as her heart rate slowed, she came back into herself. Her hair was slick with sweat, sticking to her face and neck. A glance at the bedside clock told her that the promised “few hours” of rest had extendedwell into the night. Everyone else in the cottage, and the village, would be asleep.
Smudge stretched as Mouse pushed herself off the bed. A washbowl full of clean water and a rag stood on the vanity, courtesy of John. Mouse was unsure how she would ever repay him for his help.
With the wet cloth, she cleaned away the sweat. Refreshed, she slipped into one of Bertie’s oversize coats, pulled on a pair of his spare trousers, and toed into her borrowed shoes. Smudge whined.
“You’re coming, too, don’t worry,” she whispered. The dragon-dog let out a wheezy bark. A puff of smoke billowed out from behind her teeth. Mouse bumped Smudge’s nose with the tip of her finger. “None of that, please. I think we’ve had enough surprises lately.”
The night air felt lovely against Mouse’s warm cheeks. The moon beamed down on her. Once in the woods and past Carlyle’s statue, she allowed herself to think of the future.
All her life, she had thought of Thistlemarsh Hall as an eternal presence. Her goals would either align with it or move away from it, but now it was gone.
Finally, she was able to pin down the strongest of the errant emotions buzzing in her chest. The most predominant feeling was simple to name: joy. Joy at the release of unwanted responsibility, but also the freedom before her. She could do as she wanted, and the prospect was both exciting and terrifying.
Her other emotions were more complicated. Flashes of deep sorrow swept over her, soon followed by numb grief, and then by bubbling joy. Sleep had freed all her feelings from where she’d bottled them, letting them raise havoc through her mind and body.
Subconsciously, Mouse searched the shadows beneath the trees for moving vines and Faerie figures. Nothing leaped out to attack her. It was only when she stepped onto Thistlemarsh’s grounds that she realized it had been her intended destination.
Smoke danced above the ruins. To Mouse’s amazement, most of the main facade was still standing. Through the glassless windows, Mouse could see the night sky spilling in from the other side. The front door stood ajar; beyond it, she could see the scorched stone floor.
The doorknob was warm when she shrugged through the opening. Mouse took in a long, steadying breath. The ceiling above the entry hall was gone, showing the jagged bones of the four collapsed floors above and leaving the stone bare beneath the stars. Speckled dust composed of wood, plaster, and ash blanketed the room. Piles of tattered tapestry lay in clumps of mangled string. The same lone Faerie face peered at her from the floor.
The weight of everything that had happened pushed down on Mouse’s shoulders, and she found herself rushing back outside onto the grounds.
Tranquil and green, the rose garden was still perfectly intact. As she looked back at Thistlemarsh, the moon touched the burned ruins, highlighting the dark lines where the fire had licked the stone.
Moonlight illuminated the empty windows, and for a moment, Mouse saw silhouetted figures dancing, lit from behind in gold. Then, the image was gone, leaving only a tumbledown ruin.
Yet, despite the destruction, the young roses in the garden opened, pushing aside their green cocoons. The buds tilted upward, as though waiting for the sun. Their stems curved around the crumbled rock, and a line of bluebells sprouted at the base of the wall.
Exhausted,Mouse lay on the bench in the rose garden, her face pressed down into the cool stone. She drummed her fingers against it, picking out a steady rhythm for her heart and breath to emulate.