Thornwood sat on the bench in the rose garden. He lounged across it, one boot planted on the seat while the other swung back and forth just above the ground. Green vines twined upward through dead brown hedges. He was inspecting a crumbling fountain with his head tilted slightly. His white-blond hair was slicked away from his face in gentle waves. The softness of his hair contrasted with his inhumanly sharp cheekbones and jawline. The blindingly bright beauty still clung to him.
Mouse pressedBlakeney’sagainst her side, taking comfort from its presence.
“I have never seen this particular style in the fashionable gardens I’ve frequented,” he said when she came to stand beside him.
“Oh yes, broken fountains are all the rage,” Mouse said dryly.
The Faerie arched his fingers lazily, and the fountain pulled back together like a boot lacing itself.
Mouse yelped.
“That bit of magic was a gift. Think of it as a sample of what I can do now that we are in business together. Do not expect any other favors.”
As often as she’d read about magic in books, Mouse had never seen it performed. Every element of it was an oxymoron. The spell happened in both the blink of an eye and for eternity, and she remembered everything and nothing about the moment.
“Do not think too hard about it,” the Faerie instructed. “Mortals have driven themselves mad trying to decipher Faerie magic. Best to accept it and move on.”
Mouse shook her head, taking in the fountain. She drifted toward it and held out her hand. The stone was smooth under her touch.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
“Yes, I know,” he said, standing. “Well, let’s see what else I need to do.”
Approaching the house, Mouse palmed the key to the front door, the comforting weight of the iron heavy in her hand. Thornwood eyed the key warily, and she noted that as evidence of Faeries’ distaste for iron. John’s bicycle decorated the staircase to the front doors. The spokes stood out like a beacon of modernity in a sea of stale traditionalism. Mouse made herself turn away before the temptation to hop on the bicycle and ride off became too much.
As the Faerie took in the crumbling stairs and Thistlemarsh’s battered facade, his lips curled into a sneer.
Mouse held her breath as she pushed the key into the keyhole, horrified at the thought that it might not fit. When was the last time anyone used this side of the door? The servants usually locked it from the inside after the family was in bed. Would she need to break a window?
Grooves clicked into place, and the doors squealed open. She sighed and sagged through the doorway. Icy air clung like a second skin. There was no one left to light the fires.
Thornwood coughed from the doorway.
“Is something wrong?” Mouse asked.
“I need an invitation,” the Faerie said stiffly.
Another truth to the legends confirmed. “Come in, Thornwood.”
He marched through the door, past her, and straight into the hallway. Mouse flicked on the electric lights, illuminating the tapestry and the great elk antlers.
The walls pressed in closer in the tinny lighting, and the family artifacts looked desperate.
“To think, this used to be a palace,” he said, and Mouse wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself.
“In the thirteenth century, the Faerie King wanted Thistlemarsh as his hunting lodge,” Mouse said, the story as comfortable on her lips as a well-worn glove on her hand.
Thornwood cut her off. “I am well aware of the history of this house. Ask any Faerie, and they will know of Thistlemarsh Hall as any mortal knows of Westminster Abbey.”
He followed the procession of hunters in the tapestry, his gaze resting on each mortal face. Finally, he came to a man in a dark yellow jerkin on a black horse. While the other figures in the tapestry looked toward one another or the dogs, this man watched the trees. One Faerie face loomed at his eyeline, looking back.
“This is the first Dewhurst, the one who deceived the Faerie King.” Thornwood traced his index finger between the man and the Faerie in the tapestry. He scoffed and turned away. “Let’s see the rest of it.”
Each room earned some derisive comment or scornful look from the Faerie. Although Mouse knew the reality of Thistlemarsh’s state more than anyone, she felt so incensed by his dismissal that she was bursting at the seams to defend it and throw him out.
They ended their tour in the study. He wrinkled his nose at the tiger-pelt rug.
“The interior is a disgrace,” he said.