Her finger was still there, pink from the pressure, but whole. She bent it slowly.
“You didn’t take it.”
“I do not need to hold something in my hand for it to be mine,” he said, and a bitter chill ran through her. The fierceness had not faded from his eyes.
“Will my presence affect the magic?” Mouse asked. The Faerie raised an eyebrow. “I may need to come in for supplies during the day. And I am sleeping here at night.”
Thornwood shook his head. “It may be more difficult while I am performing the magic during the day, but it can work around you at night, if you tell me where you sleep.”
“I can show you. Will that help?”
“I don’t see why not. Of course, I will see it soon enough, but the earlier I can begin visualizing, the better.”
The corridors of the third floor seemed smaller and more run-downthan she remembered them being only the day before. The last stair to the fourth-floor landing groaned in warning, and Mouse breathed a sigh of relief when it didn’t break under their feet. The Matchbox was tucked away at the end of the hallway, just around the corner and out of sight from the main stair. The perfect place for an unwanted relative.
“You choose to sleep in here?” Thornwood asked.
Mouse bristled. “It is my childhood bedroom.”
He shrugged, then prowled over the floorboards. His gaze slid onto Bertie’s journal, and he moved to pick it up.
“Don’t,” she said, hopping across to the shelf in alarm. The Faerie pulled back. Mouse scooped the book up. “It’s very delicate.”
He wrinkled his nose and moved on. Gently, she replaced the journal on its shelf. The white spine shone like bone against the dark tones of the other books.
“And is that little red book you’ve been clinging to a gift from your teacher? The one who told you about Faeries?” he asked as he inspected the tree painting.
“I suppose you could say that,” Mouse said, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. She took the book from her pocket, tracing the flurry of foil roses on the cover.
“I will come again tomorrow in an official capacity,” Thornwood said, drifting toward the door.
“Official?”
“Magic works better if you layer it with the truth,” he said. “Until then, my lady.”
“Wait—” Mouse started, but it was too late. He was gone.
“Cryptic bastard.”
7
That night, hunger called Mouse to the Thistlemarsh kitchen, even as the whistling wind hissed at her to stay in the Matchbox. She shuffled to the doorway. The doorknob was cold to the touch, and she looked back to the bed. Could she stand the gnawing hunger until the morning? Her stomach growled pathetically. She pursed her lips and opened the door into the hallway.
A burst of cold air met her, and she huddled in her robe, raising her single candle away from her flyaway hair. The corridor was pitch-black, as her uncle had not taken the trouble of installing electricity on the fourth floor.
Her breath fogged, and Mouse shuddered against the cold. She would need to figure out how to light the fires herself in the morning, at least until there was a more permanent heat source. How terrible that she’d forgotten her field training so soon. Some basics were fresh in her mind—she could still make coffee and tea—but everything else had fled as soon as she stopped needing it.
“An egg sandwich tonight,” she said to herself. “Then tomorrow, we’ll start studying for more advanced meals. Between gardening.”
As she crept down the stairs, her mind wandered to Thornwood. What did he mean, official? What could she expect the next day? She did not know and hated how the thoughts sat in her gut like an unexploded mine.
“Such a bastard,” she whispered. When she reached the third-floor landing, she flicked on the lights. Her reflection stared back at her from the long mirror that ran across the balcony. She screamed and nearly dropped the candle. Her doppelganger in the mirror did the same.
“Faeries!” she hissed, only too aware of how ridiculous she was at that moment.
Thornwood was hardly responsible for her uncle’s mirror or Mouse’s unkempt appearance. She looked more like a ghost than a fine lady. Most of her hair escaped its braid, twisting in a tangle of dark and frizzy curls around her face. Her eyes, too wide and dark on a good day, were blown wide open, and her cynical mouth was pulled down into a frown.
She looked away.