Copper gleamed off nearly every kitchen surface except the deep black iron oven. The cook had left the kettle on the hob, although the grate was cold. Mouse lifted it off and nearly doubled over from the weight. She was used to light tin kettles, which could be packed into nurse kits or fit easily on an apartment stove. She tottered under its weight but eventually was able to fill it and replace it on the hob before falling into the wooden chair next to the oven.
She breathed deeply, taking in the flickering light bulbs and china. There had been a time when the servant quarters were full of footmen and maids. She wasn’t sure that she missed those times exactly, but she did miss the noise in the face of the echoing silence.
When she finally caught her breath, she searched the cupboards for matches. She found some at last, buried among spare candles.
It took a few feeble attempts, but soon she had a fire going strong enough to boil water. The tea cupboard burst with an assortment of blends. She pulled out an herbal mix of mint, lavender, and chamomile she favored as a child, grateful that no one had thrown away the packet while she was gone.
A boy from the village had delivered bread during the day, and it was still golden and soft when Mouse retrieved it from the pantry. She had tea in hand and an egg frizzling over her fire in no time, with toast frying on either side. The tea slid down her throat, warming her from the inside out, and she smiled.
“Not too bad, Mouse. Now you just need to survive on tea and egg sandwiches until you can sort out something else.”
It felt anachronistic to think Thistlemarsh was an ancient hall beyond its modern belly, complete with a Faerie past and medieval walls. A telephone hung on the border between the kitchen and the servant hall, a proud display of wealth and innovation from before the war. The kitchen was the only place her uncle had felt was worth updating with the turn of the twentieth century.
Mouse wondered if, hundreds of years ago, the Faerie King’s servants had walked down to the hearth where the oven now stood, warming their feet by the fire. Mouse didn’t doubt it, although she did not know if Faeries had much use for mortal fire.
The wind howled. Mouse threw back the dregs of her tea, scarfed down the remains of her sandwich, then poured another cup to accompany her and her candle back to the Matchbox.
When she reached the mirror again, Mouse smiled at her reflection until her eyes landed on something she had not seen before. Her heart caught in her throat.
Her reflection was missing its pinky finger from the first knuckle up.
The Faerie Bridegroom
FromLady Blakeney’s Tales of Faerie: Stories for the Modern Traveler.Collected and edited by Lady Blakeney of London, England, with consultation by Lord Threadneedle of Raven Tower, Faerie, 1780.
Once, when the road between the mortal world and Faerie was still clear, there lived a miller’s daughter. Although she rarely spoke, her eyes flickered with a wicked intelligence that her father did not catch.
However, the local Faerie lord did catch the look, and he liked it. Which would have been well and good, if the miller’s daughter felt the same. Yet, she did not.
This was not enough to deter the Faerie lord, who asked the girl’s father for her hand. The miller happily agreed.Perhaps you will grow to like him, her father insisted. But anytime the Faerie lord looked at her, the miller’s daughter felt a terrible dread in her belly.
Soon, the Faerie lord invited the miller’s daughter to visit his castle in the forest. She demurred, but the Faerie lord merely laughed and told her he would mark her path in ash.
At midday, the miller’s daughter left her father’s home for the Faerie lord’s castle. Ash marked her path, as promised, but she took timeto mark the trees as she passed as well. Finally, she came upon the castle, tucked into the shadows of the trees.
No one answered her knock, so she tentatively opened the door. There were no lights and no servants.
The miller’s daughter did not want to brave the darkness, but she could not help descending further into the manor. A grand staircase rose before her, and she had just enough time to duck beneath it before the Faerie lord barged onto the top landing. He did not see the miller’s daughter in the shadows, but she could see him and the young woman he dragged behind him. The girl’s eyes were wide, terrified, but she followed him as he said her true name.
Horrified, the miller’s daughter watched as the Faerie lord commanded the girl to fall onto her hands and knees and to move her hair to the side, exposing the back of her pale neck.
“I have found a new bride to replace you, my dear. But fear not, she will undoubtedly join you soon,” he said.
Then, with a single stroke of his sword, the Faerie lord cut off the young woman’s head. It rolled down the stairs, breaking into a thousand pieces like a pane of glass.
The cross that once graced the young woman’s neck landed at the miller’s daughter’s feet. She dared not move until the Faerie lord was gone, but when she no longer heard his footsteps above, the miller’s daughter scooped up the bloody necklace and ran out into the night.
The ash marks were gone, blown away by the wind or smudged out by animals, but the miller’s daughter followed her own marks on the trees until she was back home.
She told her father everything. At first, he was skeptical, but he finally believed her when she produced her proof.
The next day, when the Faerie lord arrived, the girl held out the bloody necklace to him. Color drained from his face before the mortals and their dogs descended on him and tore him to pieces. Withthe Faerie lord dead, the miller’s daughter lived happily for the rest of her days.
This tale is one of the best known among mortals about Faeries, especially regarding names and power. Threadneedle insists that the tale is quite different among Faeries, with the miller’s daughter becoming an innocent forest nymph and the Faerie lord becoming a wicked mortal king. Regardless, the sense of distrust between the two cultures is clear.
8
Mouse paced the front steps of Thistlemarsh the next morning, using the crumbling twin boar statues that guarded the entrance as touchpoints. The storm from the night before had left the world washed-out and gray. Her fingers flitted to touch her pinky every few seconds.