“A hundred years for us is much longer than a hundred years is for you.”
Thornwood hummed in reply. “I cannot control every side effect of the magic I produce, even if I try. As we move forward, I will have to cast more spells, and these acts will occasionally have consequences that I cannot anticipate. What you see in the mirror, for example. However, know I am not intentionally trying to harm or frighten you.”
“All right. Thank you for the explanation.”
“Now, I will begin my work. The villagers have seen me, so the groundwork there has been set. To them, I am an architect from the city who has arrived to help you. My servant is spreading the story as we speak. Will you be in the gardens all day?”
“I suspect so.”
“Brilliant. Keep any visitors outside.”
Mouse scoffed. “We need not worry about visitors.”
“All the better. I will let you know when it is safe to pass the threshold. Do not come in without my command.”
“What would happen?”
“I would be annoyed, which is not what you want, I am sure.”
Mouse nodded. “One moment, then; I need to fetch my lunch from the kitchen.”
She scurried through the halls to the kitchen, tracing her steps from the night before down and back up again. She pressed a cold egg-and-bacon sandwich into the Faerie’s hands, tucking her own and Mr.Hobb’s under her chin as she fiddled with her thermos of strong black tea.
Thornwood looked as though she’d just handed him a slug.
“It won’t bite you. Nothing grand, I know, but it tastes nice and will keep your spirits up.”
“What is it?”
“Venison and gravy on bread flown straight from Florence,” she snipped. Thornwood blinked at her, and she rolled her eyes. “It’s eggs, bacon, cheese, and fried bread that I prepared earlier this morning. Will the banality of it kill you?”
“I have not eaten human food in a very long time,” he said. He sniffed the wrapper, his expression dubious.
“Eat it or don’t. I’ll remember not to make you one tomorrow.”
Thornwood’s head shot up. “No, I would like one tomorrow, if it is satisfactory.”
Mouse marched out into the garden without deigning to respond.
Mud squelched beneath her feet as she approached Mr.Hobb’s shed. The door was open, and a grizzled voice drifted to her. He was singing in a different language, although Mouse could not identify it from a distance. She padded further up the path, allowing the melody to roll over her, sharp in its sadness.
She could see through the doorway where Mr.Hobb worked diligently on something laid before him on the table. He abruptly stopped singing, and his eyes met hers.
“Hello, Miss Mouse,” he said. “Are you replicating your namesake and sneaking about?”
“Perhaps I ought to take this sandwich back to the kitchen for my dinner,” she said loftily.
Mr.Hobb stood and opened the door wider for Mouse to squeeze through into the shed. It was no more than four walls and a bench, but Mr.Hobb had turned it into something charming. Plants grew on nearly every surface, carefully maintained. Sunlight wafted in from askylight above his table. Magazine clippings of grand gardens were pinned above his workspace, as well as a single photo of Mouse, Bertie, and Roger.
Gridded paper covered in designs rolled off his desk in sheets. Mr.Hobb caught Mouse looking.
“An old hobby,” he explained. “Your uncle never took to any of them, but by the time that fact got through my thick skull, I found that I liked working on the designs, even if only on paper.”
“They are beautiful,” Mouse said, lifting the top page so the image was lit from behind. Circled hedges interlocked in intricate patterns, framed by glorious swaths of flowers. They could not do everything he suggested in his work, but it was a brilliant start.
Mr.Hobb coughed. Mouse looked at him. He was smiling at her, bemused, and she put the paper back. Heat rose in her cheeks. How shameful that she had not even asked him before making plans. It was something her uncle would do.
“You know I will be working on the grounds this month,” she said. Mr.Hobb nodded. “Well, I was just thinking…Would you be interested in trying one of your designs?”