His eyes widened, and his gaze shot to the paper on his desk.
“That is very kind, but are you sure you want to take a chance like that now? I would hate for you to lose out because you took pity on an old fool to help him fulfill a hopeless dream.”
“It is not pity! On the contrary, I need your help, and the risk is not any greater for me to add something exciting and new to the grounds at the same time.”
“If you’re sure, I won’t say no,” Mr.Hobb said. His eyes were misty.
“Which design would you choose with a limit on both funds and time?”
Mr.Hobb brushed past her. He shuffled through the papers before pulling one from the bottom of the stack. He held it out to her. Thebrushstrokes were simpler, a set of growing bubbles, each with a different theme.
“Basic but elegant,” he said, his face flushed. “We can salvage most of the elements we need from the current landscaping.”
“All right, then—let’s begin.”
Mouse and Mr.Hobb worked until the sun went down. Every task seemed to lead to two more. They paused to eat their sandwiches three hours later than planned.
“I think we can be proud of ourselves, at the very least,” Mr.Hobb said between mouthfuls of egg. Mouse nodded, taking a long sip of tea. Her hands were crusted with dirt, and she was out of breath, but she could not remember a time that she felt more satisfied.
Work at the hospital was important, of course, but in the months since the war ended, the rush of triage work had slowed into the painful languidness of chronic care. Although no one said it aloud, all the nurses knew that most of the men still in their hospital would never improve, no matter what anyone did to help.
There was a miasma that permeated the ward, the dust of dashed dreams poisoning the air.
Mouse shook away thoughts of the war, rubbing at the dirt coating her hands. “It’s refreshing to work in the soil, isn’t it?”
“Gardening is the best occupation in the world,” he said. “I’ve said it since I was an undergardener at age fifteen, and I’ll say it now at age…Well, never mind that. You have the advantage of creating and nurturing with gardening. An architect can plan out a building, or an artist can paint a canvas, but gardening is the only occupation where you must care for your work after you have created it. It has the advantage as well of both outliving you and surprising you. Like children.”
“Are you comparing Bertie, Roger, and me to flowers?” Mouse asked.
“More like weeds, the three of you.” He stared into the setting sun, taking another bite of his sandwich. She snorted.
Suddenly, a sharp sting ran through Mouse’s hand. She hissed, throwing it before her face to search for a bee. Her pinky throbbed. Sparkling light radiated off her fingertip.
She gasped. Mr.Hobb’s eyes snapped toward her, and she was able to transfer her surprised expression to her wristwatch.
“Is that the time? I best go in.”
“Of course,” Mr.Hobb said. Bits of egg clung to his mustache. She held out her handkerchief. He took it, touching the fabric to his temple in thanks. “You are an angel, my dear.”
They parted at the entrance; Mr.Hobb headed back to the shed.
When Mouse opened Thistlemarsh’s bloated front doors, her breath caught in her throat.
Without the familiar wood beneath her hands, Mouse would have mistaken Thistlemarsh Hall for a completely different building. Polished oak floors gleamed, and the faded fabric in the tapestry was returned to its original glory. Emerald woven leaves were caught midflutter on the trees, and pink and gold faces shouted joyously to one another. Outside the hunters, the Faerie figures faded into shades of pale green. Mouse had never noticed the difference before, as everything was bleached by sunlight into a dingy gray. Layers of detail were brought to light for the first time. She could even make out the tiered towers of Thistlemarsh Hall itself above the trees.
Thornwood appeared at her elbow as though out of thin air. He had changed from his white suit to a modern walking coat and matching trousers.
“You summoned me?” Mouse asked, holding up her pinky. The Faerie’s teeth flashed.
“Good work for a few hours, if I do say so myself,” he said, gesturing to the tapestry.
“I’m speechless,” Mouse said, taking in new woodwork uncovered from the grime on the ceiling. “Is that gold leaf?”
“Yes, there were traces underneath some very poorly applied paint. Your ancestors owe you an apology for ruining the finest elements of your home.”
“How much is left to fix?”
“The greatest damage is structural. The superficial touches do not take as much magic or time, but the bones need longer to strengthen.”