“But it can be done by the end of the month?”
“Of course. As we agreed.”
Mouse nodded. “Mr.Hobb and I did some solid work on the gardens, so I think everything might be on track.”
“I am glad you and the gardener could devise a reasonable plan between the two of you. The industriousness of humans never ceases to amaze.” A twist of bitterness colored his words.
“I’m not sure if that is a compliment.”
Thornwood ventured out through the door onto the front landing. Mouse followed behind, scanning the area for Mr.Hobb, should he see them. There was no one in sight.
“Honestly, neither am I. In any case, if you do need assistance on the grounds, let me know. We can make another deal.”
“Thank you, but I would rather keep the rest of my fingers. I am familiar with gardening, so I should be able to do a decent job without your help.”
He took in the garden, with his gaze lingering on the dent Mouse and Mr.Hobb had made in the overgrowth. Mouse brought her hands in front of her, displaying the dirt.
“You are the expert, I am sure,” he said as he took in the wheelbarrow at the end of the far lawn. His fingers twitched, and the crooked front wheel righted in its frame.
She glared at him, and he scoffed. “Would you like me to put it back?”
“No,” she said, jaw tight.
“I thought not.”
The sun dipped under the hill, and its power waned, letting the dregs of winter seep in. Mouse shivered. The Faerie’s fingers flexed as he walked to survey the other side of the garden in the dying light. She watched him move, noting how his long fingers seemed to unbend in suspended time.Will the magic need his constant touch during the month?she wondered.
“Well, I suppose I ought to introduce you to my servant, as you will see him often enough while I work,” Thornwood said, casual as anything as he returned to her. Instantly, there was another presence with them.
The Faerie servant was tall, with long jet-black hair tied back from his face and a back as straight as a lamppost. Shadows burrowed into the lines of his frown, elongating and enhancing them. Everything about him screamed gauntness, from his bony fingers to his hollow cheeks. Mouse flinched, but the servant acted as though he had joined them from inside the Hall, rather than popping out of thin air. He took Mouse in with a neutral expression.
“There will be little need for you to interact with him,” Thornwood said. “He is just here to assist me.”
Mouse recovered some of her manners. “And does he have a name?”
Both the men shuddered. A hot flush spread over her cheeks. Of course a Faerie would never give you their name; anyone with any understanding of them knew that. Hadn’t she been annoyed when Thornwood asked the same question of her? She pressed on, “A name that I should call him, I mean.”
“You may call me Mickelwaithe,” the servant said, bowing at the hip. His voice was hollow, and Mouse would swear she could hear an echo in it. Despite this, she could not shake the feeling that he was laughing at her.
“Hello, Mickelwaithe. You may call me Mouse.” She smiled at him and dipped into a slight curtsy. The movement felt odd, like an ill-fitting slipper forced on for the first time in years. The servant’s eyes followed her like an owl watching a mouse.
“Do you need a place to sleep tonight?” Mouse asked. Thornwood stumbled slightly. “Nothing untoward. I am not sure Faeries even sleep, but it seems rude not to ask.”
“Won’t your immaculate reputation be ruined?” he asked.
Mouse snorted. “Who told you that I had an immaculate reputation?”
“Most mortal noblewomen have them, in my experience, regardless of how they might behave when their guests are gone.”
“Well, rest assured, you cannot do much to my reputation. If I ever had one, it’s surely sunk. Accept the invitation or reject it. It means little to me. Foolishly, I thought you might prefer a bed to a hedgerow.”
“Somehow, being stone for a hundred years makes just about anything comfortable enough to sleep on,” he replied.
“My mistake. I will leave you to your own accommodations.” Her thoughts were already on the egg sandwich she would make later that evening for supper. Perhaps she might sneak in a slice of ham as well.
“We will need to collect some things,” Thornwood said, squinting at her. “But I would appreciate one or two rooms for the duration of our stay.”
“I might point out that I offered a night, not for you to move in. But I suppose you have nowhere else civilized to stay,” Mouse said, turning back through the front doors. She paused in the doorway. Warm air billowed out from the Hall, a completely new sensation to anything she had ever experienced at Thistlemarsh when not huddled by a fireplace.