“It’s warm,” she said, turning back.
“Yes, well, part of repairing the house is making it comfortable, is it not?”
Mouse nodded, biting on her tongue to stop tears from welling up.
The damp chill that clung to the air in Thistlemarsh Hall had been with her all her life. The cold coated her childhood like a blanket of snow, so ingrained that she forgot to think of it. Her fingers tingled as the heat bit back the cool garden air.
“I will leave egg sandwiches for you both tomorrow,” she said. She wavered on the final word, struck with fear that her payment had not been enough, that the Faerie would not return the next day, and that her uncle’s oppressive spirit would drive away the warmth.
If the Faerie noticed the tremor, he did not indicate it.
“Mickelwaithe cannot eat mortal food, so please do not waste your energy in that regard.”
The Faerie servant inclined his head in agreement, and Mouse blinked, unsure how to move forward.
Thornwood spared her from her indecision. “We will return tonight before midnight.” He stepped off the stair into the open air. Both master and servant vanished, leaving Mouse blinking owlishly into the growing dark.
It wasn’t just the main hallway that was heated. Every room was piped with thick, warm air that smelled vaguely of spices. She pulled off her coat, astonished to find herself overheated, considering how cold she was a few moments before.
She used the delightful energy the heat generated to catapult herself onto the sofa in the lounge. She expected a familiar cloud of dust to rise around her, puffing up from the bowels of the cushions. The cloud didn’t come. Instead, she sank into the pillows, no longerthreadbare and harsh against her cheek. She marveled at the stuffing under her hand, plush where it had been rotten and hollow before.
Everything about the room had transformed since that morning. The paper on the wall gleamed with new wax, and the carpet was a vibrant red instead of choked rust. The layer of dust coating the paintings had vanished, and the jeweled colors glittered in the firelight as if the paint was still wet on the canvas.
It was as though Thornwood had rewound the hands of time, restoring the room to its original brilliance. Was this how her mother experienced Thistlemarsh in her own childhood?
Eventually, she dragged herself up to the Matchbox. Her legs and arms ached from the garden work, but it was an affirming soreness.
Hope rose unbidden in her chest. If Thornwood could get so much done in one day, they would certainly have everything well in hand by the end of the month.
9
To Mouse’s disappointment, the only changes to the house she could see the next day were subtle ones. So subtle that she was not entirely sure that they were there at all.
The dining room’s ceiling was whole and shining again in the lamplight, but by morning much of the gleam had faded as though rubbed away by an unseen hand.
The changes ebbed and flowed the whole week, and Mouse was left wondering if magic needed to find its balance after a spell was cast. The radiators poured heat into the rooms one day but were cold to the touch the next. Hot water was even more elusive.
Mouse scurried into town for the essentials, like milk and bread, but she spent as little time there as possible. The villagers were curious about the mysterious man repairing the manor, but Mouse dodged their questions with practiced efficiency. She felt worse about dodging John altogether, but she knew that he could sense a secret on her a mile off. She would blurt out the whole story, and then he would try to talk her out of the deal with Thornwood. That is, if he even believed her about the Faerie and his deal.
So, like a coward, she tiptoed around town and avoided the vicarage.
She could not help but pick up the edges of whispered conversation while waiting in line at the bakery. Patrons talked about strange goings-on in Thistlemarsh Wood at night. Some speculated that both Thornwood and Mickelwaithe were war veterans from the continent whom “Lady Dewhurst” (the title set Mouse’s teeth on edge) had nursed back to health.
While words like “soldier” and “toff” passed many lips, the word “Faerie” never did.
Day by day, the garden re-formed. Warm air blew over the grounds, wrapping Mouse and Mr.Hobb in a cocoon of perfect gardening weather. The rain fell to water the plants while leaving the earth dry enough to work with the next morning.
After a particularly productive day in the garden at the end of the week, Mouse made her way back to Thistlemarsh with a light heart.
Strangely, with every passing day, Mouse sensed Thornwood’s irritation growing, as though the progress in the garden was an insult to the smaller results inside the house.
When she reached the Hall, she found him pacing the front landing, surveying the facade with a furrowed brow. Mickelwaithe’s tall figure lingered behind him, tucked as far into the shadows as possible while still taking in the house. From a distance, she could see that they were speaking, with Thornwood tossing short statements at Mickelwaithe, who remained ramrod straight and stoic. Instead of calming Thornwood, this seemed to irritate him more. Mouse could not help but snort at the exchange.
They heard her. Mickelwaithe dipped into a bow, which Mouse returned.
She did not bother to curtsy to Thornwood. He had already stormed away.
Mouse woke with a cold nose and a shadow towering over her. Thornwood glared down at her. She bolted up, dragging the blanket up to her chin.