“Do you have a house spirit?” he asked.
“You can’t just come into my room while I’m sleeping!” she squealed.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not?” Mouse repeated, her voice rising.
“If you want this work done quickly, my questions need to be answered as soon as possible. I cannot have my way blocked by human customs, as fascinating as I am sure they are,” he said dryly.
“You cannot just walk into this room while I am sleeping. You must knock and wait for me to come to the door.”
“And I thought you were not concerned with your reputation.” Thornwood batted away her angry response with the back of his hand. “Fine, fine, I shall do so in the future. Now, does Thistlemarsh have house spirits?”
“None that I’ve ever heard of. If there are house spirits here, they are not very good at making their presence known.”
He leaned back against her bedpost, his brows knitted in thought.
“That is a good point,” he muttered. “No house spirit would allow things to go to such disrepair.”
“What is this about?” Mouse asked. “There is something wrong with the magic, isn’t there?”
He grimaced and was silent.
“This works both ways,” Mouse said. “If you want me to answer your questions, I need to know why you are asking them.”
He sighed. “There is nothing wrong with the magic. My spells are all laid out perfectly.”
“Then what is the matter?”
“They are not sticking. Something is undoing them in the night.”
Mouse blinked. “I don’t understand. What could do that?”
“I do not know what could do it! And until we find out, I will not be able to get much further than superficial fixes each day.”
“Could house spirits challenge High Faerie magic?”
“A troop of them could, but you were right before. It is not house spirits. I would have seen them by now.”
“There is an old Faerie-blessed well on the grounds. It was converted into a pond, but the remains of the well are still under the water. Could the remnants of that magic cause the damage?”
“Not in the house, unless you flooded it entirely with well water.”
“All right. Go downstairs and wait for me in the study.”
“Why not speak here?”
“I cannot tackle problems in my nightgown.”
Thornwood scoffed, muttering a word that sounded distinctly like “mortals,” but he left without any additional fuss. Mouse pulled on her clothes and ran a brush through her hair. She pluckedBlakeney’sfrom the bedside stand where she’d placed it the night before. The worn red leather molded into the shape of her palm.
In the study, Thornwood lounged back in her uncle’s chair. Mickelwaithe stood beside him, listening absently as Thornwood spoke. Mouse caught the tail end of the conversation as she entered.
“We know the magic is working, and it does not fall apart immediately. Something is disentangling my spells systematically, but it is not strong enough to eradicate them altogether. What am I missing?”
“I cannot say, sir. All my scouting spells have come back empty-handed. No enchanted objects stand out. The girl is not performing any magic on her own either.”
Mouse jolted in surprise. Thornwood’s gaze snapped to her, then down to her book. She paged through it until she came to a story involving a troop of Faeries who planned to steal from a house into which they were not yet invited. She twisted the leather in her hands, showing the story to the Faeries.