Failing Roger was not an option she could entertain.
She set to work righting the room. Once his pride mended, Thornwood would come back to try his magic again, she was sure. The space needed to be ready for it. First, she tackled the broken pile of wood shards from the chair. Thornwood had managed to track them down the hallway as he left, so it took a few trips scouting up and down the carpet before she was sure they were gone. Next, she went to the mirrors. Any more shattering would distract him from his work, and Mouse wanted him at full strength. So, she needed to move the mirrors out into another room. She chose the one closest to the spell’s center and tugged.
It would not come loose from the wall.
Mouse pulled harder, but nothing she did could dislodge it. The next mirror was shattered, but the remaining frame would not budgeeither. She tried the next mirror down, then the next, until she was back in the entryway. There, the single mirror in the alcove between the hallway and the entryway came off easily.
Puzzled, she propped the unstuck mirror against the wall, the glass turned in toward the wooden paneling, before returning to the hallway. She surveyed the room. All the mirrors looked the same, and Mouse knew that they were not bolted down, as only minutes before they were swinging in time with Thornwood’s spell.
No, she was sure that this anomaly was part of the magic fighting Thornwood.
She tried the mirror closest to her, and it popped off with only slightly more force than the one before. Shakily, she placed it down the same way as its cousin.
Mouse turned her attention to the mirror closest to the Faerie-ruse, which was remarkably intact. With her hands on either side of the glass, she tugged until the metal casing bit into her hands. It stuck fast.
She tried the one directly next to it, and it took a few hefty pulls, but eventually it came off, leaving an outline in the wall like where a tree stump was pulled from the earth. She returned to the final mirror, which mockingly sparkled at her.
Again, it would not move.
She slumped against it, her fingers tracing the wallpaper on either side. She took in her flushed reflection and noticed, for the first time, that her pinky finger was visible. She scrambled back.
A whisper, as cold and reedy as the wind, sang from under the corner of the mirror into her ear.
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?
Her heart hammered, and her breath was as ragged as if she’d just run to the village and back. She sank down onto the rug, straining to hear another line, but the spell was silent.
Clearly, Thornwood was not just dealing with magic from the Faerie-ruse. There was magic in the mirror as well.
Whatever spell bound the mirror, it could speak. It was warning her. Mouse knew the poem—“Goblin Market,” by Christina Rossetti—but she was not sure what it could possibly mean.
“What are you doing on the floor?” Thornwood’s sharp tone broke her concentration. Mickelwaithe stood beside him, his eyes glassy as ever and with an unlit candle clutched at his side. Thornwood himself looked down at her with eyes narrowed. For a moment, Mouse was back at Le Temple des Fées under the mosaic of pretentious Faerie saints.
“Cleaning up your mess,” she snapped.
Thornwood leaned over her, taking in her work. “There will be more damage before we finish.”
He had changed from his stained clothes to a practical set of trousers, a plain white shirt, a too-fine burgundy vest studded with gold, and a dark brown jacket. Mickelwaithe was still cloaked in black from head to toe, and although Mouse had to admire Thornwood’s finery, it was clear which of the two Faeries was more equipped to take on the spell again.
The servant met her eyes over Thornwood’s shoulder, and a silent understanding passed between them.
Thornwood was ridiculous.
They brushed past Mouse, and although he did not bend to help her to her feet, Mickelwaithe at least cast her an apologetic look, unlike his master, who trod on the edge of her gown. Any camaraderie she might have felt for him dried, leaving only a silver vein of spite.
Fine, she thought,let him try to break through the magic without me.She did not intend to keep whatever had happened with the mirror secret forever. She was not sure what the voice from the mirror was, after all, but she could guess it was part of whatever was restricting his power.
No, she would tell him, but she would wait to do so just long enough to watch him struggle a bit. Childish, yes, but she never claimed to be a lady.
Mouse pulled another chair into the room, but this time she set it further away from the Faerie-ruse to avoid the magic’s swell. Then she sat back and watched as they got to work.
Mickelwaithe pressed his left shoulder against the wall. The candle dangled upside down between his fingers so the wick was closest to the floor. The wick lit. Mouse gasped as a trail of blue fire dripped down from it onto the carpet, as viscous as oil.