At the speed of shadow, the Faerie servant was beside them.
“What do you hear?” Thornwood asked.
“A song from my youth,” Mickelwaithe said.
Thornwood nodded before turning to Mouse. “And you?”
She looked toward the mirror. The whispering had stopped, although Thornwood and Mickelwaithe said they could hear it.
“A warning.”
“The exact words would be helpful if you can recall them.”
“Something about goblin men and fruit. It’s a famous poem.”
“Curious.” Rising to his full height, Thornwood placed his palm flat against the mirror. Magic rose. Mouse was ready for the circle of sparks this time, which grew around his hand instantly to fill the entire frame. Beyond the fire, Thornwood’s reflection smiled, his teeth pulled back into a feral mask. When he spoke, his voice was rough and clipped. “You are the expert, Lady Mouse. How do you pull up a troublesome plant?”
Mouse swallowed. “By the root.”
The air tightened. Mickelwaithe took hold of Mouse’s shoulder, and she glanced at him in surprise. His expression was carefully blank as he released her.
“Hold your breath,” the servant whispered. “Extended exposure to magic can addle the human mind.”
She tensed and looked back at Thornwood. “What are you doing exactly?”
“I’m weeding.” Thornwood’s smile was crooked.
Mouse frowned, but she sucked in a ragged breath and felt Mickelwaithe do the same beside her. Fire licked at Thornwood’s clothes with blunt tongues, and his smile grew wider by the second, splitting his reflection.
In a flash, Thornwood’s green spellwork broke through the fire and splintered through the room. His magic traced the same lines she’d seen in the burst of light, as fine as thread. Mouse felt a slight ache in her pinky where her flesh met the spell.
The tangle grew, forking through the room, between walls, and out the door. The three followed its path as it spread. Mouse’s heart pounded in her chest.
The shape the magic created was massive, a spiderweb of overlapping strands that crisscrossed between portraits, tables, and doors. In the entry hall, tangles clustered along the tapestry, in the great elk antlers, and above the doorways.
The Faerie men stalked the lines like cats. Thornwood’s jacket sleeves bore long, dark scorch marks that reached his elbow. He raised his right hand, and Mouse gasped. His hands were clawed.
He snapped his fingers, and the glow of his magic fell away from the threads. Lines of gold remained suspended in the air, the bars of an immense birdcage. With her pinky, Mouse plucked at the closest string. It hummed like a harp. The sound echoed through the hallway, and the other lines joined in harmony where they crossed.
Whenever they met with one of Thornwood’s repairs, the string ate away at his work like sandpaper.
“Well, that explains your difficulties,” Mouse said.
“Yes, it’s clear that this spell is the culprit dismantling my magic.”
“And you cannot work around it?”
Thornwood gestured at the size of the spell. “Not in such a brief time frame. Even magic has limitations. Without untying this knot, I cannot fix Thistlemarsh in time.”
“So, we will need to find the root and weed it out. Surely we can just follow the thicker strands.”
“Oh yes, and I’ll just pull them out blindly, shall I?” Thornwood rounded on her, baring his teeth and clenching his clawed hand at his side. Mouse started back, squaring her shoulders.
Mickelwaithe stepped between them, his palms open at his sides. “You’ve had a rough go of it, sir. It would be wise to regroup.”
His voice carried like breath through the hollowness of an emptybottle. Shaking, his master retreated from them into the shadows. When he reemerged, his teeth were blunted human points again.
“Forgive me. At times I struggle to control my temper,” Thornwood said.