Mouse adjusted her sleeve, which she had just noticed had a few jagged burn marks that matched Thornwood’s.
“I struggle to control mine as well. It seems we both need lessons from Mickelwaithe.”
Thornwood smiled weakly, glancing at his servant. “Would you be willing to teach us?”
“I am afraid that you are both beyond the power of even my skill,” he said, tone flat.
“Well,” Thornwood said, his countenance returning to something more sardonic. “As Mickelwaithe has abandoned us to our wickedness, we might as well set ourselves to the task at hand. As I was about to say, Lady Mouse, blindly pulling at strands will not solve the problem.”
“I don’t understand. Can’t the strands lead us to the source of the magic?”
“They could, yes, but each layer of this spell is built into the very foundation of Thistlemarsh. One tug on the wrong end and the entire building might come crashing down around our ears. Which, although a minor inconvenience for Mickelwaithe and me, would be a bit more serious for you.”
She bit her lip. “And detangling this spell is the only way to repair Thistlemarsh within the month?”
Thornwood nodded.
Mouse surveyed the room. The coils of gold wrapped around ceiling beams, diving in and out of sight beneath the plaster. Some threads disappeared through the floor, weaving in and out of the boards like pie lattice.
There was too much, and they had wasted seven days of thirty on superficial work that had already collapsed. Mouse sank to the floor, overwhelmed with hopelessness and loathing. She buried her face in her hands.
“Your father was a gardener.” Mouse’s chin snapped up. Thornwood tilted his head at her. “What is the best way to prune back this weed?”
“We can try to find the root, as I said, but there are so many overlapping places. It makes it difficult, as they are such varied sizes.”
“Where would you begin?” he asked. “If we needed to stop its growth as fast as possible.”
“The thickest strands will likely be closest to the roots,” Mouse said. “But I’m not an expert. Mr.Hobb is the person to ask if you want the best day-to-day information on gardening. But I cannot go and wake him.”
Thornwood wrinkled his nose. Mickelwaithe coughed, and his master sniffed, his features relaxing.
“If you believe asking the human gardener will help us, then you must consult with him. We have already lost too much time.”
“I will speak to him in the morning.”
Thornwood shifted, like a creature caught in a corner. “I will go with you.”
“To meet Mr.Hobb?” Mouse asked.
“No need for such an incredulous tone. I have seen the man many times in the woods.”
“I assume he will see you glamoured as a visiting architect, the same way the villagers did.” Mouse raised an eyebrow. “And you won’t hurt him?”
“Certainly not,” Thornwood spat. “I am not threatened by an old mortal gardener. Nor should he be threatened by me.”
“Do you swear it?” Mouse asked.
“Why do you care so much about a servant?” Mickelwaithe frowned behind him, and Thornwood groaned, turning to him. “I am not talking about you.”
“Besides the fact that he is a good man? He is also one of the few people who remember how my brother used to be, before the war.”
“Where is this brother of yours? Living it up on the continent while you struggle here?”
Mouse drew back as if struck. Thornwood went still.
“My brother jumped in front of my cousin to try to save him from a shell. The shell killed Bertie, but Roger…He does not remember me. He spends most of his waking life screaming. And the rest of his time is spent ruminating over scratches in stonework. So forgive me if I intend to take care of him and anyone who remembers how he used to be. Or wants to help him as he is now.”
Mouse’s breath came out in bursts. Mickelwaithe met her gaze over Thornwood’s shoulder, a glint of respect in his eyes. Thornwood would not look at her.