Tithe was the kind of village depicted on postcards, with square patches of exuberant greens decorating the hills. A fine church sat comfortably in the crook of the village, the centerpiece among a delectable array of stone houses. Even a mile away from the bakery, the smell of fresh bread hung in the air, and the hedges chattered with birdsong.
The road forked at a squat Faerie temple, a foot high, its roof thick with pennies. Mouse fished one from her pocket and placed it on a bare tile. It glinted copper, a splash of sunlight against the muted colors of the hedgerow.
“Heathen,” John teased before laying down a penny of his own. He caught her raised eyebrow and shrugged. “The funds go to the school.”
Tithe’s market square streamed with white, yellow, and pink bunting, already dressed for Easter and the Spring Festival. Villagers rushed by, balancing their shopping as they wove between one another.
Although Mouse recognized most of the faces that passed them, there were a few strangers. And a glaring hole in the young male population, an entire lost generation.
All those they passed tipped their hats to John. After looking at her for a few seconds with furrowed brows, they moved on to their errands. Would anyone recognize her? she wondered. She had left at age eighteen, and Mouse was rarely seen beyond the grounds of Thistlemarsh before the war. Intent on enraging Lord Dewhurst as much as possible, she’d worn pinafores until they were ragged and then opted for hand-me-down trousers from Roger and Bertie. Only when she was dressed in an itchy woolen nursing uniform every day could she admit that wearing soft, beautiful clothes was a luxury she might enjoy.
She did not spend her nursing salary on silk dresses, but she might shell out a few more coins for satin underwear or a nice coat. Slowly, her style morphed into something more her own, rather than retaliation against Lord Dewhurst’s wishes. Pale greens, dark reds, and silver bled slowly into her everyday clothes, accented with flower prints in honor of her father’s trade. She was proud of her new image. The fact that she was not recognizable in passing proved that the daughter of an Irish gardener could appear respectable, despite what her uncle believed.
Or at least respectable when she wanted to be. A pair of Bertie’s trousers still lay at the bottom of her trunk for workdays.
The changes were not confined to her wardrobe. Her hair had darkened from muddy blond to a deep brown, and her face had filled out and sharpened to a true heart. She still had her mother’s famous “Dewhurst eyes,” chestnut brown and threaded with traces of green and gold, but the rest of her features had muddled into something barely traceable to either of her parents’ families.
She saw Mrs.Colt, the baker’s wife, ordering her five daughters around their stall. Mrs.Colt had three sons as well, but they were all chewed up by the war. Seeing the woman, Mouse could not help but think of her brother. He seemed lucky in comparison, she supposed. After all, Roger could come back, unlike Mrs.Colt’s sons. But he would never be the same. He could not even remember Mouse most days, let alone the village or Thistlemarsh.
She could make out the beginnings of Thistlemarsh Wood and slivers of the Hall beyond. John pressed into her shoulder as they walked toward it.
“Are you ready?”
“As ready as I can be, I suppose.”
2
Thistlemarsh Hall teetered on the brink of extinction, its bones set back against its withered grounds. Dread sank like a stone in Mouse’s stomach as they came closer. It was unfair how this place made her feel smaller than she had at any time at the Front. Even in disrepair, it held her in its power like a butterfly pinned under glass.
The plaster on the facade peeled back, revealing bleached stone. The front door creaked ominously and caught on its bloated corner as it opened, sliding along an ever-deepening gouge in the floor. Mouse held her head high as she crossed the threshold, even as the wood groaned beneath her feet. John followed at her heels. The dilapidation was more dramatic than when she’d last stood in the doorway. It was as though the Hall was sinking into the earth.
Mr.Dawson, the butler, met them at the entryway with his lips pulled thin. He folded around the door, as though it was a shield.
“Good morning,” John said, his voice cheerful against his vicar’s black. Dawson tilted his head slightly but made no other sign of greeting. Mouse and John silently followed him into the house.
Tapestries depicting a parade of hunters on the backs of proud horses decorated the entrance hall. Hounds bayed ahead of the riders, intent on something unseen. All the creatures were pale imitations of their former selves, a fog of dust and wear coating the rich fabric. The Faeries, watching the hunting party from the corners of the material with sly expressions, were nearly invisible. The tapestries once marked the house out as one of the few truly Faerie-blessed in England. Now they were a faded honor to match the crumbling stone.
The only monuments left unaltered by time and poor management were the branching antlers of the great elk that crowned the mantel, and cobwebs looped between its branches.
“I see that Uncle made the upkeep a priority,” Mouse said. John’s laugh caught in his throat when he glimpsed Dawson’s scowl.
Despite her levity, an underlying anger bubbled in Mouse’s belly. Her uncle had let the house dissolve around him, despite its historical significance. Thistlemarsh Hall had once been one of the most respected houses in England, and here it was, crumbling and shamed.
Since she left, Mouse had grappled with her feelings about the Hall. They twisted in her gut, making her squirm whenever the other nurses at Le Temple des Fées spoke of home. Thistlemarsh was synonymous with Lord Dewhurst—cold, cruel, and unfeeling. At the same time, the Hall contained her happiest memories with Bertie and Roger in those golden summers before the war.
Dawson led them to Lord Dewhurst’s office; his eyes kept darting to Mouse’s hands as though he expected her to pocket the silver. He wore a black armband around the upper arm of his livery, and his eyes were bloodshot. Mouse almost felt sorry for him until he intentionally trod on her shoe as he passed. When he closed the door, she smiled at him, aware that she looked the most like her father when she smiled.
Mr.Beckett sat behind her uncle’s desk, one neat stack of papersstark against the English oak. The solicitor peered at them from behind round glasses, calm and calculating. His thin nose and squinting eyes reminded Mouse of a shrew.
“Welcome home, Miss Dunne,” Beckett said, sniffed, and tacked on a correction. “Forgive me. Lady Dewhurst.”
The sound of her new title pricked like a thorn in Mouse’s mind, but she did not want to untangle her feelings in front of the solicitor. She focused instead on skirting around the obscene tiger pelt that decorated the floor before taking a seat in the chair opposite Beckett. She glanced at the polished wood of the desk. It was cleaner than she had ever seen it. Beckett poured Mouse a cup of tea from the teapot waiting on a tray. Mouse took it, grateful for the refreshment.
In life, her uncle confined his tidiness to his appearance, a trait that fit the mold left by many of his indolent ancestors. Mouse remembered him standing behind the same desk, sneering down at her when she first arrived at Thistlemarsh, age twelve.
“Personal untidiness is the truest marker of the lower classes,” Lord Dewhurst had declared. Her father had been standing behind her, garden dirt pressed under his nails.
“And poor manners mark the lowest of men,” she had replied. Her uncle’s skin flushed the color of a prune, and she was sent to bed with no supper.