He held up his hand to stop her indignant reply. “I was wrong about that. I am by no means an expert on curses. I’ve always had resources from the Faerie court before when I’ve encountered challenges. You have proven yourself with your Faerie book and your discovery of the enchantment preventing my magic from settling.”
“You, wrong?”
Thornwood smirked, his sharp teeth glinting. “It does not often happen, so enjoy it while you can.”
“I will,” she said.
“We will start again, as the mortal saying goes.”
“Does this mean that I will have to reinvite you into the Hall?” Mouse asked archly.
“You jest, but I truly have no idea.”
“We’ll have to find out together, then,” Mouse said, extending her hand, rubbed raw from the garden work. He opened his dusty hand to take hers.
“Together.”
Her missing pinky tingled.
11
That night, Mouse held her candle at eye level as she crept down the stairs. She palmed her silver key, thinking of her mother and the key’s twin, which was around Bertie’s neck when he died.
Although there were no servants left, it was impossible to stanch the feeling that she would be caught at any moment by Dawson and sent back to bed with a reprimand for being up so late.
She shuddered when she reached the mirror at the bottom of the steps. Her absent pinky instantly drew her eye. In the mirror, the candlelight shot straight through it, down onto the stair.
Mouse studied the mirror’s surface as long as she could. She knew there had to be a line where reality and magic blended, but whenever her eyes lingered on where she imagined the seam to be, the image would blur until she was forced to look away. By the time she looked back, the line had shifted to another crease in her skin.
“You are wasting your time.”
Mouse nearly dropped the candle. Mickelwaithe stood at the bottom of the stairs. He was looking at her reflection, his eyes trained on her hand.
“That magic does not want to be found, and you are already at a disadvantage for giving its caster power over you.”
“Can you see where the magic ends?”
“No.”
“So, not all Faeries have the same abilities?”
Mickelwaithe lurched back as though she’d struck him. “Faeries?”
“Yes. Thornwood is a Faerie, isn’t he?”
“He is, but I am not,” Mickelwaithe said.
“Oh.”
A rush of icy breath crested around Mouse’s face, accompanied by a sound like branches cracking in the wind. Mickelwaithe’s lips were open, flicked up at the sides. He was laughing, Mouse realized.
“It is not a secret,” he said. “At least, not from you.”
“What are you, then?” Mouse asked. “If that is not a rude question.”
“I am a mortal, like you,” he said. He raised his eyebrow at Mouse’s sharp breath. “You might well be surprised. I have not looked human for a long time. I am mostly fog and ash now. I no longer know where the man ends, and the magic begins.”
“What happened to you?”