“I promised Thornwood my little finger in return for his help.”
Mouse yelped, clutching her hand to her chest.
His lips twisted. The whispering, cracking noise flowed from him again.
“That is not funny,” she said, straightening and bunching her hand behind her back.
“Stone does not remember its carver, only what is carved into it.”
“You are even more cryptic than your master.”
“He learned from me,” Mickelwaithe said. “I served his father before I served him.”
“So, it wasn’t Thornwood, but you did make a bargain with a Faerie, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Was it for magic?” Mouse asked, thinking of the candle spell she’d seen him perform on the Faerie-ruse.
“No, the deal was not for magic, but since I’ve been exposed to Faeries for centuries, their powers have rubbed off on me. And elements of their behavior as well, I suppose.”
He did not explain further, and Mouse found that she did not want to press him. He stared into the mirror, and Mouse watched as the darkness around him shifted, blurring the space between him and the chamber behind them. Her eyes stung, and she turned away, but he did not, gazing into the mirror with disinterest.
“How can you stand that?”
“There is no line between who I am now and who I was before. There is only the creature that exists in the mirror. That is my truest self—why should I look away from it?”
Mouse looked back at her reflection. She unclenched her fist and twiddled her fingers, focusing on her entire hand instead of the space where her pinky should have been. The biting pain behind her eyes faded.
“Thornwood is waiting for you down the hallway. He sent me to find you after muttering something about the boiler room,” he said. “I would hurry if I were you. Patience has never been his strength.”
“You are very open about your teasing when he’s out of earshot but silent when he is near. A strategic choice?”
“A wise one. We are allies here, but please do not mistake my familiarity as disrespect of my master.” Any trace of his whispering laugh was gone. Mouse had overstepped the mark, and it was time to go.
She pulled her robe tighter around her and walked down to the bottom of the stairs. Mickelwaithe did not follow her. Instead, he drifted closer to the mirror, his stare fixed. Mouse peered at it, but all she saw was darkness.
“What is it?” Mouse asked.
“A trick of the light,” he said. Mouse did not believe him. “You do not want to keep Thornwood waiting. He is insufferable when he feels slighted.”
“Good night, Mickelwaithe.”
“Good night,” he said.
When she looked back from the door, he still stood before the mirror, taking in his reflection. He lifted his hand to the glass before Mouse tore herself away. There were some things too private for observation. And others no ordinary mortal should know.
12
Moonlight bled through the windows, illuminating the route to the boiler room in silver. Glinting strands of spiderweb shone above her, pointing her toward what should have been the warmest part of the house.
She could not remember a time when the boiler worked. Her mother had often spoken of the mythical era when heat would radiate from the pipes, but when Mouse arrived at Thistlemarsh, those tales seemed as much a fantasy as her mother’s tales of Faeries.
As though summoned by her thought, Thornwood melted out of the shadows, clothed head to foot in black. His hair stood out like a halo in the dark. His lips twisted into a smug smile as he took in her loose hair. His eyes darkened when they landed on the hem of Mouse’s nightgown beneath her robe. She shifted, and her cheeks were hot.
“Your hair is luminescent,” she said, trying to break his gaze.
It worked. Thornwood tsked. Light flickered around them, although Mouse could not trace the source. It was soft but still strong enough that she could see into the shadows.