“That’s why I’m confused. Why wouldn’t the cost of magic for you fighting unseen forces be more than brushing yourself off?”
“Perhaps ‘cost’ is the wrong word. It is more…like a recipe, perhaps? Or a song?”
“A song?”
He brightened. “Yes, like an orchestral piece.”
“I’m still not following this metaphor.”
“If you were playing in a concert, and the cellos were already playing a harmony, it would make sense for you, on the violin, to join with the melody, correct?” Mouse nodded. “That is how it is when you use magic against something magical. But, on the other hand, if you are standing in line to buy bread and then suddenly begin to play a single violin in midsong, it would seem strange.”
“Hmmm, so the magic you fought against this morning was the cellos to your violin?”
“Yes. And if I were to use magic to clear this filth off me, it would be the same as the lone violin. There is no magic present already to work in juxtaposition.”
“I did not realize that the balance was so complicated.”
Thornwood shrugged. “Why would you? You’ve never handled magic before. Most mortals think it is a direct exchange or a knowledge learned in books, rather than a skill to be honed.”
“Like gardening,” Mouse said. The edge of Thornwood’s mouth twitched.
“I suppose so. Many powerful Faeries use an external source of power, a well house, so to speak. With this, they can store excess magic to use later.” His left hand went to the ring on his right, resting over the cracked stone. He tightened his fist, his knuckles going white behind the ring. When he caught her staring, he hastily brought both hands to his sides.
“And using a power source is not an option for us now?” Mouse asked.
“No,” he said, teeth clenched. “It is not.”
They reached the boiler cupboard, a plain white door set against the brick. At Mouse’s touch, it swung open, releasing the thick musty scent of something warm and wet left too long.
Thornwood’s light followed them in, illuminating cobwebs and mold alike. She noted that the wooden floorboards were cool and spongy under her slippers.
“Delightful,” the Faerie said, wrinkling his nose. Mouse pressed the sleeve of her robe over her face.
The feeling of the material against her nose brought Mr.Hobb’s warning to mind, and she flushed. According to all rules of society and decorum, she should not be walking around with a handsome man at night in only her nightgown and robe.
But Thornwood was not a man, she reminded herself, and these were not the normal circumstances. No, she was not going to get squeamish now. He had her finger, after all. He could see her in her nightclothes.
“Hurry and start your experiment so we can leave,” she said, battling the obnoxious heat spreading across her cheeks.
“It is not as easy as that,” he said, clearly oblivious to her inner turmoil. “I’ll need your help.”
“What is the point of making a deal with a Faerie if I have to do everything myself?” Mouse grumbled.
Thornwood’s eyebrow quirked. “This will be over quicker with your assistance.”
“What do I need to do?” she asked with a sigh.
“I will start the same spell I performed upstairs, but smaller. Tell me where you see the first strings of magic. If there is a place where they meet, point me toward it.”
Mouse nodded. Instead of going to the wall or the boiler itself, as Mouse expected, Thornwood drew a circle in midair with the tip of his index finger.
Light burst through the circle, drowning out everything except the gossamer threads of magic lacing back and forth between the walls. A cluster of lines entwined around the boiler.
“There,” she shouted, pointing. She could not make out Thornwood in the light, but she felt his clothes swish by her. The light faded slowly. Mouse blinked hard, trying to banish the bright spots from her eyes.
“It is as I thought,” Thornwood said.
“A bit less cryptic for the mortal mind, if you please.”