On the second floor, in an abandoned bedroom, she found a bathtub.
To her relief, the white porcelain was clean. Mouse distantly noted that she should write to Dawson and thank him.
She pulled the cold tap. It stuck for a moment before the water flowed from the nozzle, then swirled in the tub. The coolness rising off the water made the burn’s sting sharper, and Mouse shuffled out of her robe and pulled the nightgown over her head.
She groaned as she saw the dirt, soot, and grass speckling her ankles and the tops of her feet through her slippers. She could not bathe in dirt with an open wound. Any nurse worth their salt knew that.
Hastily, she pulled the plug out and hopped in as the tap gushed. She held her legs under the rushing water, letting it carry away the debris while simultaneously cooling the burn. Once she was sufficiently clean, she stepped back out, drained any remaining dirt, then returned to filling the tub.
She waited until the water was just below the rim before twisting the tap back. Mouse sank down, basking in the instant relief against her leg.
A knock at the door made her jolt, and water sloshed onto the floor.
“It is me,” Thornwood said. “The creature is settled on the sofa downstairs. Time will tell how it fares through the rest of the night.”
Mouse hummed back, not trusting herself to speak.
“You were hurt as well,” he said after a few moments of silence.
“Yes.”
“Will you be all right?” Mouse looked at the burn. It was still a horrible yellow, flecked with splotches of red. Thornwood shuffled outside the door. “I can look at it when you’re ready. There are a few spells I can try, as it is a wound caused by an enchantment.”
“You have used a lot of magic tonight.”
“Yes,” he said. “There will be no teleporting for me tomorrow.”
She frowned. “Was that a joke?”
There was a long silence before Thornwood spoke again. “Perhaps I should stick to sarcasm, based on your reaction.”
“You surprised me, that is all,” she said. The relief of the cool water began to dissipate, and sharp pangs shot through her leg. “I will be right out, if you will wait for me.”
“Of course,” he said.
Mouse suddenly felt hot, embarrassed about something she could not name. “Thank you,” she called. “For helping the dragon…And me.”
Thornwood did not respond. Mouse stepped out of the bathtub, carefully toweled off her legs, and pulled her robe around herself. Although her sleeve was singed at the cuff and shoulder, the nightgown had taken the brunt of the dirt, and the robe’s hem was comparatively clean. She glanced at herself in the mirror and winced.
Her hair tangled around her in a wild bush. She snatched out the pieces of grass she could see and rubbed the soot from her cheeks.
It didn’t help much, only making her cheeks red and her hair feral.
“He does not care what you look like,” Mouse snapped at her reflection, but she snagged a few more stray particles before she forced herself from the mirror and out to meet Thornwood.
He sat on the bed, his legs folded and his hands fiddling with a book.
Before the war, Bertie loved the poets, and Roger loved the histories, but Mouse and Lord Dewhurst split the kingdom of the novel. The library did not have enough room to house everything, so the titles her uncle cared for least ended up scattered in guest bedrooms and window nooks to save space on the shelves for “better” books.
Mouse’s aged copy ofJane Eyrewas cradled between Thornwood’s fingers, transferred from the library sometime between when she left for the Front and Lord Dewhurst’s death. She ignored the pang of hurt in her chest—what did it matter now, after all?
She slumped down next to Thornwood, her feet dangling just off the floor.
“The first part is dull as anything. Read the first chapter, know that Jane Eyre has a miserable time, then skip to chapter ten.”
“You are a delinquent, Lady Dewhurst.”
“Jane Eyre is an old friend. She would not mind. In fact, she might agree with me.”