He closed the book. “May I borrow it?”
Startled, Mouse nodded. The book vanished into his jacket, either tucked into an unseen pocket or spirited away by magic.
He slipped off the bed gracefully and was at her feet in a second, parting her robe. Mouse felt the brush of his fingers over her skin. She jerked her robe closed.
His gaze met hers, eyebrow arched. Mouse flushed.
“Sorry, it was instinct,” she said, relaxing as much as possible. She parted the robe until it passed her knee. No new blisters had formed, but those already there were oozing, and Mouse looked away sharply. She’d seen her fair share of wounds. Blood did not bother her, but blisters and boils did. As a nurse, she hid her disgust as best she could, but with only Thornwood as a witness, she let herself shudder.
“So, you enjoy novels?” Thornwood asked. His fingers pressed at the edges of the burn as he spoke, and Mouse repressed her flinch. Still, he let his touch linger on her unburned flesh. “When I was last in the mortal world, they were a relatively new genre.”
Mouse’s skin tingled where his fingers met her skin, and she could barely process his words.The effects of his magic, she thought, ignoring the heat working up her neck.
“I am surprised you know anything about our literature, considering how ‘unrefined’ we mortals are in your eyes.”
Thornwood snorted. “Let’s call it a guilty pleasure,” he said. “My father loved mortal literature.”
Instantly, his head ducked down closer to her burn. Although she could not see his face, his ears had turned pink. Mouse got the distinct impression he had not intended to reveal so much about himself.
“What books did he like?” Mouse asked softly. He did not look up at her, his fingers flitting on top of the burn. Featherlight, his touch made the wound prickle, but it was not painful. The sensation buzzed down her leg to her foot, as though it was asleep.
“Poetry was his poison: ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,’ and all that rot.”
“I never cared much for Milton myself,” Mouse said. “Although the message is appealing.”
“I feel the same. I prefer Shakespeare.”
Mouse laughed. “My cousin, Bertie, loved him as well, although my uncle would accuse you of being pedestrian. Do you have a favorite play?”
“Mine isHamlet; my mother’s wasTwelfth Night.”
“ ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man’s son doth know.’Twelfth Nightis my favorite as well. My father loved it. He played a sorrowful Feste when he read the play aloud.” Her heart lifted at the memory. “Have you read many novels, then?”
“Not many, no. We were all a bit preoccupied at the time.” He looked up at her. “Prepare yourself. This will hurt.”
Mouse braced, twisting her fingers into the duvet. He pressed his hands into the wound, and she cried out, her other leg digging into the side of the bed.
She spoke to distract herself from the pain and, at the same time, mask her fear.
“You will enjoyJane Eyre. It has Faeries in it,” she said, teeth clenched.
He smiled wryly. “That must be why it’s your favorite.”
Mouse gasped out a laugh. The pain, while still blinding, hadlessened enough for her to pry her fingers away from the creased bedspread. She leaned back, her weight on her elbows. “I should have said it has mentions of Faeries in it, not actual Faerie characters.”
“Alas, and so my interest wanes.” He sighed.
“Too bad. I will take my book back.”
His focus shifted to her leg. “You will feel intense pressure and maybe some pain for a few seconds. Then it will be over.”
She looked up at the ceiling as the pressure increased, as though her leg was caught in a vise. Finally, when she was sure it would break under the weight, the force lifted. She slumped against the bed, her toes brushing the floor. Thornwood tucked her robe around her exposed knee. To Mouse’s shock, he reached for her face. She drew in a sharp breath as he brushed her loose hair back behind her shoulder. The movement was almost like an afterthought, as though righting her hair was part of the healing process. He pulled away abruptly.
“It’s done,” he said before helping her beneath the covers. He paused. “Since we are sharing, I am curious. Is it common now for mortals to name their children after rodents?”
Mouse studied the simple embroidery on the sheets. It was a joke, she knew. Still, she wanted to snap at him, tell him to mind his own business, but she caught herself. He had helped her with her leg, after all. A story in return sounded like a fair bargain.
“No, Mouse is not my real name. My uncle could not pronounce my name. Although now that I think of it, since it is an Irish name, I doubt he even tried.”