“Fancy that.”
With a jolt, Mouse realized he was being intentionally kind to her. How strange.
“Why do you like it? Just for the Faerie bits?” he asked.
“No, not just for that. I relate to Jane. She is an outcast in both the upper and lower classes that populate her life.”
“And you felt that way yourself,” Thornwood said. Mouse nodded, still caught off guard by his kindness. The Faerie lifted the book from his lap slightly, as though saluting her with it. “If you are polite, I will read it to you.”
“I can behave.” Smudge shifted in her sleep.
“One interruption, and it will be back to the boredom of entertaining dogs.”
Mouse did not dignify that with a response.
Thornwood was an exceptional reader. Although Mouse’s family always read things out when she was a child, the gift of telling a story was rare. Her father was delightful, but he often got too bogged down in words, and the performance would stutter. Roger was too solemn, except when reciting facts about ancient battles and navysquabbles on the high seas, which he told without enough detail, so he left listeners flailing.
Bertie was blessed with the gift of storytelling, like Mouse’s mother. He could tell any story with a flourish that would command attention but would not overrun into dramatics. At parties, he would hold court, and those in his power were happy to be there. In his hands, a story that was innately dull or sordid glinted like gold.
Thornwood did not have Bertie’s level of talent. However, his voice lifted the words off the page, sending them dancing through Mouse’s mind and painting a seamless image.
Mouse prepared herself for the first mention of Faeries. She knewJane Eyrealmost as well asBlakeney’s. So much so that when she closed her eyes, she could hear the beating of hooves as Rochester’s horse raced toward Jane and their shared destiny, for better or for worse.
Smudge grunted in her sleep, loud enough to break through Thornwood’s concentration. He snapped the book shut.
“You may feel strong now, but you will regret staying awake longer in the morning. Get some rest. I am sure that the animal will not abandon you tonight. If it annoys you, call Mickelwaithe’s name, and he will retrieve it.”
“Where would he put her?” Mouse asked, thinking of how cold and exposed most of the house was, especially with Thornwood’s dwindling magic.
“He would likely keep her with him. Mickelwaithe likes the creature as much as you do.”
“Will you sleep?”
“No, I will work on the house. We’ve lost time, and I need to make it up.”
“But won’t the house reject the magic? That seems like a waste of time.”
Thornwood rose from the chair. “This is not the time to discuss it, but I have much to show you tomorrow. Not all of us could afford to sleep the day away.” The sparkle in his eyes softened his words.
“Good night,” Mouse said. Something had changed between them, but Mouse was too exhausted to examine it for long.
Thornwood nodded, his lips pulled into a tight smile, before he shut the door behind him.
Mouse woke to Smudge’s tongue lapping at her ear. She squeaked, her heart nearly bolting out of her body. Smudge sat back on her hind legs, her teeth shining and her tongue lolling out.
“You are lucky you decided on such an adorable form,” Mouse grumbled.
Although it took her much longer than usual, she could pull herself up from the pillows. She held the bedpost as she parted her robe and held up her leg to the light.
The yellow welt was gone, as was the string of red blisters. A white starburst the size of Mouse’s palm stood out on her flesh, raised slightly above the rest of her skin, but the scar was the only remnant of the burn.
“We were both fortunate,” she told Smudge severely. “We cannot be so careless in the future.”
The dog blinked at her before biting its front leg. Mouse patted Smudge’s head.
She found fresh clothing laid out on the dresser, a sensible muted red dress with shoes and stockings to match. The message was clear—she would not be gardening today.
She knew Thornwood was being high-handed, and she would certainly tell him so when she saw him, but she could not fault his logic. She barely felt fit to pull her stockings over her ankles, let alone take on garden work.