Carefully, she padded through the halls with Smudge panting close behind. The dragon-dog kept pace with her in solidarity, but Mouse could feel the burbling energy forming with every step they took, and holding back only made Smudge vibrate more.
“Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Smudge was gone, a black-and-gold flash down the hall and out of sight.
Mouse chuckled.
We must not buy their fruits…
The voice sounded just next to her ear. She froze.
“Who’s there?” she whispered. “Answer me instead of trying to frighten me to death.”
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?
“Quote poetry at me all day. I still don’t know what you mean,” Mouse said. “Is Thornwood your goblin man? Would it truly be harder for you to give me clear instructions, rather than verses?”
Trust Faeries little,the voice said, softer now,but trust men less.
“Sound advice,” Mouse said. “But what am I meant to do when I need to rely on them both to keep Thistlemarsh?”
The voice did not respond. Mouse’s heart pounded, but she pressed on. “Let me know when you solve that puzzle, and then we can talk about goblin men.”
Hungry thirsty roots…
The words followed her down to the breakfast table, and it took three sausages, an egg, a jam-covered piece of toast, and half a pot of Mickelwaithe’s expertly brewed tea before she could banish them.
“I was starving,” she explained around a mouthful of toast when she noted Thornwood’s raised brow.
“That’s natural,” Mickelwaithe said. “The first time I experienced magic fatigue, I was hungry for a month.”
Alarmed, Mouse set her teacup down.
“That won’t happen to you,” Thornwood said. “Mickelwaithe’s first act of magic was destroying half an army. And you did not cast any spells yourself. You were just in proximity to that enormous fire spell. Mickelwaithe is a powerful magician, for a mortal.”
Mickelwaithe grinned, and Mouse smiled sheepishly back, thinking of his shadowy reflection in the mirror.
Tucked under the table and out of the reach of Thornwood’s disapproving gaze, Smudge merrily guzzled down a link of sausages.
“Last night, you mentioned that you have something to show me,” Mouse said, tapping around her lips with a napkin.
“Yes, it’s an exciting discovery, but we still have much work to do,” Thornwood said, rising. Smudge bolted out from under the table after him, licking grease off her mouth. Thornwood glared at Mickelwaithe, who deflected the look by expertly turning away and vanishing down the servant stairs.
With a final bite of toast, nicked from Thornwood’s untouched plate, Mouse followed them. As soon as she stepped into the entrance hall, she felt the shift in the magic, like the loosening of tightly pulled cords. Thornwood grinned.
“The spell working against me has weakened since we escaped the boiler room spell.”
He held up his hand, revealing the nest of magic vines again. The broken jewel on his ring pulsed green. Snapped threads of gold littered the floor. Some of the strings held, glowing stronger than ever, but they were the exception.
“Look here,” Thornwood said, ushering Mouse into the parlor.She sucked in a ragged breath—the room was restored. Paint sparkled with color, and shining fabric enticed Mouse to feel the curled arms of sofas and the backs of chairs.
“It won’t fade away in the night, like last time?” she asked as her fingertips touched the fabric. The material was soft and stiff, as though purchased yesterday rather than a hundred years ago.
“I finished this room yesterday morning, and nothing has diminished since. I’ve also tried some of the others with varying degrees of success. The rooms that take to the magic well are in this corner of the house, up and down.”
“The magic worked upstairs?” Mouse asked.