“John, please. I want to tell you everything, but it is all so unbelievable.”
“Try me.”
Mouse sighed. She’d known that her will would crumble as soon as she saw him. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath for a long time, perhaps even since before she came back to England.
“Thornwood is a Faerie, and I made a deal with him in order to keep Thistlemarsh from Carlyle,” she said in a rush before pulling her teacup back to her lips and gulping down half the cup. John was silent. Mouse set her cup down again. Her fingers had not stopped trembling. “Well?”
“If you don’t want to tell me the truth, that’s fine,” John said.
“I am telling the truth!”
“So, a Faerie, a creature that no one has seen in more than a hundred years, just happened to come upon you at your greatest moment of need? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No, I don’t.” Mouse lifted her dress at the hem, and John looked away. “Please, I don’t care if you see my damn leg.”
She worked her stocking down to her ankle and held her leg up, scar on display.
“I got this wound two days ago. Second-degree burns healed in hours. The driver outside is under some spell, and that dog at your feet was a dragon not long ago.”
“You expect me to believe any of this? I am a man of God, Mouse, but I’m also a man of science. This is nonsense you are using to hide your shame that your new lover is a bloody fortune hunter, and the entire village knows it.”
The color drained from Mouse’s face.
“This is what you think of me?” Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but her voice was clear.
John stood, his hands opened in placation. “He’s taken you in.”
“Thornwood is not my lover. He is barely my friend. Perhaps I could say the same of you.”
John jerked back, stung. “Mouse, that isn’t what I—”
“I think we’ve said enough to one another for the day.” She stood. “Come to Thistlemarsh if you want a display of Faerie magic. That is, if you can stomach entertaining it. Perhaps physical proof will convince you where my word has failed.”
Ignoring his protests, she pulled on her coat and snatched Smudge up from her place on the floor. The dog whined, ham hanging out of her mouth. Mouse marched out of the vicarage into the rain.
The driver did not speak on their way back to Thistlemarsh. Mouse did not try to make small talk, especially after she noted the puff of brown and gray feathers sprouting out under his driver’s cap where his hair should have been.
Smudge leaned against Mouse on the seat, silent and calm. Mouse knew that dogs could sometimes sense sadness—could dragons as well, or was it just dragons in dog form?
A headache pressed behind her eyes, and she banished any further philosophical questions about magical creatures for the day. As much as she hated to admit it, Thornwood was right when he forbade her from doing anything physical. Discounting emotional labor, all she’d done was climb in and out of a car, and she was exhausted.
When they pulled up onto the drive, Mouse gave the driver a nod before slumping back into the Hall.
One of the entryway walls shone, polished English oak standing out from its dull cousins lining the rest of the room. Years of dust had peeled off carvings high on the wall, revealing the smiling faces of satyrs, foxes, and rabbits.
Mouse looked away, feeling even more of a fraud in her sodden finery when confronted with the ancient architecture.
“You returned early. How was your friend?” Thornwood asked, bustling in. He carried on, not waiting for a response. “You’ll bepleased to hear that the servant quarters were connected to that bit of magic. It doesn’t cost me much to polish it up, so I’m almost finished.”
He cut off abruptly when he saw her face. He was at her side instantly, looking her up and down.
“What happened? Did the magic fatigue set back in?”
“My diplomatic skills leave much to be desired,” she said wryly. “The village thinks you are my wartime paramour and a fortune hunter. They think I’ve been taken in by you, as I am a stupid Irishman’s daughter, and that you are only fixing the house to save my fortune, presumably.”
“Not ideal,” he said.
“That’s all you can say? Not ideal?” She swatted at him, furious. Smudge shot between them, threading between their legs.