“It was,” he said ruefully, sliding it onto his finger. “With the gem broken, it is only a reminder of better times.”
“Can it be mended?” she asked. His fist clenched.
“That remains to be seen. I would need an excess of magic to repair it myself.”
Sensing she’d overstepped somehow, she asked, “When you were a statue, were you aware of time passing?”
He relaxed slightly. “For the first few years, yes. After that, I was mostly aware of the changing seasons.”
“Could you see the people passing through the woods?” Mouse asked, flushing. Had he seen her grow up?
“I could, although it is difficult for me to pin down when I saw certain people. Time moved as it does in a dream, and some faces were more common than others.”
“I had no idea Faerie was such a dangerous political arena.”
“What did your books tell you it would be like?”
“Mostly toadstools and oak trees. Perhaps the occasional castle.”
Thornwood chuckled, the tension sliding away. It lingered only in his shoulders and the glint in his eyes.
“We are quite cosmopolitan in Faerie, although perhaps not in a way a mortal would recognize.”
“What does that mean?”
“It is difficult to explain. Suffice it to say we have our cities and our city folk. What you’ve just described is perhaps the equivalent of the home of a ‘country bumpkin’ in my world.”
He shook his head, his eyes falling to his hands. “What about you,Lady Dewhurst? I’ve told you my secrets. It’s time to share yours,” he said with feigned haughtiness.
Mouse followed his lead. “All right. I will,” Mouse said with her best wicked smile, “for a price.”
Thornwood laughed. “I’ll make a Faerie of you yet. Name it.”
For a moment, Mouse considered sharing her nights locked in the Matchbox after her father died, when the boys were still at Eton. She was alone for days, bowls of cold porridge the only markers of the passing time. Lord Dewhurst claimed that she was unruly, and that locking her away for the season was the only way to manage her. No one came to visit. The only face she saw from day to day was Mr.Hobb’s, turned up to look at her mournfully from the gardens. He never came into the house.
Instead, she laughed. “I think I will keep my secrets for a while longer.”
Thornwood frowned. “That’s very dull of you.”
“Forgive me for failing to entertain you,” she said.
Mouse stood to leave, but Thornwood took hold of her hand.
“Honestly, Mouse, you are anything but dull.”
She ducked her head, heat stretching from her cheeks down her neck. “Thank you, I suppose.”
“You are welcome.”
“We should rest. We’ll need all our strength to solve this new riddle in the morning,” she said, still not meeting his eyes.
Thornwood agreed readily, but Mouse barely heard him as she dragged herself upstairs and into bed.
The next morning, Thornwood tried magic on the lock. The door did not budge. Mouse dug the ring of servant keys out of Dawson’sabandoned desk, but, as she expected, none worked on the gleaming silver keyholes.
For three days, they tried everything they could think of, from ramming the door to burning it down. The latter idea was broached when Mouse was sleeping (she’d started taking naps more often, even falling asleep at meals).
Although she did her best to keep her chin up, the mermaid haunted Mouse’s dreams, and she would wake shaking and sore, convinced she had turned to stone overnight.