The weaver agreed to this. After all, the life of a mortal man was bound to be shorter than that of a Faerie princess.
The weaver and the princess were married for many happy years. Across the desert, the weaver captured his designs and funneled them into his loom. He could paint the night sky with comb and thread, and his greatest achievement was a carpet that trapped the light of the sun rising over the dunes. The princess delighted in his work, and his designs began to decorate Faerie-blessed houses and castles throughout the mortal world.
When ten mortal years had passed, the Faerie princess fell ill. Shewas pregnant, and pregnancies are difficult for Faerie women. The weaver stayed by her bedside at his loom as doctors and sorcerers from across Faerie tended to her.
At her weakest, she called him to her side and whispered her child’s name into his ear. Then she spoke no more.
Before he could protest, the weaver and the princess’s body were locked away in the darkness of royal tombs. The princess’s Faerie servant, a tall, dark-haired man who was more shadow than flesh, pressed the weaver’s loom into his hands before locking him in the dark.
The weaver was not sure if the Faerie servant’s action was kindness or cruelty.
Trapped in the shadows, the weaver thought and thought and thought some more. He loved his wife, but he did not want to die of starvation with her body. As he thought, he weaved, and soon he had produced a carpet that shone like the sun.
His fingers had cut through the turmoil of his thoughts and provided his salvation.
He slung the carpet over his shoulders. The fabric lit his way through the tunnels. Soon, he came across a door in the wall inscribed:
Speak, and I will open.
In the shadow of the door, the weaver thought and thought and thought some more. He spoke some of the magic words he knew from his time among the Faeries and from tales he heard as a child, but none of them worked. This time he was out of thread. He thought of his wife and of his baby, whom he had not had time to grieve.
Softly, he spoke his unborn child’s name. The wall rumbled, and sunlight flooded the tomb. But the weaver did not leave. He went back to his wife, laying the carpet as bright as the sun over her and placing his loom at her feet. Wrapped in the shadow of his grief, the weaverthought and thought and thought some more. Then, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and left. He never touched a loom again.
I first discussed this tale with Threadneedle after he observed a mortal funeral. It is a fine example of the “magic word” tale type, where an impossible trial is solved with a magic phrase or saying that has some significance to the protagonist.
There have been many references to the practice of mortal husbands being buried alive when their Faerie spouses die, but Threadneedle says that it is not common in his own kingdom.
17
Tithe’s train station stood outside the village, a short walk from the market center. The hills crowded around it, hemming the tracks in on both sides. The station was stone, framed with bright red paint.
While Mouse purchased the tickets, Thornwood waited at the door leading to the platform. He stared at the mosaic of the Faerie monarch procession that encircled the room.
When she turned back to him, Mouse blinked in confusion, her eyes stinging. He’d thrown up his sunshine-bright glamour again, heightening his looks to something painful.
So, Mouse had not gotten used to Thornwood’s magic after all. He had let his glamour down. But why put it back up now?
“I see that the trend of artists using pointed ears to distinguish us from mortals is still in full force,” Thornwood said, breaking Mouse from her thoughts. She tucked the tickets into her handbag, not looking directly at him.
“When everyone is so beautiful, there has to be some visual cue which are mortal and which are not,” she said.
“So, you acknowledge that this is a piece of propaganda?”
Mouse shrugged. “I suppose so. This country treasures the relations that used to exist between Faerie and England’s monarchs. You can hardly walk anywhere without Faeries popping up in stone or paint.”
“Was it the same way when you were abroad, or is this an English trait?”
“No, it’s all saints and Faeries there. We can thank Henry VIII and the battle against Catholicism for Britain’s special flavor of Faerie iconography.”
Thornwood hummed. He was focused on the last Faerie stepping off the tile and disappearing into the entryway before Victoria emerged on the other side, alone.
The final Faerie King’s silver hair was distinctive, cascading down over his shoulders like a bright flag leading the parade of monarchs into the unknown beyond. His clothes were those of a Georgian gentleman: a green coat decorated with embroidered silver leaves. Roses twined nearly up to his shoulders. A pink blossom was threaded in his hair and caressed the side of his face, almost as though whispering in his ear. It framed a single narrowed eye and the edge of a smirk, crowned with a wild silver eyebrow reaching almost to his hairline.
They lingered, Mouse watching Thornwood as he took in the artwork. His gaze did not stray from the final figure.
“Come on,” she said at last. He moved without comment, and Mouse found herself glancing back at the mosaic until they reached the platform and it was out of sight.
Even early in the morning light, vendors sold coffee and books to drowsy passengers. Cigarette smoke floated in lazy curls above the bowed heads of well-dressed men, their faces pressed into their newspapers.