They had little time left to repair Thistlemarsh. She needed any help she could get.
“I accept,” she whispered.
There was a sharp pain behind her eye, but then it was gone, leaving only a faint tingle. Thornwood wrapped his fingers around Mouse’s clasped hands, squeezing them once. The sleeping woman slumped further down in her chair. Mouse avoided glancing at her own reflection in the train car window, afraid of what she might see.
The train pulled into Victoria Station. Although it lacked the country charm of Tithe’s Spring Festival decorations, it sported amore glamorous display. Thousands of flowers twined around the arched metal beams above the tracks.
People rushed along the platform and into the city. Noise blared from every direction, from the screech of the trains to the chattering crowds to the cars bustling on the street beyond. Mouse’s skin tingled with excitement. More things happened in a city in a day than in a century in Tithe.
They followed the flow of people out onto the street. Thornwood lagged, and she had to pull him along after her several times. As much as she wanted to be annoyed at him for being distracted—they were on a mission, after all—she could not help but enjoy his wonder at the modern marvels.
He gasped at the first car they passed.
“With such a fine automobile of your own, I’m surprised you’re so interested in the common or garden varieties here,” Mouse teased.
“You know as well as I do that mine is a spell,” he groused. “I saw a photograph of a Rolls-Royce in one of your newspapers and modeled it after that. It uses an enormous amount of magic, but luckily it is a self-sufficient spell.”
“And your driver? He is an interesting fellow.”
“Did you try to speak to him?”
“Of course I did. I brought him coffee and biscuits as well.”
Thornwood laughed. “I’m sure his response shocked you.”
Mouse did not deign to answer, but her silence was clear enough.
“Rest assured: He is not a captive. On the contrary, he volunteered his services.”
Mouse wasn’t sure she wanted to know more.
“You like cars. Are there any other mortal inventions that catch your eye? After all, your parents were interested in our world, correct?”
Thornwood smiled. “My father was fascinated by anything mortal, especially the sciences. The ingenuity to achieve something, oncommand, that should only happen through magic or miracle fascinated him.”
“And your mother was more interested in the arts?” she asked.
“Yes, she always admired the most bizarre artists in London and Paris, like Aphra Behn and Joseph Ducreux.” He shook himself. “I suppose the other human invention I enjoyed was the coffeehouse. I spent most of my time in them before my banishment.”
“With a den of mortal revolutionaries?” Mouse asked lightly.
“Faeries, mostly, although we had a fair share of mortal artists and scientists. Much to my father’s despair, I inherited my mother’s love of art, although I was not quite as partisan as either of them regarding my interests.”
“I don’t know why, but the idea of Faeries being fascinated by humans amuses me. Considering how much work we mortals put into daydreaming about you, it is not what I would imagine.”
“I suppose we are attracted to each other’s strengths. Mortals long for magic, while Faeries long for technology. But neither of us can handle the other.”
“So, you build motorcars out of sticks and stones.”
“And you generate magic with engines.”
“I never thought of it that way. Imagine what would happen if we joined forces now.”
“I shudder to think,” Thornwood said, and Mouse laughed, but secretly she was beginning to agree.
The city opened before them into a series of ever-splitting passages.
“There are so many sounds,” Thornwood said, his voice as soft as falling sand.