“I have no such key,” Beckett said, opening his hands as though to demonstrate he was not holding it. However, his eyes flashed to the ceiling. Mouse felt certainty swell in her chest.
“Beckett, I am quite sure it is here,” Mouse said. As the words left her mouth, there was a twinge behind her eye. She felt the persuasion magic as much as she saw its effect on Beckett.
He slumped back into his chair and took her in. A touch of something like admiration rose in his eyes.
“Lord Dewhurst asked me to keep it away from you until you came to ask for it.”
Mouse stiffened. “And why did he do that?”
“I am not sure—the man was quite mad in the end. Perhaps it has to do with the rules of a Faerie-blessed house.”
“So, you decided to play ignorant with me?”
“I do not like being called on without warning. It is embarrassing for all involved,” Beckett said.
“The key,” Mouse pressed. Beckett’s fingers twitched. She threw all her natural power of persuasion into words, hoping that and the magic would be enough. “Please.”
The woman in green entered, balancing a silver tea service. She placed it on top of an open book. Its contents jiggled precariously.
“Thank you, Alice. Please fetch the wooden box labeled ‘Dewhurst’ from the stacks upstairs.”
The woman left, and Mouse heard steady footsteps mount the stairs above their heads. Relief flooded through her. The magic was working.
Beckett blinked at her, as though struggling to recognize her face. He looked so frazzled that Mouse felt a twinge of guilt. Then she caught sight of a photograph on his bookshelf of him and Lord Dewhurst in hunting kits, smiling. Her heart turned to stone.
The footsteps proceeded down the stairs. Alice shouldered open the door, and Beckett rose to meet her, lifting the box out of her hands.
“Thank you,” he said. The woman curtsied and was gone.
Beckett opened the box and pulled out a small silver key. He deliberated, looking from it to her outstretched hand before he gave it to her swiftly, as though it was piping hot.
“Is there anything else my uncle kept from me?” Mouse asked.
Hesitating only a moment, Beckett pressed the box into Mouse’s hands. Inside, Mouse found a few tattered medals, a pack of cigarettes, and a photograph. “That was all. Now, if you do not mind, I have some work to do.”
“Of course,” Mouse said. She clutched Bertie’s things. Despite the success of the spell, she could not help but think that it would break any moment, and that Beckett would snatch the items away from her. “Thank you very much for your time.”
“You are welcome, Lady Dewhurst, but a telegram beforehand would be appreciated, next time.”
Mouse pulled open the door. “I can find my way out.”
“Oh, and Lady Dewhurst,” he called out to her. She turned back to him. He looked larger in the clutter of his office than he did in Thistlemarsh’s study. It was disconcerting.
“Yes?”
“I look forward to seeing what you do with the house.”
18
Thornwood collapsed as soon as they reached Hyde Park. Blades of grass wove through his hair and clothes as an invisible wind flowed about him. Mouse perched nearby, taking in city dwellers strolling along the path.
Londoners peeped out from their holes into the sunny afternoon. Close by, a smiling couple and three roughhousing children shared a picnic. As she watched, the plants around Thornwood grew. The tension that had pulsed through him since they emerged from the Underground melted away. None of the other humans noticed nature’s infatuation with the Faerie.
Mouse pulled the photograph from the box of Bertie’s belongings. Recorded in sepia, Bertie lounged on the bench in Thistlemarsh’s rose garden. He grinned at the camera. Leaning against him, a young Mouse stared out at her older self. Her arms were wrapped around Bertie’s shoulders. Roger stood at her side, leaning forward to avoid the reach of the thorny bush behind him. Even with his back rounded, he was clearly taller than anyone else, his head barely scraping underthe top edge of the photograph. John was there, too, his smile sheepish as he leaned toward Bertie.
Mouse tucked the photo carefully between the pages ofBlakeney’s.
She leaned back in the grass, resting her head next to Thornwood’s.