Mouse gasped, and Thornwood went rigid.
“No need to look so alarmed. I just stopped to get a look. Haven’t seen a High Fae since I was a little sprite.”
“How did you know he is a Faerie?” Mouse asked. “Have you seen them before?”
“ ’Course I have, every time I look in the mirror,” the man said, his voice like a sputtering fire.
“You are a common Faerie,” Thornwood said at last, his eyebrows arched high.
“Catchin’ on, are you? More surprising to find one of your lot ’round here than mine. You are the first I’ve seen in more than a century. Too much of the wild in your kind, and too married to tradition,” the common Faerie sneered.
“Your kind are house spirits,” Mouse said, recalling the common Faerie stories from her mother’s book, like “The Elves and the Shoemaker.”
He scoffed. “That life’s far away now. I used to be a Brownie, butthere’s no place for house spirits when mortals are bundled into tenement buildings, stacked on top of each other without a drop of milk to spare. We don’t have the privilege to step back into Faerie whenever we like, though, as the High Fae do. No, we must do as all creatures must and adapt.”
“Are the old ways lost to all your kind, or just you?” Thornwood asked, his tone light.
The Brownie caught the barb anyway. “Ah, so living among the mortals is only fashionable when highborn lords and princes do it?” the Brownie snapped. “The moment honest creatures start looking to survive it becomes a betrayal of values. There’s a reason my kind remains. What will you do, O mighty lord, when all the trees are gone and there is only smog to feed on?”
The Brownie turned his attention back to Mouse, plucking up her hand and pressing it to his lips. His touch tingled, a low stream of electricity buzzing on her skin.
“It’s been a pleasure, miss,” he said.
Then, with a puff of smoke, he vanished. The cloud drifted into Thornwood’s face.
Thornwood scoffed and reluctantly accepted her offer to help him walk the rest of the way to the station. Now, the people hurrying from shop to shop hardly spared either of them a glance except to dodge out of their way. Mouse wondered for the first time if the mortal reaction had more to do with Thornwood’s image of himself than their perception of him.
“I wouldn’t take too much of what that Brownie said to heart,” Mouse said, breaking the silence at last.
“I do not intend to,” Thornwood replied, then sighed before continuing. “But you agree with him.”
“Agree with him?”
“About adaptation. You are a prime example of adaptation forsurvival yourself. Attempting to turn from an unwanted orphan to a great lady.”
Mouse frowned. “My main ambition is not to be a great lady, but I suppose I’ve never thought of it that way.”
Thornwood continued speaking as though she had not said anything. “My question is, should I adapt to the modern world? Should I run on steam, or gasoline, or electricity? Won’t I lose part of myself that is essential?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s the trouble! Will I lose the beehive of my heart? Will I lose the rain in my veins and the roots in my lungs? One day, will I wake up with no magic at all?” He paused, his eyes beseeching. Under his gaze, she felt like an animal with her tail caught in a trap ready to gnaw and rip to free herself. “Have you?”
Mouse did not answer, as she did not know.
Their pace was quicker the rest of the way to the station, but time dragged in the thick tension between them.
They were silent during the train journey back to Tithe. All the compartments in their carriage were empty, and Mouse could feel the dimming of Thornwood’s glamour after the ticket inspector moved on to the next carriage.
Every few minutes, Mouse glanced at Thornwood through her eyelashes. Each time she found him looking sightlessly out the window, his mouth pulled into a grim line and his eyes dark. She noted the grayness receding from his skin as they traveled further from the city.
Thornwood’s driver was waiting for them at the station when they arrived, and Mouse whispered a thank-you to him as they pulled onto the road. The driver clicked in return in what Mouse could only hopewas a polite response for whatever manner of Faerie he was. Thornwood did not break his silence.
When they reached Thistlemarsh, he slid out of his seat and helped her from the car. His expression was as far away as it had been on the train when Mickelwaithe greeted them in the entrance hall, with Smudge trailing behind him.
“Something comforting to eat, I think,” Mouse said softly. Mickelwaithe disappeared, and she could hear the clang of pots in the kitchen. She lifted the jacket from Thornwood’s shoulders. As her fingers brushed his skin, she could feel him shaking.
“I could do with some tea,” Mouse said. Thornwood nodded, and Mouse led him down to the kitchen. Smudge kept pace with them, looking up at Thornwood with wide, worried eyes.