Mickelwaithe bent over the stovetop where a pot of something that smelled of garlic and cream simmered merrily. He did not blink as Mouse pulled out the table chair closest to the fire for Thornwood. Smudge curled up around the Faerie’s legs.
Mickelwaithe made room for Mouse as she filled the kettle and left it to boil before she took the seat next to Thornwood. Under the table, she grabbed his shaking hand, cradling it between hers. He traced slow, tired circles into her palm.
Mouse listened to the hiss of the fire in the stove, the stew’s simmering, and the kettle’s low rumble. The mixture of herbs and firewood reminded her of cold childhood nights spent huddled around the hearth while her mother and father exchanged stories like kisses in the firelight.
Mickelwaithe ladled out a helping for Thornwood. He also placed one before Mouse, waving away her protest before attending to the whistling kettle. He poured three teacups and then sat with them at the table. The Faerie servant did not eat, although he began nursing his tea immediately.
Thornwood lifted his spoon to his lips mechanically. Mouse inspected the stew, wondering what food would comfort a Faerie. She noted the garlic and cream before, but now she could see diced mushroom caps and squares of white meat floating in the mixture. Mickelwaithe raised an eyebrow at her, and she took a hasty bite.
Flavor tingled from her tongue to her fingertips. She dropped the spoon in shock as the warming spices overwhelmed her. The flavors were strange and bold, but there was no denying that it was comforting. She fished the spoon out of the soup. She caught Mickelwaithe’s smile as she took another bite.
Mouse polished off her bowl in what she knew was unladylike haste. Then she sat with her eyes closed, savoring the warmth from the food and the fire. Thornwood had finished half his bowl when he pushed back from the table. Smudge rolled herself out from beneath him as he stood.
He staggered to the door. Mouse rushed to his side, taking his left arm at the same time Mickelwaithe took his right.
“This way,” Mickelwaithe said, gesturing with his chin down the hallway. Smudge trotted behind them.
Mouse blinked, shocked to find a corridor that had not been there before. The walls morphed from Thistlemarsh’s halls into an ever-narrowing passage of packed earth. The angular ceiling gave way to bower, with errant roots stretching out into the air.
Smudge growled nervously at the shadows.
“I wondered where you both were staying in the house after I invited you to take the rooms. Magic at your fingertips, and you created a forest glen?” Mouse asked.
Mickelwaithe shrugged. “It is hard to brush off the habits of a hundred years,” he said. “Besides, it is easier to draw magic from the earth than from mortal walls.”
Thornwood grunted in agreement.
Warm, low light colored everything, although Mouse could not spot its source. Sanded circles of glass in every color glittered from long threads that hung off branches, a galaxy speckling the air. A heap of blankets covered Thornwood’s bed, each made of a different material. From where she stood, she could make out the top three layers: a pale green blanket made of silk, a dark red one of velvet, and a mustard yellow one in cotton. Judging by the fabrics’ slope, more layers hid underneath.
They led Thornwood to his bed. Mouse had to hold him back as Mickelwaithe turned down the sheets. She let him go, and he sank into the cocoon of fabric. The scent of wood, must, and mint fluttered off the blankets as Mickelwaithe spread them over him. Thornwood’s expression softened in moments, and his breathing evened as he fell asleep.
Mouse, Smudge, and Mickelwaithe crept back through the enchantment until they were in the kitchen again. With each step, the corridor widened, and the walls tamed back into a proper English manor house.
“The city exhausted him,” Mouse said. “I did not realize how much.”
“I may have sped on his sleep a bit,” Mickelwaithe said. Mouse turned to him in alarm. “Just a few drops of a sleeping draft.”
“That’s why you did not eat?” she asked, panic rising.
“I cannot consume mortal food, and before you ask, no, I did not put any of the draft in your bowl.”
Mouse smiled at him sheepishly.
“What set him off?” Mickelwaithe asked when they reached the kitchen again. Smudge broke away, positioning herself on a cushion by the oven that Mickelwaithe had clearly selected for her. “Everything seemed to be well when I met you in the park.”
“We met another Faerie in the city. The encounter disturbedThornwood,” Mouse said. “He barely spoke on the way back to the village, not even to snipe.”
Mickelwaithe’s brows furrowed. “Best for you to get some rest. I am sure that you are exhausted.”
Mouse turned to the stairs but paused on the second step. “Do you think he will be all right?”
“His lordship is made of sterner stuff.”
Although not entirely convinced, Mouse trod back to the Matchbox, falling into her bed and embracing sleep.
19
It was a day before Mouse saw Thornwood again. Each time she asked Mickelwaithe, he brushed aside her questions, explaining that Thornwood was resting to regain his strength. Mouse spent the day outside, watching with restrained excitement as new growth wiggled its way out of the soil and into the sunlight. The structural portions of the garden were finished, which meant that only the final touches remained. Of course, it still looked bare and trimmed back, but Mouse had to believe that the improvement was enough.