A curtain moved on the second floor. Dawson stuck his nose out, searching the grounds to see if she was gone. Mouse waved, drawing on that same smile she had given him earlier. The drapes swung closed.
“Don’t mind Dawson. He thinks that loyalty means excusing every fault. And he is still grieving for the boys, like the rest of us,” Mr.Hobb said as he reached her, glancing up at the house with a pitying look.
“He goes out of his way to reiterate how unworthy he finds me. It’s hard for me to have any sympathy for that.”
“Grief shows itself in funny ways.”
His words hit Mouse like a physical blow. Mr.Hobb noticed the change of mood immediately. He hung back by her shoulder and tugged at the strap of his overalls.
“There’s no shame in missing them. Grief plucks your heart out and twists around your insides, so you do not know up from down.But no matter what your uncle, or even your own head, tells you, there is no shame in having loved and lost.”
“Who knew that you have such a tender heart?” Mouse smiled, running the back of her hand over her eyes.
“I’m an old man, so I should know a thing or two about grief.”
He tugged at his overalls again, his gaze trained on the tree line. There was something about his gait that reminded Mouse of a bear. Seemingly unsteady, with a touch of clumsiness, but beneath it all, a dormant strength. Her father had been the opposite, radiating ferocity but gentle as a lamb.
“How is John? He hasn’t come to visit lately.”
“I’m sure he did not mean to forget you,” Mouse started, but Mr.Hobb held up his hand quickly.
“I wasn’t blaming him. You young people need a chance to live your lives without being tied down to those of us who have already lived ours. Or wasted them, depending on whom you ask.”
He winked. They reached the edge of the woods. The trees folded around them, curtains opening onto a backdrop of snarled green leaves and a carpet of moss.
It was odd to talk about the war so much in one day, as though it was over. At the auxiliary hospital in Le Temple des Fées, the war went on and on, but here it was distant, even if its touch hovered over everything.
“Have you found what you were looking for on your adventure to the front lines?”
“I did not find much besides misery, brutality, and bad coffee.”
“And so, you came home to Thistlemarsh to find good coffee?”
Mouse laughed aloud. “Certainly not. I think the only goodness left here is you and John.”
“Your mother loved Thistlemarsh more than anything,” Mr.Hobb said. His words faded into the birdsong above.
Mouse sighed.
“I know.”
The trees thickened, pushing closer against the path to Tithe. Life pulsed in the air, the plants so full of energy it was all Mouse could do to stop herself from crying out in delight. Wilderness always made her feel this way, whether it was a patch of green in the city or the sprawling countryside. Something in the lush greenery called to her, making her blood sing.
Mr.Hobb cast her a knowing look. “We’ve lingered too long on dark topics. You can run ahead if you want to.”
That was all the encouragement she needed. She was off like a shot, hampered by her skirts but still free enough to watch the world blur around her into a tapestry of sage, emerald, and chocolate.
Eventually, Mouse skittered to a stop. Mr.Hobb was just out of view down the trail. The path forked, one lane going further into the woods and the other detouring to where the canopy thinned.
A statue emerged from the leaves like a shipwreck revealed by the falling tide. It had been of a man once, but his face had crumbled from his left temple to his chin. Vines twined over the remaining half of his face so only the edge of his lip and one eye were visible. The left shoulder had turned to dust, but the rest of his arm lingered on, attached by a thin stone ligament to his torso. His other arm extended outward, and it was unclear whether it was to draw the observer in or warn them away. His expression was blank, his eye slightly bulging as though caught before surprise could fully register.
Similar statues littered Thistlemarsh Wood, frozen facing the path with arms outstretched. Their presence was another remnant of the days when the Faerie King frequented Thistlemarsh, calling his host of Faerie courtiers to hunt animals, and sometimes unlucky mortals, on the grounds. The statues, it was whispered, were his trophies from his many visits. Unable to make it out of the woods before sunriseor to escape the hunt, the unfortunate mortals were petrified in a ripple around the estate.
“Hello, Dante. Did you miss me?” Mouse asked the statue.
Bertie gave all the statues names when they were young. The half-faced man was Dante, the woman with only a head remaining was Medusa, and the child frozen only inches from the edge of the woods was Orpheus.
Dante’s forlorn expression bit at her.Bertie would not have left him behind to crumble, her mind whispered at her. She brushed the thought away. Hehadleft, as they all did. As they had to.