“And you thought thatThe Complete English Farmerwould entertain you?”
“More like lull me to sleep, if you must know,” she retorted.
Thornwood laughed and held out the book. When Mouse reached out for it, her fingers brushed his. His expression shifted from sun to moon.
“You are unlike any human I’ve ever met,” he said.
“So you’ve mentioned before.”
Thornwood tilted his head, with a puzzled expression. One of his hands drifted up to her face. His fingers ran over her cheek, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
“Then are all mortals as unruly as you are?” he asked. “It seems that every time I see you, something is out of place.”
Mouse did not know how to respond, and she did not have the chance to do anything before he leaned toward her. She froze, her eyes glued to his lips.
It took her a moment to realize that he had stopped a few inches from her mouth. When she looked up into his eyes, Mouse saw a question.
Softly, she nodded. She was not sure if it was her or Thornwood who closed the distance. All she knew was that his lips were on hers and her mind was fractured into a million pieces.
She thought of the Canadian soldier who’d kissed her during the war. Although it was not bad by any means, it was an uncomfortable experience, smelling of cigarette smoke and disinfectant. When he pulled away, all Mouse could think of was how desperately she wanted to wipe her lips and get back to her post.
Thornwood’s kiss wasnothinglike that. All of Mouse’s thoughts flew away like a flock of birds, leaving her mind empty and light. Her skin prickled where it touched his, and the sensation spread through her face like sparks.
His hands were in her hair, with his fingers spreading out against her skull. Mouse’s fingers moved across his shoulders, then down tohis waist. She remembered him by the pond, stripped down and ready to plunge into the water.
She shuddered, and she could feel his lips pull into a smirk against hers.
“Smug bastard,” she panted.
“Always,” he said, then went back to kissing her senseless.
He pushed her back against the desk, sweeping paperwork and open books onto the floor. Polished wood met Mouse’s back, cool even through her nightclothes. Thornwood parted her robe, and his fingers ran up the inside of her calf. The feeling was as strong as ice water.
“Wait,” she said. He pulled away instantly. Mouse buried her face in her hands. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. That was not proper.”
“Damn proper,” Thornwood said, jaw tight. “But are you all right?”
“Yes,” Mouse said, willing away the warring urges to cry, or hide, or, worst of all, kiss him again. “I’m just tired.”
“Of course,” Thornwood said after a beat of silence. “Would you like me to call Mickelwaithe to escort you back to the Matchbox?”
“No, that is quite all right. Thank you,” Mouse said. Then she was out of the study, up the stairs, and back in the Matchbox before she realized she’d left the book behind.
23
Mouse woke on the morning of the last day of April from the deepest sleep she’d had in years. The Matchbox was warm from the sun and the gentle hum of the radiator. Overnight, the tree broke further from its frame and grew a mantle of white and pink blossoms, which drifted down to carpet the floor. Petals dotted the bottom of her bedspread. For a moment, she could not tell if she was still asleep, dreaming that her room had transformed into a bower overnight. The abrupt appearance of the food tray across her lap bumped her out of her daydream. The clock on her mantel reported that it was seven in the morning.
Mouse shot out of bed as her dreaminess wore away, taking in the magic that carpeted her bedroom. She doubted that Beckett would bother to investigate her room during his inspection, but still, she felt a twinge of regret at the transformation. The Matchbox had been her sanctuary as well as her prison in childhood. Changing it further still felt like a betrayal of her younger self.
She wondered if Thornwood’s magic had run a bit wild without the house’s web of spells counteracting it.
Then she remembered the night before. Thornwood’s lips on hers, her hands running over him, his fingers parting her robe.
She furiously brushed the memory away. It was something she could deal with after Beckett’s inspection.
Mouse dressed quickly in a sensible pink gown she’d laid out the evening before. It was one of her mother’s, refitted for Mouse before the war. She wove a posy of blooms from the painting through her hairpins. Their delicious scent followed her as she opened the door.
Mr.Beckett would be at Thistlemarsh around noon, and although there was nothing left to do, she had to be moving, or she would end up wearing a hole in the floor.