She looked at her hands, turning them over. They were dainty hands and practiced in all the genteel arts. She was an accomplished pianist and sang just as prettily as any other girl. She painted and had been told by many a gentleman that she was an exceptional wit. She had all the right recommendations a woman could have, except for a dowry. She balled her hands into fists and struck the cushion with all her might. Her only consolation was a sore hand.
It does not matter, Mr. Jones was a fool, and I could not stand his mother. To think he wanted us to live in the same house as her! I don't care if he has twenty thousand pounds a year; I would have told him no.
The lies she told herself removed a small measure of the sting. She pushed back the curtain to look out the window once more. Everything was awash in gray. Rain fell steadily, streaking the window. They passed the local inn and pub, The Fairy Bride. It marked the halfway point between the village and home. Before she arrived, however, she would have to pass by Thornwood Abbey. The fog was thick, and with the rain it was difficult to see clearly, but she needed to see it, to remind herself why she had come back to Thornwood rather than try her luck in London. Mary pressed her nose against the glass in hopes of getting a glimpse of it from the road. As if in answer to her unspoken request, the fog parted and the rain lessened for a moment. The manor house emerged from the mist like a gray monolith. It dominated the scenery; great stone turrets topped with black shingles blurred against the gray sky. The shutters were closed and ivy clung to the mortar, overgrown in places. The forest surrounded it, pressing in at all edges. No matter her feelings about the rest of the village, she had always loved Thornwood Abbey. That is where I shall be residing before the end of the fortnight.
The forest grew thicker and blocked her view of the manor. She leaned back, content. It was not so bad to be back in Thornwood; she had missed her friends. Country life was not without its benefits, she supposed. The carriage came to a rumbling stop. The horses pawed the ground, their hooves clattering against the gravel on the drive. The door swung open, and a blast of icy air filled the small compartment.
Mr. Bernard, her family butler, was waiting outside the carriage, with umbrella in hand. The rain was sputtering against the fabric of the umbrella and dripping off in rivulets.
"Miss Ashton, I hope you had an agreeable journey?" he said in a monotone. No matter the occasion, Mr. Bernard always sounded as if he was not the least bit interested.
Mary smiled, flashing her white teeth. "It was quite comfortable, thank you. I was just thinking how lovely it is to be near the familiar once again, yourself included, Mr. Bernard."
He nodded his head. His jowls wobbled with loose skin. She suppressed a shudder. In London the household staff of her friends and acquaintances had all been pleasant to look upon. No one would dare hire a servant that resembled a basset hound like Mr. Bernard. He held out a hand for her, unaware of her critical thoughts. She took his hand only briefly to steady herself on the way out of the carriage. She preferred to not stay in prolonged contact with the servants, especially those that had been born in Thornwood. In her travels she had learned that there were no people quite like the denizens of Thornwood. They hurried out of the rain and into the entryway of the house. Her mother and father were waiting to greet her as she came in.
Mary slid off her gloves and coat. She handed them to Mr. Bernard, who took them with a small bow of his head and toddled off.
Her mother came up first and gave her a quick stiff embrace and a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "Mary dear, I wish you would have waited for Charles to return. It is not seemly for you to ride in the post carriage alone."
If you had spared the carriage, it would not have been an issue. She would not speak out against her mother, so instead she said, "Mama, I could not stay another minute in London with my shame! You read my letter; you must understand why I had to return with haste."
Her mother shook her head, lips pursed.
Her father came up and kissed Mary on the forehead. "It's good to have you home safe, dear. Mr. Johnson was not the right sort of man for you, anyway."
"His name is Mr. Jones, Papa," Mary said, and she pulled out a handkerchief to dab invisible tears. The man himself had been no great loss. He was a bore and had nothing of interest other than his income.
"Gideon, honestly, do you care nothing of our daughter's well-being?" Mrs. Ashton scolded her husband.
Mr. Ashton crinkled his brow in confusion. He looked from his wife to his daughter. "I care quite a deal. I was only--"
"Tut on your only. Go back to your study; you've seen her and know she's well. Leave me to pick up the pieces."
Mary sniffled and hid her smile behind her kerchief. This is the sort of marriage I want. No man will be the ruler of me. I need only a healthy annual income and a house and husband to manage; is that so much to ask for? Once Mrs. Ashton chased her husband away, she and her daughter retired in the parlor together. Mrs. Ashton rang for tea, and Mrs. Kelton, their maid, brought in the tea things.
As Mrs. Kelton hurried about the room, setting out the saucers, the sugar dish and the jug of cream, Mrs. Ashton and Mary spoke of London. Mrs. Ashton, having just left London a week before Mary, was up to date on most of the relevant gossip, and it did not take long to get her abreast of changes in the week following her departure. With that business finished, Mrs. Ashton sipped her tea and watched Mary over the rim.
Mary squirmed in her seat. Her mother's shrewd gaze was the one thing that struck fear into Mary's heart. She blames me for losing Mr. Jones. It was not my fault. How was I to know he was so resistant to the glamour and how much of my ability it would take to win even the smallest favor. Not to mention that dreadful Miss Wyland.
Her mother set down her tea things, and the clank of china rang through Mary with a small jolt.
"I understand from your letter that the glamour proved ineffective to win over Mr. Jones. I must say, I am disappointed. I thought I had taught you better." Mrs. Ashton had a thin mouth, and it was pinched with disapproval.
Mary lowered her lashes and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. "I am sorry, Mama."
"Is that all you have to say for yourself? You have wasted a golden opportunity. When I left London, it was in full confidence that you would settle matters."
Mary looked up to argue. "Mama, I tried. It's just he was in love with Miss Wyland--"
"Mrs. Jones, you mean, their marriage was announced in the papers." Mrs. Ashton nodded to a paper that was folded on the table next to her.
The shame slid like a bitter pill down her throat. "Don't worry. Mr. Jones may have had twenty thousand pounds a year, but he had no title. I've decided to resume my pursuit of Lord Thornton."
Her mother glared at her. "Again you are too late."
"What do you mean? When I left he was a lovesick fool for me; the charm could not have worn off." I know I had that maid hide it in his room. Unless it was disturbed, it should not have worn off. What could have gone wrong?
"Well, it did. A few days after we left for London, Mr. Thornton left as well, and he's returned with a wife."
Mary stood up. "That is not possible. The spell I wove into that charm could not be broken." She shook her head. "No!" She clawed at her face. All her plans were crumbling like ash.
"Yes," Mrs. Ashton confirmed. "You were overconfident in your abilities; as I have told you before, never put too much faith in charms."
Mary paced the parlor floor. The fire crackled. The embers spitting and hissing were the only sounds for a few moments as she tried to collect her thoughts. Edward was her insurance. Her fallback if all else failed. He had been half in love with her their entire lives, and though she knew he had a large estate and a healthy annual income, he was insistent on living in the country. He did not even maintain a London home. What gentleman of his means did not have a London home? It was madness, and she could not be subjected to the life of a country wife. Now even her last choice had been taken from her.
; "Edward loves me," she said as if saying it aloud would change the truth.
Her mother laughed, and it was cruel and mocking. "You are a stupid fool if you think that is true."
Mary growled in frustration. She would cast a spell on her mother if she thought it would make a difference. Her mother, unfortunately, was much too powerful for that. Anything she tried to send at her would be flung back without hesitation. "What am I to do now? Grow old and alone like Miss Lilac? I cannot be a spinster."
"Well, your options run few in this village. Unless you wish to marry Mr. Nathaniel Cedars--"
"Have you gone mad? Nathaniel Cedars is set to inherit five hundred pounds a year. We would be fortunate to have a butler and cook if I were able to squeeze pennies together. And where would we live? In Thornwood or in his tiny house in London? I have visited with you there, and you know it has only a few bedrooms and no room for entertaining. I would rather die!" Mary flung herself onto the chaise beside the fire. She threw her arm over her eyes and let the warmth from the fireplace seep into her bones.
"Then you'll have to return to London," her mother said with a gloating air.
"I cannot; that is why I returned. My power is... less... in London. The air there is polluted; there's hardly a green space to be had. It took all my energy just to convince Mr. Jones to invite me to the ball at the Williams'. Then I lost control at the ball, and he asked Miss Wyland to dance." She did not look at her mother as she made her confession, but she could feel her mother's judgmental stare nonetheless.
Mrs. Ashton frowned. "I had noticed a decrease in my own powers, but I had thought... well, it does not matter what I thought. This cannot be good. If our powers are depleting, then we are in trouble. We must visit Mathilde."
Mary crinkled her nose. "I do not know if that is strictly necessary."
"It is very necessary," Mrs. Ashton said as she stood and brushed off her gown. "We shall leave at once." She rang a bell that was sitting on the table with the tea things.
Mrs. Kelton came in a few moments later. Mrs. Ashton gave her clipped instructions to have the carriage brought around that they might go out. The maid did not argue with her mistress, though the rain outside had not let up. In fact, it only seemed to be coming down harder. Sheets of water painted the window and turned the garden outside into a green-gray blur.
Once the carriage was brought around, Mr. Bernard escorted the ladies to the carriage, carrying the umbrella over them. They climbed into the carriage and took seats across from one another. Their personal carriage was not much better than the post carriage. The cushions were stiff and the velvet faded. Some of the painted details had begun to peel. What will we do when we run out of money at last? How will we survive? Mary looked out the window at the gray sky and the thin stream of rain. It was a miserable wet afternoon, and the village was deserted. For this sort of errand it was ideal conditions. Though Mary almost always loathed visiting Mathilde, she was feeling especially gloomy about her shameful return and the news of Edward's marriage.
The carriage went out past the village down a narrow dirt road that ended at the edge of the forest. The carriage came to a creaking halt, and the coachman hopped down to let the two women out. He was soaked through. His coat clung to his skin as he held up an umbrella for them. Through the pouring rain Mary saw a squat stone cottage tucked in a copse of trees. A large willow was bent over and gave shade to the yard. A dilapidated stone wall surrounded the cottage. Boulders that had fallen out of place years ago remained where they fell beside the garden wall. Moss had started to grow upon them. There was no gate but a gap in the wall and a crowded pathway that was overgrown with tall grass.
The coachman led them to the front door of the one-room cottage, and they huddled under the overhang that was created by the thatched roof. The door was wooden with large steel fastenings and a rusted knocker. Mrs. Ashton knocked three times as was customary.
The door creaked open and revealed a pitch-black interior. Mrs. Ashton nodded for the coachman to go back and wait, and plunged into the darkness. Mary hesitated for a moment, considering going back to the carriage, but the coachman was already halfway there, and she did not want to get her new gown any more soaked than it already was. She stepped inside.
The room was square and lined with baskets full of odds and ends, bits of fabric, a bunch of apples and a few loaves of moldy-looking bread. Herbs and dried animal skins hung from the eaves, which were exposed. There was a fire in the middle of the room, which had burned down to a few embers and gave a feeble light. A pot was suspended over the coals, but its contents did not seem to be any warmer than the chilly interior of the cottage. A woman sat at the far left of the room, on the edge of a bed stuffed with hay. She had thin gray hair. Mary could see the woman's speckled scalp beneath it. She had a crooked nose and a large mouth with thin lips. Her eyes were rheumy as she looked up towards the two women. Mrs. Ashton had already taken a seat in the one free chair by the bedside. Mary was forced to stand. She would have pouted if she were not terrified of Mathilde.
"Mathilde," Mrs. Ashton said in a coaxing tone, "we've come for your guidance."
The old woman cackled. When she smiled, she revealed a mouth full of yellow crooked teeth. "You've noticed, then. Your powers are failing."
"How did you know?" Mary said without thinking.
Mrs. Ashton gave her daughter a glare, but Mathilde only laughed harder. "Those with the faintest strain of Fae blood are always affected first by the troubles of the forest. Because your connection to the Otherworld is least, your powers will go first."
"What does this mean? Will we lose our glamour?" Mary asked.
Mrs. Ashton was frowning at her daughter, but the old witch seemed obliged to answer Mary's questions. "Depends, if the Thorn King gets another heart, if so, then you need not worry."
They all knew the stories; everyone who grew up in Thornwood had heard them. Few enough believed them until someone would go missing. Then the rumors would start again about the mysterious invisible residents of Thornwood who required blood.
"That's just children's stories," Mrs. Ashton said, but she did not sound certain.
Mathilde snorted. "Just like witches?"
Mrs. Ashton compressed her lips. She could not argue with Mathilde. She was the most powerful witch they knew. She was the only one that Mary knew could best her mother, which was part of what made her so terrifying. They did not know where their powers came from exactly, but the small magic her mother and she had been given had been passed down among the women of their family for generations. Those who lived in Thornwood tended to turn a blind eye to anything that had to do with the Thorn Dwellers. There was an unspoken understanding between the villagers to ignore any sign of the fair folk and magic. I can think of one person I wouldn't mind sacrificing to the Thorn King, if it meant getting her out of my way. She did not voice these thoughts, however.
"What can we do, then? How can we stop our powers from slipping away?" Mrs. Ashton asked.
"Hope that the Thorn King finds a heart and that he doesn't choose you to join in the forest dance." Mathilde laughed at her own dark joke.
Chapter Five
Mrs. Oakheart, Edward's sister, made good on her promise to help with preparations for the ball and came calling a few days after the dinner party. Catherine was returning from a walk in the garden. She had made certain to avoid Mr. Thorn. He gave her an uneasy feeling. There was a secret behind his smiles. He looked at her in a way as if to say he knew something about her, but he wanted her to guess. Had she been more assured in her own authority here at Thornwood Abbey, she would have insisted on his dismissal. She was desperate to please, and she dared not make any such declarations to Mrs. Morgan or Mr. Hobbs. She certainly would not presume to tell her husband how to manage his staff. "It is much better to avoid than to confront," her mother had always said.
Mrs. Morgan was waiting in the entrance hall. Mr. Fox was waiting by the door, and he took her coat and gloves. She gave him a
smile, and he returned it with a thin-lipped nod. It stung, but Catherine held her smile, ignoring the insult.
"Mrs. Oakheart has come to call, my lady. I showed her to the parlor to wait. I sent Miss Brown out to look for you, but now I shall have to send Mr. Fox to bring her back since you have returned on your own." This was said with a tone that indicated Mrs. Morgan was quite put out by Catherine.
"I'm sorry," Catherine said without thinking.
Mrs. Morgan raised an eyebrow in response. "There is no need to apologize, my lady."
Catherine stared at the polished parquet floor. "You're right. I do not know what I was thinking." She muttered at her feet. I am miserable at being a lady. I wish there was someone who could teach me all the rules that I am constantly breaking.
Mrs. Morgan sighed. "Will you want to change before greeting your guest? I can call Miss Larson to dress you." Mrs. Morgan raked an assessing eye over Catherine.
"Oh!" Catherine checked her reflection in a mirror hung above a table set with flowers and a dish of candies. She wore a brown gown made of thick cotton. Her hair was tied back in a bun at the top of her head with no artifice. A lady would be expected to be dressed to entertain guests. Mrs. Morgan hovered, waiting for Catherine to ready herself. Catherine straightened a curl that had come loose and tucked it behind her ear. I wonder what happened to Miss Smith. I liked the way she styled my hair. Catherine's hand fell slack at her side. The last she had seen of Miss Smith was the ghastly image along the road. She had been chalk white except for the red gash in her chest, where her heart should have been. Catherine closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to dispel the image. No, that's not possible. It's an overactive imagination. I never met Miss Smith; I must have misremembered the name of the maid who dressed me.
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