Page 14 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
John shrugged. “You needn’t to be so polite about it, my lord. I’ve had a lot worse than ‘unusual’. I’ve had un-Christian, unnatural, un-English.” He took another mouthful of brandy and passed it back. “‘Unusual’ is really very civil.”
“Unnatural, eh? And are youreallyunnatural, Mr Blake?” Thornby’s eyes glittered. He was still half smiling.
John narrowed his eyes, heart in his mouth again. “Some call it that. What do you think?”
“I can’t quite tell. I hope I’m going to find out.” Thornby leant closer.
“What do you mean?” John could barely get the words out. Thornby’s eyes had a wicked look. His lips were parted; those lips that were made for kissing. Was Thornby going to kiss him now?
“Well, youtellme you can do magic. Youtellme you can detect it, or its absence. I’ve seen you with that peculiar glass eye and your pile of sand. I’ve seen youapparentlyfooling Father into letting you stay. But I haven’t actually seen any proof.”
“I see.” John swallowed hard. He realised he’d leant forward too, just a little. He straightened his back. He was sweating all over. God, for a moment he had really thought—
Lord Dalton’s comments were making him look at Thornby in a whole new light. Dalton had called Thornby a mary-ann, had said ‘you’ve never had a woman in your life’. Random insults? Or the truth? Thornby had not denied it, and he certainly appeared to be flirting now. Or was he? The problem was that Thornby was so damned attractive, it was impossible to be objective. Why couldn’t Thornby have had a hare lip, or a squint, or a few pockmarks? It would have made things so much simpler. It would have been easier to look away.
“You could be telling me tales, couldn’t you?” said Thornby. “It seems a little bit too convenient that your magic doesn’t work on me for some mysterious reason. I would like to believe you. I am eveninclinedto believe you. You seem as if you’re a truthful sort of fellow, mostly. But you do see my problem?”
“You want to see some magic. All right. What?”
Thornby looked at him wide-eyed. “What can you do?”
“I work with materials. I could ask that decanter its history, if you like, especially what it knows of magic.”
“You could make that up. How would I know? What about that glass eye thing—you thought it would make you invisible, didn’t you? I want you to do that to someone else. I want to stand right next to you and ask them if they see you. Fair enough?”
“If you like.”
“Now? Do you have it on you?”
For answer, John took out the items for the charm; the glass eye, the sand in its oilskin bag, and the spancel, coiled like a sleeping snake. “Where do you want me to do it?”
“Here, near the candles, where the light’s best. Once you’re set up, I shall lure someone in. One of the servants probably, so I hope it’ll work or you’ll develop a reputation for oddity to surpass mine.”
“It’ll work.”
John put the charm together, laying the spancel in a circle on the carpet, setting the sand, nestling the glass eye on top, and sending magic through them. He straightened to find Thornby watching him, half smiling. It felt bizarre to stand within a charm he knew to be sound, and for it to have no effect. More than bizarre; positively unsettling.
“It works with everyone else,” John said defensively, but a sudden doubt crossed his mind. If Thornby could see him—and he clearly could—was the charm losing efficacy?
“Even if you’re gulling me, it’s worth it to see you standing there,” said Thornby, smiling. “You look like an obscure mediaeval saint with his attributes; St Blake who was martyred by a grain of sand in the eye.”
John crossed his arms. No one had ever teased him about magic before. They had feared him, or hated him, or respected him. But no one had ever made a joke of it. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Get away with you. I’m not standing here all night,” he said.
“Only your eyes give you away, Mr Blake. They’re not saintly at all sometimes, are they?”
And before John could say anything else, Thornby had vanished down the dark passage. John stood, arms crossed over his chest, that last remark ringing uncomfortably in his ears. Had he given himself away so obviously? Did it matter? He wasn’t sure how he’d come to be here—why did he have to prove anything to Thornby? And yet, somehow, he did. The wounds on Thornby’s face were a reminder of why.
He could feel the magic flowing around the items on the ground. It blocked out the whisperings of Raskelf, giving him a few moments of peace, until he heard Thornby’s voice again.
“Let’s go into the Blue Room. It’s more private.”
And Lady Amelia replying, “If you like.”
Thornby let his aunt precede him into the room. He looked at John, then at his aunt.
“By the by, you haven’t seen Mr Blake anywhere, Aunt Amelia?”
