Page 17 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Thornby took anothershaky mouthful of brandy, perched on a cushion in Aunt Amelia’s sitting room. In her youth, she’d travelled extensively in the Middle East, and she disapproved of chairs on principle.
His heart was pounding, his hands trembling, mind racing. Blake had done it! By God, he had done it! Magic was real. And not a demon to be seen! And Blake had said he would stay and help. He was curious; he was interested. He was bloody marvellous! Whatever Father was doing, Thornby had a possible ally. The weight of months of anguish and self-doubt had fallen away. All of Father’s snide hints about lack of character, all of his own fears about secretly wishing to obey—all gone, all fallen to dust when Blake stood inside that peculiar measuring tape and Aunt Amelia looked right through him.
So, he, Thornby, was still stuck here, so Blake’s magic did not work on him for some mysterious reason. These things seemed, not insignificant, but surmountable. Blake would help him. Maybe Blake could tell Father, “Let your son leave,” in some magic voice and Father would have to do it. Why, Thornby might be able to get away this very night!
And when he went, perhaps Blake might go with him? That look in Blake’s eyes—as if he’d tear Thornby’s breeches off and fuck him right there on the old Savonnerie carpet in the blue room.Christ!He shifted uncomfortably on the cushion. These damned tight breeches hid nothing. Did magicians do it like ordinary men? What tricks might a man like Blake have up his sleeve? Surely Thornby hadn’t been imagining it? He could barely drink; his hand kept chinking the glass against his teeth. Aunt Amelia thought he was terribly upset and hiding it. She kept asking him to stay, to have another brandy.
But he excused himself and made his way on quivering legs to Blake’s room. He knocked and waited. No answer. He knocked again, more impatiently. Damn it, where was the man? Thornby had made it clear he would come here. He knocked a third time, opened the door a crack and said, “Mr Blake?” round the side. Still no answer. He opened the door and stood transfixed on the threshold. If Blake’s invisibility trick had impressed him, this turned his already shaking knees to jelly.
Blake’s room was lit with a green-white light that emanated from a woodland path. The path, lined by tall trees, started in the middle of the room and seemed to wend its way through several walls and neighbouring rooms. Thornby thought he could see Blake in the distance, apparently standing in a sunlit glade a hundred yards away. He couldn’t be sure; it was a figure, certainly, and who else could it be but Blake? Yet the figure’s stance was slumped, not an attitude he associated with the upright Mr Blake.
Thornby closed the door behind him and took a step closer.
It really was utterly marvellous the way moss and huge forest oaks seemed to be growing straight out of the dusty floorboards. Was it an illusion? He reached out—would it hurt to touch it? Would it ruin it?—and touched the bark of the nearest tree. It was cold as ice, but it was definitely there. The path was slightly concave, as if it was often travelled, and the moss looked cool and soft.
He backed away, looking around the shabby spare room. Everything else seemed quite as normal, except for a large travelling trunk with the lid thrown open. Inside it was all manner of jars, bottles, pouches, boxes, vials, and objects so peculiar it was impossible to guess what they were for. There were some strange pale shapes that might be ceramic replicas of a human heart, human lungs, a human brain. There was a jar full of tentacles, and several painted wooden butterflies that could almost be children’s toys.
He looked back down the woodland path. Was he supposed to walk down it, to find Blake? They had arranged to meet here, after all. Had Blake conjured this up to prove twice over what he could do? Or maybe this was it; the way out of Raskelf! Maybe if he took this path he’d find London at the end of it, Father notwithstanding.
He approached the path again. The light coming through the leaves now looked warmer, less green-white, more gold. How good it would feel to remove shoes and stockings and bury his sore foot in the cool moss of the pathway. He could hear faint, silvery music. It was beautiful, and he should walk down there to meet whatever was coming next.
Maybe this was Blake’s idea of flirting? Maybe this was how magicians impressed one, before the clothes came off? It was certainly more novel than the bottle of hock and bit of Byron that had started Thornby’s last affaire. He almost stepped onto the path again.
At the very edge of his hearing he could hear someone shouting. Was it Blake? It was the very thing Blake had complained of; there wassomethinghe couldn’t put his finger on, like an itch somewhere deep inside. But surely whatever happened would be better than staying at Raskelf. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the path. He thought again that he heard shouting, but that silvery music swelled up from somewhere and he took another step, and another.
What had seemed like a long path suddenly shrank to nothing and the dark figure of Blake was now only a few yards away.
“Get out, Thornby, it’s a trap!”
Blake’s voice was oddly husky. Thornby whirled, to look back along the path, but it had vanished, and he now stood in a clearing in a dense wood. The walls of Raskelf were nowhere to be seen. Next to him Blake appeared to be imprisoned in a thorn-bush, only the thorns were made of something hard and clear as glass and so bright they dazzled. Blake looked different too. It took Thornby a moment to realise Blake’s chin was covered in dark stubble, and yet when they’d parted in the blue room barely twenty minutes ago, Blake had been clean-shaven. And Blake looked exhausted, with lines of strain around his eyes and mouth. His lips were cracked and dry.
“Run!” Blake said urgently, pointing. “That way. Go.Now!”
***
John had watched inhorror as Thornby opened the door to his room and gaped at the woodland pathway. It was clear to him then that Thornby hadn’t hoodwinked him in any way. No one could fake the look on Thornby’s face, he was certain of it. But he could see that Thornby was thinking of walking down the path, and although the creatures that had put John here appeared to have gone, he was sure they were hiding, waiting. He shouted warnings, but his voice died the moment it left his mouth. It was like shouting into a gale.
Thornby made his decision and stepped onto the path. And the path vanished, and he was suddenly right next to Blake in the enchanted woodland clearing.
“What’s happened? Did Father do this?” Thornby said.
“No. Go! Find the path. It might appear if you get close.”
For answer, Thornby put his hands on the glistening thorns and pulled at them.
“Leave it. I’ve tried. Go and look for the path before they come back.”
“Who?” Thornby looked around hastily. “What is this place?”
“You’ve never been here before?”
“What?” Thornby almost laughed, though his gaze kept darting to the woods, and John could see him trembling. “Yes, I come here all the time, you idiot. Nothing I like better than a stroll in the woods in a spare bedroom. Christ, what is this place? What should we do?”
“Don’t mention Christ, for one thing. If I’m guessing right, the people here aren’t—well, they’re not human. And they’re easily offended, so be polite if you see anything living, whether it looks like a person or not. Now, will you go!”
Thornby bit his lip but didn’t move. “This is bad, isn’t it? You weren’t expecting this.”
“I wasn’t. But this is what I could sense; that strange feeling I told you about. This is the heart of it. My magic doesn’t work here.”
