Page 26 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Well, where was she from?”
Thornby sighed, with the air of one humouring a fool. “Do you think they named me Soren on a whim? She was Danish. Her name was Rosa. You saw the portrait; she was a famous beauty in the twenties and half of London was in love with her. There were all kinds of duels and poems and ridiculous wagers to bring her bouquets. Dozens of lovesick men wanting to call Father out and marry her themselves.” He smiled, looking at Blake under his lashes. “I’mverylike her, apparently. They say she drove men mad with longing.”
Blake looked, for a moment, like an awkward boy. Thornby grinned. “Mr Blake, are you blushing?”
“I wish you’d take this seriously. Where did your father meet her? Here, I suppose?”
“I don’t think so. I believe he brought her to England, but he’d already married her. In Denmark, I always supposed. What’s this all about? Why don’t you just tell me what you’re getting at?”
“Have you met any of her side of the family? Any aunts or uncles or whatever?”
“I can’t say that I have. But then Denmark’s a dashed long way.”
“They didn’t come for the funeral?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go myself. I was at school, remember? I suppose they thought it would upset me.”
“Thornby, I—”
“I hope you’re not going to say you’re sorry again. Really, it’s none of your business how I feel.”
Blake looked suddenly very bleak, staring at the impossibly green field where Mother had died and Father had revenged himself on the lake that had taken her. “No, I suppose not.”
He sounded defeated and Thornby felt suddenly odious, like the impertinent little whelp his father thought him.
“Mr Blake, I—I beg your pardon. That was damned rude. It’s very decent of you to worry about upsetting me.”
“Lord Thornby, I’m afraid I have a theory. Actually, it’s more than a theory. I’m certain. But I don’t think you’re going to like it very much.”
“No? Out with it, then.” He put on his best social face and fixed his eyes on a particularly baroque flourish on the roof. He would not show how he felt, no matter what came. He would look at that damned ugly curlicue and get through this.
“Well, there are certain similarities, between you and the fairies. You must have noticed: my magic doesn’t work on you, and it doesn’t work on them. And the way you knew the answers to the queen’s questions—I don’t think an ordinary man would have known. And then—your mother. Seeing that portrait just now—my God, Thornby, you saw it! She had a look of that place, didn’t she? She and the queen especially. You must have noticed. And her writing; it wasn’t a lady’s writing, was it?
“I’m afraid I don’t think she was Danish at all. I think your father got her from that other place. I think he had to teach her to read and write and act the lady. I expect he said she was Danish to explain away the oddities of her accent and behaviour. I don’t know how he kept her here. Maybe she really loved him, but I think it’s more likely he had the same hold over her that he has over you. And, I—well, that’s what I think.”
Thornby felt as if Blake had punched him in the stomach. Mother not human? Which made him—what? If anyone had dared to suggest such a thing a couple of years ago, he’d have laughed in their face. Now, after all the months of gnawing self-doubt and mystery, after the horror of being trapped in that place, and the chase—
He turned, very slowly, so he didn’t fall over, to look at Blake.
“Have you finished?” He’d been aiming for the tone he’d use on an impudent servant, but it came out wobbly. It occurred to him that this might be why Blake had hesitated in the spare room. This might be why he hadn’t wanted to touch him at first. Because Blake thought he was some half-breedcreature. Not human. The idea that Blake might be revolted by him, and had only managed to master his revulsion long enough for a bit of a tug—
“I’m sorry, Thornby. It’s what I think.”
“You’re sorry a lot lately, aren’t you? So, my mother was an inhuman freak, was she? And I’m one too. And even my Christian name is some sort of—of—red herring?”
He clenched his fists, shock giving way to anger. The sheer nerve of the fellow, to suggest such a thing! He wasn’t sure why he was so furious, since it was clearly ludicrous. He felt strangely shivery, the way one did with a fever. He thought, for a horrible moment, he might throw up again, and swallowed hard.
Blake’s apologetic expression wasn’t helping. Oh God, what if Blake was sorry for him? Had he acted out of pity in the spare room?
“But it’s the clue we need, isn’t it? Don’t you see that it narrows the search?” Blake said.
“But it doesn’t!” He spat it out. “We still haven’t the faintest idea what we’re looking for! Christ, you call yourself a magician, but you’re bloody useless, aren’t you? If you were any real sort of magician you couldmakeFather let me go. But for some reason you haven’t offered. You could frighten him into it, probably. Or threaten him. But you haven’t. All you’ve done is get yourself into trouble. Why the hell should I believe your theory? What is the Dee Institute anyway? For all I know it’s where they send the hopeless cases who’ll never amount to anything!”
“Is that what you want me to do; frighten your father for you?”
“Yes! Why not? Force him to let me go! Make him do it!”
“That’s witchcraft.”
