Page 31 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“My clothes?” Thornby asked.
“Here.” Blake passed him a pile of clothes, neatly folded, and perfectly dry, though still caked in mud and dried leaves.
“How did you do that?”
“I asked the water nicely to come out.”
Thornby opened his mouth to protest, then wondered if in fact he’d just been told the literal truth. He tried to stand to get dressed and nearly fell over. His ankle, where the fetter had chafed it, throbbed as if flayed. Dried blood was caked all over Blake’s handkerchief.
Blake helped him get dressed. It was a little like having a valet again, although Blake was not entirely businesslike. Some of the things he did would have seen him out on the street without a recommendation. Or arrested. Or treasured as the best valet a man ever had. Perhaps it depended on whether one liked a valet with smouldering eyes, who occasionally grazed his fingertips along one’s bare skin.
“No one came?” Thornby asked, a little breathlessly.
“No people. I saw several hedgehogs, which I gave walnuts. I slept a bit too. The wards’ll tell me about ten minutes before anyone comes.”
“All right.” Thornby swallowed. He could guess what was coming. Better to say it himself, so Blake didn’t have to. “I have to go back, don’t I? To the chain. So Prout and Abbott can find me there.”
“If you can bear it, it really would be best.” Blake took his hand and rubbed it. His hands were warm, very comforting. “I’ve changed one or two things about the chain, and about the ground underneath. I’ve got earth from the estate and I’ll put it where you have to lie. The ground’s so churned up they’ll never notice. I think you might find it isn’t so bad. It’s worth trying, anyway.”
Thornby blinked at him. He’d never thought of that. Over a year and a half of trying to escape and it had never crossed his mind. But then, trying to get away was like that. He was stupid about it.
“Could I get all the way to London like that?” he said, only half joking.
“I doubt it. Soil on someone else’s land becomes theirs, doesn’t it? But you only have to lie there for a few minutes and they’ll let you go. I think the effect might last long enough to help.”
“What have you done to the chain?”
“Stretched it. You’ll be partly over the boundary.”
“Won’t they notice? You stretched it? I suppose you asked it nicely?”
“No, iron prefers orders. I told it, very firmly indeed. And no, I don’t think they’ll notice. Even if they do, Lord Dalton knows magic’s involved here. I’m hoping he’ll put it down to that. Not to someone helping you.”
“That’s quite clever, Mr Blake. I’m impressed.”
“Tell me that again if it works. You know, you can call me John, if you like. Now we’ve spent the night together.”
“All right. John.”
Thornby found himself looking down at the crisp dead leaves, feeling uncharacteristically shy. But then it was uncharacteristic to have wept all over the man. Did John think less of him? He didn’t appear to; he’d been absolutely decent and kind throughout. He might be trade—of a sort—but he was more of a gentleman than most of the fellows Thornby had known at Oxford. Thornby realised he was still gazing bashfully at the ground. This wouldn’t do. He looked up to find John watching him with a slightly surprised, almost puzzled, expression.
“I don’t think you should call me Soren. You might become familiar, and then where should we be? Good heavens, you might lay a hand on me!”
John cocked his head, smiling.
“Come then,my lord. Let’s get closer to the boundary. I don’t know when your father’s men will be along. ‘Morning’ could mean anything. When a ward tells me they’re near, you’ll have to let me push you over. Think you can do it? You can’t fight me. It’ll slow us down.”
Thornby swallowed hard, all the fun of teasing and being teased draining out of him.
“I...I don’t know. I won’t mean to fight you. But I can’t promise.” His voice wobbled. Christ, the idea of going back, of having to lie there again. His heart was pounding just thinking about it. Objectively, it was lying under a tree with a bit of iron round his ankle. But it felt like a nightmare—it was an animal state of pain and desperation. And he had to go back to it. He bit his lip. He would not cry in front of John again. He wouldnot.
“Come here,” John said, and put his arms around him. God, he was good to hold. John kissed the side of his face and ran his fingers in Thornby’s hair. How nice it would be to get that suit off him and see what was underneath. But this embrace wasn’t lustful. John was trying to give him courage. And maybe it worked, because after a while, Thornby drew away from him.
“Come then,” he said. “Let’s go.”
***
It was, John thought, one of the bravest things he’d seen anyone do in cold blood. The moment the ward alerted him to people coming, he’d nodded at Thornby and pulled him over the boundary. And Thornby had gritted his teeth and gone. Thornby had struggled, plainly he hadn’t been able to help himself, but he’d kept himself in check. He let John force the fetter round his raw and bleeding ankle. Only when John had left him, and concealed himself in the thicket, had Thornby convulsed in the mud and begun, once more, reaching for the boundary. His hands touched it now. John hoped that was some comfort. He hoped the weak struggle Thornby was putting up was partly for show.
