Page 39 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“No, an actor. He did a routine as a drunken lord at the local inn, and I used to sneak out to watch him. I never usually broke the rules, but I did for him. And he stank of gin and had filthy nails, but he sounded a lot like quality when he put on the voice. Good diction.”
“You fucked him for his diction?” Thornby was laughing into his shoulder.
John grinned. “I hadn’t realised there was plenty of the real thing to be had if I just went a bit further west.”
“The real thing?” Thornby gave him a sharp look. “You mean, like me?”
“Like you,” John agreed lightly, but the conversation was getting onto what felt like dangerous ground. He cast around for something to change the subject and remembered Thornby’s suspicious-looking scarred foot. “Now I want to know something; what happened to your foot? Not your ankle, but that old burn—may I look at it?”
“What? No, you may not!” Thornby stiffened in his arms.
“But what happened? Did you step in a bonfire?”
“Will you forget it? It’s hideous, and I’d rather not think about it.”
“It isn’t hideous at all,” John said mildly. “Come, tell me.”
“I was nine. It was a case of spontaneous combustion. Luckily some quick-thinking nursemaid got my boot off and threw a jug of milk over it.”
“Spontaneous combustion?” John frowned. “Are you sure?”
“How else could it have happened? I was minding my own business, looking for conkers, I think, and suddenly this terrible pain, and smoke and flames, and—well, you’ve seen it. Horrible.”
“Were you at Raskelf?”
“No, it was—I don’t know. Some other house. I don’t remember.”
To John’s horror, Thornby got out of bed and began dressing.
“Soren.”
It was the first time John had dared to use his Christian name. He’d imagined saying it a number of times, but not quite managed it. Now he heard his own voice and could hardly believe he’d said it. The syllables in his mouth felt more intimate than a kiss. He’d called an earl by his first name, and despite everything, he half-expected Thornby to throw him out for presuming to address him thus. In the hazel thicket Thornby had said ‘I don’t think you should call me Soren.’ Of course, he’d been joking, but perhaps, deep-down, he’d meant it.
Thornby stopped, breeches on, bare-chested. He gave John a long look, and something flitted across his face. It was that recognition that sometimes passed between men engaged in difficult and mutual toil; a look that said,So you will not let me down. It was almost respect. Then Thornby folded his arms and looked away.
“I don’t like talking about it. A friend at school used to say it made me like Byron, to make me feel better about it. But I’ve always hated it. I hate how it happened. I used to think it was a punishment from God for being wicked. Mysterious things are always happening to me, aren’t they—oh!” He stared at John. “You think it’s related, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen a lot of burns in the foundries. They don’t look quite like that. Please may I look?” He reached for Thornby’s hand and pulled gently. “How about this? You let me look, and I’ll kiss you anywhere you like.”
Thornby gave him a flustered smile, but he allowed John to push him onto his back on the bed. John kissed his mouth, chest, stomach, thigh, knee and shin. Only then did he take Thornby’s scarred foot in his hands.
The fire had left both the usual signs—the shiny patches, the mottled pink and white colouring, the two smallest toes fused together—and something unusual. There was a hatched pattern, as though someone had drawn a multitude of fine lines across Thornby’s foot. That was a clue too obvious to miss. John glanced up to see Thornby watching him anxiously, almost wincing.
“Isn’t it hideous?” Thornby said. “It makes me feel like a gargoyle. Is it any sort of clue?”
“It’s not hideous. Can you remember any more about how it happened?” John kissed the instep, where the skin was pink and shiny. Thornby jerked away.
“John, please stop. At least let me hide it under the covers. I’ll tell you if you let me hide it.”
“All right, then I’ll give you that kiss. If you can’t decide where you want it, I have some ideas.”
Thornby smiled, almost shyly. John put an arm around him. Thornby could be so prickly, and then so sweet. If only John could keep him in bed forever.
“All right—well—it was the school holidays. We went to the seaside. North of here. It might have been Scotland. Father took me. Mother had died, of course, and he—do we have to talk about this?”
John stroked his hair. “Shall I tell you why I want to know? I think someone tried to burn something belonging to you. Not an ordinary thing, but a token. Something that is you, in a way. And when they burned that, they burned you as well. It’s witchcraft; it’s not uncommon. People do it with mommets usually, little dolls made in a person’s likeness. That’s why I want to talk about it.”
“Oh,” Thornby said faintly. “On the whole, I prefer the spontaneous combustion theory. Not always the most reassuring of companions, are you?”
