Page 40 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“It might be important. What I don’t understand is why someone would do it to a child. Unless they were blackmailing your father.”
“Huh! Father didn’t care. He told me not to be such a sissy. He made me dip it in the sea to harden it.” Thornby shivered. “God, I hated it. Every night we’d go down to the shore and he’d make me put my foot in the water. It hurt like hell and it was bloody terrifying. It was pitch black and I kept thinking something would grab my foot and pull me under. We never did go to the sands in the daytime; I suppose it was because of my foot being so horrible. And Father—God, I was excited when I heard he was taking me to the seaside. I thought he was going to be decent to me again, like he was when Mother was alive. He used to be, you know—I’d be brought down to see them and he’d show me his watch and let me pet his dogs. It’s hard to imagine isn’t it? But when Mother died, he changed. At the seaside he scared me so much I started wetting the bed. So, I got thrashed for that too.”
Thornby put a hand up to his face. John could see it trembling.
“Soren, I’m sorry.” He pulled Thornby closer.
“It’s Father who’s the bastard, not you. You’re—well, I like you very much, Mr Blake.”
“Even though I bullied you onto Howarth’s moorland and went through your things?”
“I find I can forgive you. I can’t think why.” Thornby closed his eyes. “I suppose we should go and look for this token, but let’s have five more minutes. Yes?”
“I should get to my salt. See if it has any ideas.”
“All right, I’ll come.” But he yawned, and sighed, settling closer, and in another minute, he was asleep.
John admired the curve of his cheekbone, the feathery darkness of his lashes, and that mouth—just looking at it made his cock twitch. He was in over his head, he knew it. Not only did he feel as if Thornby had clouted him hard in some tender part he’d never known he had—but professionally speaking too.
He hadn’t said so, but finding a token he couldn’t trace with magic would be nearly impossible. When he’d thought they were looking for a spell, he’d been confident he’d recognise it if they found it. But a token could be anything. They were often crudely-made dolls, but it could be a ring or a seal, a pen or a button. Raskelf stretched around them—miles of passageways, hundreds of rooms, a million hiding places. And then there was the estate. They could search for a lifetime and never find it.
John knew where he was with iron, or salt, or a sulky furnace. He knew where he was with his sigils and herbs. But he was trained for industry, for the painstaking preparations and day-to-day drudgery of factory magic. And now he was caught in a morass of mystery and magic and lust, and he was out of his depth.
He should go back to London, tell Catterall what was going on. John had never asked for help with magic before, but this was different. Perhaps Catterall would pay for back-up. But who? He considered the other materials men, but no-one seemed quite right for a job as unusual as this. Perhaps a theurgist? Not Rokeby, Catterall wouldn’t stomach him. And, frankly, John wasn’t eager to see the effect of Rokeby’s best smile on Thornby. Or Lady Dalton. Or anyone. Rokeby was, sort of, a friend, and could generally be relied upon in an emergency, but he had also fucked half of London, and swindled the other half. No, not Rokeby.
Perhaps Armstrong, though he was busy at the Home Office just now, and unlikely to obey Catterall’s say-so. Maybe Christie would help, if he could be pried away from the Palace. John found himself scowling at the mere thought of Christie’s supercilious nose poking around Raskelf. “Spot of bother, Blake? All a little too much, eh? Why don’t you run along and play with your pins and needles? What we need here is some real magic.”
But did it matter, if it meant Thornby could get away? If the curse on Lord Dalton could be lifted and Lady Dalton’s happiness restored?
Only, would Armstrong or Christie let Thornby free once they knew what he was? They both dealt in demons; would they see Thornby as one? Although he’d never conjured up a demon himself, John knew they came from somewhere. Somewhere different again from the place he and Thornby had gone. But would Armstrong or Christie see it as different? They would probably hate Thornby on principle, with added revulsion thrown in if they realised he preferred men.
And in any case, something kept revolting in him. Something fierce and proud he thought he’d left behind at thirteen, when it had become clear to everyone that he was no theurgist and never would be. When he’d been accepted at the Institute at ten years old, he’d thought he’d be like Prospero one day, only younger. Magic would sing in his blood, and storms rage if he snapped his fingers. Caliban would do his bidding. And Ariel be his friend.
And then it had all turned to dust. He worked with materials. With common clay. He must support industry. It was fitting, really. His father was a shop-keeper. Armstrong’s father was a gentleman farmer. Christie’s was a barrister, with some connection to the Palace. Rokeby’s origins were discreetly veiled, but rumour had it he was a by-blow of royalty.
And so John’s magic had become a tool, a chore, a skill he could peddle like any tradesman. True, he’d gained the respect of the industrialists he worked for, and they’d paid him handsomely, too. He tried to be grateful. But since when was magic so mundane? Since when did it mean he had to spend his days strengthening bridges or testing ore samples? The only joy he ever felt in it was on those rare occasions when his materials spoke back to him—and that was a dangerous indulgence, a mere side-effect.
He allowed himself another long look at Thornby. He could gaze at him all day if he let himself, but that would help no-one. Instead, he kissed Thornby’s cheek where it was criss-crossed with a dozen small scratches from the hazel thicket, then slid carefully out of bed.
As he did so, his bare foot crunched something small and fragile. He lifted his heel to find a white shell, like a tiny wing, now lying broken on the threadbare carpet. He frowned and pushed the two halves back together with his toe. It must belong to Thornby; perhaps he’d been sketching it.
He pulled on his drawers and trousers, and was putting on his shirt when he noticed another shell, so white it glowed in the grey morning light. Then he saw another, and another. Maybe six or seven, leading in a trail to one of the iron pins that stood quivering by the door. He froze, casting about with all his senses, then glanced at Thornby, still asleep. Should John wake him? And say what?
He touched the nearest shell. Nothing. Just a shell.
He crept to the pin and found a growth of barnacles clustering upon it, as if the pin had spent weeks underwater. And when he picked it up, there was emanating from it not merely his own pent-up magic, but an undercurrent of something rich and strange that made his heart leap and his skin prickle. Then the barnacles began to crumble to nothing under his fingers. The shells winked out, one by one, like tiny gas-lights, and the room was once again as ordinary as it could be with a man as beautiful as Thornby asleep in it.
John picked up the other pin, finished dressing, moved the chair, and very nearly ran down the passage to his room to begin his experiments. Once there, he laid out the materials he used most often—the salt, the pins, the spancel, the eye, the sand, the ward stone, and the rowan twig. He tried to explain the situation to them—with magic, with words. He asked for help. And then he waited.
What he got was silence.
And yet, as he sat on the dusty floorboards with the materials spread in front of him, he felt strangely hopeful. Because it was not a dead, uninterested silence; instead, there was a quality of surprise to it. It was the kind of gobsmacked silence he might get if he went to a workhouse, found the least considered, lowliest resident, and asked her what she thought of the New Poor Law and how things could be improved.
It was the silence of someone who has never thought to be asked; the silence of someone frantically and inexpertly gathering their thoughts because they are hardly ever invited to articulate them. At least, that was what he imagined. He listened, and listened, and occasionally tried to explain what he wanted in a slightly different way, and then he listened some more.
When he finally looked up, it was to discover he was stiff from sitting on the cold floor, that it was past midnight and the entire household was in bed. He dimly remembered turning the maid away at the door when she’d come to draw the curtains and light the fire, saying he’d do it himself, and then forgetting. He went to bed, still listening, still with that deep, considering, surprised silence emanating from his materials.
