Page 45 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Chapter Ten
The following morning, Thornby went to breakfast early, hoping to catch John alone before the rest of the household came down. He’d been to John’s room late last night, and John, as promised, had been very impertinent indeed.
He had used his tongue. Everywhere. He’d made Thornby writhe and whimper and plead. And then John had fished a small vial of oil from one of the many pockets of his discarded jacket. He had applied the oil liberally, and fucked Thornby so expertly that he’d begged some more. And afterwards, John had held him, and kissed him, and smiled his rare unguarded smile. Thornby had had plenty of lovers, but never one as intent as John. Perhaps all the listening to walls and tables the man had done had given him some sort of magical intuition, because he seemed to know instinctively what felt good and what felt so-so, and what felt so incandescent one forgot to breathe.
John had talked of this and that—of his childhood, talking to the nails and tools in his father’s shop; of training at the Dee Institute; and of his last job, helping to build the Crystal Palace and then protecting it from magical attack. Apparently, there were a number of men from the professions who didn’t think a jumped-up gardener’s design should have been chosen for such a great edifice. So, among other things, there had been freak storms and flurries of ensorcelled bats flinging themselves at the glass at night. Some people had wanted very much to make Joseph Paxton look bad. They had gone so far as to hire magicians to try to make it happen. John had stopped them.
He hadn’t been boasting. In fact, Thornby felt, it was rather the opposite; John was giving him the facts about his life, letting him know who he was. He was an ironmonger’s son made good. And if he spoke like a gentleman, it was because he’d had it beaten into him at the Institute, because they prided themselves on turning out magicians who could serve at the highest levels. In the same way one wouldn’t tolerate a valet who wiped his nose on his sleeve, one preferred one’s magicians with manners.
Thornby gathered that magic, as a profession, was on something of a cusp. The Dee Institute that John was so proud of having attended had been founded in 1578 as an Academy by Queen Bess’ court magician, Dr Dee. Alchemy had been worth investing in, back then; even the Queen had had stakes. But over the centuries the Academy had degraded. It had become a dark place, of superstition, charlatans, and poppycock. Magic had become bastardised and ineffectual.
John was a new kind of man. He’d come, as a boy, to an Institute revitalised during the Regency by recent discoveries in the fields of both theurgy and materials. Now, John and his colleagues sought recognition; respect, even. Because although magic was once again becoming a force to be reckoned with, it was not yet respectable. Indeed, to hear John tell it, much of society saw magicians as akin to the prostitutes who served London; they were regrettable, a necessary evil. One barely acknowledged their existence, yet sometimes nothing else would do. John was determined to change this attitude. He considered that magic should be at least as well-regarded as horticulture, medicine, or law.
Whatever John had intended by telling him all this, the end result was that Thornby felt a little overwhelmed. Not only was it the most fascinating pillow-talk he had heard, but it was becoming clear to him that John wasn’t justanymagician, but a very remarkable one. John didn’t say so, but Thornby felt sure Paxton could have had almost any magician in England—and it turned out there were quite a few of them—and he had chosen John. Because when it came to iron and glass and other inanimate things, John was the best in the land.
John had said he planned to rise early and get out of the way of the party so he could work on finding the token. Thornby had gone back to his own room, expecting to sleep like a man who’s just been fucked into oblivion. But he’d woken almost hourly. When he woke for the fifth time at five o’clock, he finally realised it was because he was hoping to see John again before the day started.
As he entered the breakfast room, he saw that Lady Dalton had beaten him to it. She was sitting next to John, but neither of them seemed to be eating. Lady Dalton looked rather red in the face, and shot to her feet like a startled rabbit when she saw him. She nodded to him, gave John a look of plain entreaty, and fled the room.
Thornby looked after her. “Is she all right?”
John gave him a hunted, distracted look. “I suppose she’s as right as anyone could be with a cursed husband and a troupe of fairies moving their things around. Anyway, I told her to start putting walnuts out; that will probably help.”
“But what was she saying?”
“I’m sorry, Thornby, I’m not sure I should say. It was a private matter.”
“I hope you trust me.” It came out more stiffly than he’d intended.
He could not help looking at John, so neatly buttoned and tied, and thinking about what they’d done last night. He was fairly sure John was remembering too, because he looked Thornby up and down and a fleeting look of satisfaction crossed his face, to be followed by a covetous one. Then his harassed expression returned and he picked up his fork.
“Of course I trust you,” he said, then muttered, almost to himself, “I’ll never complain about factory work again.” He put his fork down again and put his fingertips to his temples.
“John, what on earth did she say? Please tell me. Who would I tell anyway?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Did she tell you not to?”
“No, but I...”
“Well, maybe I can help?”
John gave him an odd look, almost as if he was trying not to smile. “I doubt it. But I suppose it is sort of family business. She wants a baby. She wants me to—see to it.”
“Ababy? She wants you—you to—” He couldn’t go on.
John looked up at him, frowned, and then, to his surprise, gave a splutter of horrified laughter. “What do youthinkI mean? She wants me to make a charm for her. To make your father—you know—visither. Christ!”
“Oh. I thought...”
