Page 5 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Thornby may be a bounder, but that doesn’t mean he’s using magic. In any case, I’m an industrial man. Society isn’t my thing. I wouldn’t know what to do with a marquess’s son turned witch. Come on, man, my father was an ironmonger. I’d be horribly out of place.”
“My dear fellow, you’re too modest. I know what you’ve been doing for Paxton at the Crystal Palace; hasn’t been all anti-leak charms, has it? You fought off a thousand possessed bats, if what I hear is correct. Please, John, I’m begging you. I feel responsible. I should never have let her marry Dalton, everyone knows he’s facing ruin. But she would be Lady Dalton and wouldn’t hear reason. After this Crystal Palace business it’ll be child’s play for you, eh? A breath of country air. Paxton doesn’t need you at the moment. Just see if someone’s using magic on her; you can tell that much, can’t you?”
So, John had come to Raskelf, and found the whole set-up much worse than he’d imagined. To start with, the whole rambling, crumbling pile that was Raskelf Hall was saturated with old magic. It reeked of the stuff. It clamoured with it. The blackened wood panelling, the tarnished silver, the murky paintings and the uneven parquet floor; all murmuring and chattering with memories of magic.
And the inhabitants were worse. Lord Dalton had the charnel stink of something old and rotten, possibly a curse. Dalton’s spinster sister, Lady Amelia, was an invalid who seemed to live in an old orangery in a haze of wintergreen and sickly palm trees. There was also a Mr Derwent, an elderly second cousin, who’d been a collector of antiquities until the money went. John had stood, horrified, in front of the few artefacts that were left, listening to them seethe with malice and wounded pride. He’d even caught a whiff of something rough and recent from Lady Dalton, as though she’d taken to dabbling in magic in self defence.
And, worst, to his amazement and alarm, his charms had no effect on his prime suspect, Lord Thornby. To be so impervious, the younger man must be a magician of great skill. John had set the Judas Voice sigil with great care before dinner last night, but it had not worked on Thornby. Of course, all John had had to set the charm with was an old stocking filched from Thornby’s room by Lady Dalton’s maid—not a token of the highest order, but it should have worked at least partially. And now Thornby had seen past the sand, eye and spancel charm; John had never known that to fail before.
Now Thornby was walking along the moorland path, calm as you please, nose in the air, apparently admiring the autumn colours in the distant oaks in the park.
“Stop, Lord Thornby! I want to talk to you.”
Thornby walked faster, slight limp becoming more pronounced.
“Stop, I say!”
John felt in his pockets for his vials and pouches, then changed his mind and simply put on speed. He’d come to this remote part of the grounds in the hope of a rest. He’d not slept much last night with the walls of Raskelf muttering and whispering, and the antiquities from Egypt shrieking muffled curses from the other side of the corridor.
The thought of Thornby had kept him awake as well; so resistant to the Judas Voice—that had given John an unpleasant moment—and so unapproachable, with that aristocratic hauteur you could never breach. And so strange. Why did the man wear such peculiar clothes? Today it was tight black pantaloons and a high stock that would have been fashionable forty years ago. And over this bizarre Regency costume was a rusty black greatcoat with wide cuffs, and a tricorn hat that would have looked well in the previous century.
And, yes, Thornby was handsome—heart-stoppingly so—with arrogant grey eyes, a mane of brown hair that almost reached his collar, and a preposterous red mouth. He was tall and thin and carried himself like a fencer. There was, too, something whip-taut about him, some unbearable tension that made you feel he might lash out. Or suddenly kiss you. Thornby had looked John up and down when he was introduced, finally unbending so far as to give John a slight inclination of the head. And John’s mouth had gone as dry as if Thornby had extended one of those elegant white hands and given his balls a gentle squeeze.
It was tiresome, really. It made it so much harder to concentrate. He must make sure he didn’t allow his attraction to the man to cloud his judgement. Possibly Thornby was using a glamour spell. John couldn’t sense one, but sometimes by their very nature they were difficult to detect.
So, he mustn’t think about how good it would be to slide his fingers inside Thornby’s old black pantaloons, how good it would be to taste his lovely mouth, and wipe that damned snooty expression off his face. If John had been in London, he would have gone to one of the houses that catered to men of his taste, and tried to forget about it. Here in the middle of rural Yorkshire it was far too dangerous to approach anyone, and in any case, farm lads were not his type. He’d simply leave as soon as he could tell Catterall he’d done his best.
They walked in single file for perhaps five minutes. The path smelt of rotting leaves, and a biting wind began to make its presence felt as they crossed into an open piece of moorland. Splashes of muddy water were spotting the back of Thornby’s coat. John used the close proximity to feel for magic. Like last night at dinner, he could sense nothing emanating from Thornby. There was certainly no demon reek, so Thornby probably wasn’t a theurgist, or if he was, he was a very fastidious one.
But then Thornby didn’t feel like a materials man either, and John could generally recognise his own kind. So, howhadThornby broken those charms? Now John was closer, and had longer to concentrate on Thornby alone, he thought there might besomethingmagical, at the very edge of his awareness, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Most magicians used demons or materials, but there were other ways, so perhaps Thornby used some unfamiliar method.
John charged his ward stone, and put it back in his pocket. He patted his bag of salt and checked his Gelomorous twine and the demon trap, just in case. Whatever spells Thornby cared to throw at him, he was ready. In fact, he was almost looking forward to a fight. It would be a pleasure to best the little sod and make him apologise to Lady Dalton.
They reached an open place a hundred yards from a small pine spinney. The dark trees were contorted sideways as if fleeing the icy wind. The sun, behind its grey pall of cloud, was beginning to set. Thornby suddenly stopped and swung around.
“Well, Mr Blake? I suppose you’d like to explain yourself?” Thornby’s chin was up, beautiful mouth curved in disdain.
“Look here, yourlordship.” John infused the word with contempt. “You may have broken a couple of simple charms, but you’re no match for me. I studied at the Dee Institute. I’m sure you know what that means.”
“TheDeeInstitute?” Thornby looked heavenward, as if for inspiration. “That’s not in Oxbridge. Some working men’s establishment, I suppose?”
Even while he was being insulted, John couldn’t help admiring the lovely clean lines of Thornby’s profile. How he’d like to wipe the jeer from those pretty lips. How he’d like to watch those proud eyes close in surrender. How he’d like— He hunched defensively. Thornby was too attractive to be true. “A glamour? It won’t work.”
“Awhat?”
“What do you have against Lady Dalton?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard. Are you jealous?”
“Ofher?”
Thornby looked so astonished John felt a moment of uncertainty, but it was better to plough on. The sooner it came out, the sooner he could leave.
“She thinks you’re using magic to frighten her,” John said. “And I think she’s right. You saw through my sand-eye charm just now, didn’t you? So, you’ve a bit of craft at least. But it’s not on. Aren’t you a gentleman? Well, I’m a friend of her cousin, and I’m here on his behalf”—he advanced a pace—“to make you stop.”
“Magic? Sand-eye?” Thornby backed away, shaking his head. “You’ve lost me, Mr Blake. Magic isn’t real, is it? It’s tricks and superstition. Something for low types, perhaps, but hardly somethingIshould dabble in. And why, pray, should I take any notice of Lady Dalton? She was a fool to marry my father, but I should hardly—” He frowned, stared at John. “Wait. You say magic’s real? You say you know about it?”
