Page 69 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
It was all too much. He bent over, head in his hands. He could see Soren’s feet, in a pair of ancient boots that had probably never known polish. The boots were preening because Soren was wearing them. Soren put a hand on his arm.
“Come, John, we’re staying with Mr Howarth.” Soren’s tone was carefully neutral.
“What? I’m not staying with him. He arrested me.”
“Yes, but that was a mistake, and he has a spare room which he has kindly offered us.Aspare room. Understand?” Soren kicked his ankle.
“No.”
Then Soren was whispering in his ear again. His breath, warm on John’s ear, made the rowan twig pulse faster and the wall chatter louder about grouting. “He has a tiny place on the front for seeing his mistress.Onespare room. So, we’ll have to share. Come on, I’ve already figured this out.”
“Oh, God, I really don’t care about grouting spells.”
“No? I can’t say I care about them myself. John, for goodness sake, come on. Don’t you want to get to bed?”
“Why couldn’t you trust me? I won’t take it. I spent a week trying to help youfindthe damned thing! Where is it, anyway? I hope you’ve got it somewhere safe. I’m not bloody looking for it again.”
“It’s safe enough for now. You know, if this is what a few hours in a lock-up does to people, I think I’d better join a prison reform society.”
“It’s not that. It’s you. I’ll be all right soon. Things are calming down.”
“Are they?”
“More or less.” He put his head back in his hands for a moment. “I want my pins. And everything else. They took them.”
“Did they, by God?”
John leant against the wall while Soren barked orders at someone. It was hard to tell which things were materials and which things were men. The men moved more, though. That was key. That was the way to tell. At least Soren was easy to tell apart. He glowed like sea foam in the dark. And he stood still, which was a relief, and he had stopped talking, which was also good. John let himself gaze at Soren, feeling the rush of the world around them slowing and quietening.
Someone brought John’s effects, but dropped them with a cry before they could hand them over. The spancel slithered up his leg and into his pocket. Several of its runes had got scratched and it was shivering with fear. The eye, less terrifyingly for the bystanders, rolled to meet him, feeling its way with magic. It ranted incoherently at his feet until he took it in his hand. The pins stood up on the cobbles like flowers waiting to be picked. They seemed to be hissing. He realised they were saying, “Masssster, masssster, masssssster.” They shouldn’t be able to talk. Not really, not in English, not out loud. People would hear.
“That’s enough,” he said sharply, and everything went quiet again.
Soren gathered the pins, making some comment about scientific equipment as he did so. John thought it sounded thin, but couldn’t bring himself to care.
It looked as though Mr Howarth’s mistress had vacated her best room for them. It was at the front of the house, overlooking the sea. There was a huge bed, a small table and two chairs, an old sea chest, a crackling fire, and a fresh scent of lavender. Soren let people bring food and warm water, and then sent them packing, with orders that no one disturb them. Not for flood, fire or destruction. Not fordeath. Even Mr Howarth, who had arrived with a bottle of port, quailed at his tone.
Soren helped him wash, and put food in front of him. He ate slowly, letting the world go back to normal, though probably it would never be the same again. Then he sat stroking an empty wine-glass that had held remarkably fine port, thinking how restful it was that the glass knew nothing of magic. It was innocent as a daisy.
Soren was sitting at the table opposite him, talking softly, almost to himself. John began to pay attention, and to realise the import of what he was saying: Raskelf had a new master.
“—because Stewart needs to take a cure. All this land in Scotland and Ireland must be worthsomething, so we can get funds from selling that, and—” He realised John was watching him and smiled, that shy smile that surprised John anew every time he saw it. “Feeling better?”
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
Soren’s smile vanished. He looked at the tablecloth. “Yes.”
There was so much in that single syllable: relief, hate, defiance, sorrow, resignation, regret. What did one say?I’m sorry?I’m glad? Eventually, John said, “This land in Scotland, these skerries, I think, if you go there, you’ll find the locals have orders not to shoot seals.”
“Of course they’ll be under orders,” Soren said bitterly. “He wanted one alive.”
“He talked to me, on the shore. She chose him, you know. She came out of the sea to him. They hatched the idea of saying she was Danish together, from the sound of it. I know it went bad, but they were happy once. They loved each other.”
“I should forgive him, should I? You know why he burnt me, all those years ago? Have you worked it out? I was bait. He was trying to make them come for me.” Soren closed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what that burn did to me? He lamed me. At school I—” He put his face in his hands for a moment.
John sighed. “I’m not excusing him. It was unforgivable. But I thought you should know about him and her. Forget it, then.”
John stroked the glass, trying to let it fill his consciousness. He felt, in a way, worse than he had in the lock-up, because now hope kept clutching at his belly, and he could see what he had to lose sitting opposite, even more beautiful than in his imagination, grey eyes defensive, mouth tense and unhappy, slender fingers knotted together, fingernails bitten short. The desire to hold him and never let go was so strong John closed his eyes. Perhaps he should leave. Now. Before things went any further. It could only end badly. He tried to imagine himself standing up, opening the door, walking away.
