Page 20 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Really, Tig!” said the queen, wrinkling her beautiful nose. “He stinks of gramarye! How can you?”
“I bean’t fussy. Walnuts is me favourites.” The creature put its other hand on the glass thorns and glanced at Thornby, beady eyes unreadable. “All right, poppet?” it said. Then it turned and went back into the crowd, crunching walnuts with its mouth open.
“Oh,” Thornby said faintly.
“What?” John turned to him.
“The answer. But it can’t be. It’s just a stupid joke I have with myself.”
“Say it. Don’t second-guess. You got the first one right.”
“All right.” Thornby addressed the queen and the host of waiting figures. “It’s a hedgehog. I’ve always thought the Hall resembles one, because of all the chimneys and turrets.”
Again, uproar. Worse than before.
“So clever, so clever, so answer me this: Why can’t you leave the estate?” The queen’s eyes glittered—with malice, or with laughter, or perhaps with both?
Thornby’s shoulders sagged. “That’s not fair.” John heard him mutter. Then Thornby stood straight again, and said loudly, “I tell you truly, I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’ve told you truly. It’s as true an answer as the first two. Now we’ll go. Good day. So lovely meeting you.”
Thornby pulled at the thorns again, and this time a huge branch broke off where the hedgehog had touched it. John kicked another and was free. The creatures were in uproar, jostling and shrieking, but at the same time hanging back, as though unsure whether the game had been won or not.
Then the red and white-spotted dog began to slink towards them, low on its belly, teeth bared. The others fell silent, and began to inch forward as well, creeping past the queen like a dark wave. She stood still, seeming to have lost interest. Did that mean they’d won? Or that she’d let the dog and the others take them? She was humming her lilting melody again, admiring a few strands of her coppery hair. John looked over his shoulder and saw the pathway open again, his room in the distance, a beam of sunlight streaming onto the wooden floorboards and the faint salt lines of the Woden’s Eye sigil.
Thornby was standing, unmoving, facing the host of advancing creatures. John grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled. They ran. Then the creatures found their voices, and they were running from squeals and gibbers, from reaching hands and flailing claws. John felt teeth at his heels, snapping like a guillotine.
They tore out of the trees into dusty midday sunshine in the guest room. John obliterated the sigil’s lines with his boots, scattering salt, the devil’s toenails flying to the corners of the room, his iron pins likewise. And the path closed with a screaming gurgle like water going down a narrow drain. A clawed hand reached for a moment out of empty air, and then that was gone, too.
Thornby stood bent over in the centre of the room, hands on his thighs, face white, breathing hard. Their eyes met and a sudden wild ecstasy filled John. They’d escaped! They were alive. And Thornby had done it. What mettle he’d shown.
John had used a lot of magic in that crystal thorn bush, trying to get out. He didn’t stop to consider any other consequences. He took Thornby by the shoulders and pulled him upright. They were of a height. Thornby’s eyes were the glowing grey of the sun behind cloud and his lips—
Thornby gave him an intense look which rapidly turned glassy, and sank to his knees, face grazing John’s crotch as he did so, breath warm.
Then he threw up on John’s boots.
