Page 25 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Their breathing had slowed to normal, when there came the unmistakable sound of someone turning the handle of the door they were leaning on. There was a surprised female exclamation, followed by the jangling of keys.
“Can you believe it?” Thornby said under his breath, half frowning, half laughing. “That’s old Diggins. They’ll be getting the rooms ready for the Greys. Come on, there’s a connecting door here, too.”
Thornby did up his breeches, rubbing ineffectually at the wet blotches on his waistcoat. Blake grabbed the chimera key from where it had fallen, and they slipped through the connecting door into another spare room. Blake hovered at the door to the passage for a moment, judging when it would be empty, then let them out.
They walked along the empty passage to the top of the stairs, where Blake stopped. Thornby raised an eyebrow at him. He felt, for a moment, like what he had once been; a young and careless gentleman about town. “Well, that was exciting. We didn’t find anything, did we? Yet somehow I don’t feel disappointed, I can’t think why. What now? Want to find somewhere private? We could—”
He broke off. Blake’s expression was not encouraging.
“I’m afraid I need to tell you something,” Blake said.
“I see,” Thornby said. Something bad, obviously. He lifted his chin. “Come then, Mr Blake. I’ll show you the very fine terrace at the front of the house. It was built by the fifth Marquess in 1730 and they say it gives the best view in any of the Ridings. Mainly of overgrown hedges these days, but perhaps we can cultivate a liking for those?” He walked past Blake and down the stairs to the great front door.
Once on the terrace, however, Blake seemed not to know how to start. He looked gloomy and uncomfortable. Thornby longed to say,For goodness sake, whatever you’ve got to tell me, wouldn’t it go better in bed?The happiness he’d felt a few moments ago had evaporated. So many horrible things had happened and now something else was coming. Couldn’t Blake have waited a bit, and let them enjoy themselves first? The bad news wouldn’t get any worse, surely? He felt a little annoyed with Blake, and knew it wasn’t fair, which made him more annoyed. Damn Diggins and her hordes, too.
Finally, Blake said, “Tell me, Thornby, what do you know of your mother?”
“Mother? What’s she got to do with anything? She’s dead.”
“Yes, but what do you know about her?”
“I wasn’t here when it happened. I was eight. I’d been sent off to school.”
They had called him out of class to tell him. The master’s desk had glowed in the sun like a bay horse, like Periwinkle, who was Mother’s blood mare. “I’m very sorry to inform you, Thornby, that your mother has died.”
He had stared at the man dry-eyed, cold with disbelief. It was not true. It was some new torment that went with school, like the way the bigger boys tripped you on the stairs, or made you do things to them in the dormitories.
“You may be excused lessons for the rest of the day, if you wish. You may go to the infirmary.”
No, it was a trap; if you missed divs, you got the cane. He looked again at the gleaming desk. If he touched it, it would be as warm and firm and silky as Periwinkle’s flank. Mother went for a ride every morning. She would be out on Periwinkle now. It was impossible she was dead. How could she be like the maggoty starling he had poked a stick at the other day?
“I’ll go back to lessons, sir,” he’d said, and noted with relief the approval in the master’s face.
“Very good, Thornby. You show your quality, boy, if I may say so.”
So, he had gone back to his lesson. But he had waited for another letter from Mother, for another parcel. And none had ever come.
He realised Blake was looking at him, and said airily, “She drowned, you know. She went boating at midnight.” He pointed west. “There used to be an ornamental lake over there, with an island in the middle. Father had it drained, afterwards. Looks nice and green, doesn’t it? But the whole area is a bog. It’s ruined many a good pair of shoes I can tell you.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Thornby.”
Thornby shrugged. “It’s made the local cobbler rich as Croesus. You should appreciate that, being a working man yourself.”
“What you said at dinner—do you really suspect your father of foul play?”
Thornby made an impatient gesture. “It would be convenient, wouldn’t it, if I could hate him for that too? In fact, I merely said the worst thing I could think of. Much as it galls me, I think he loved her, as he said.”
“Do you think it could have been suicide?”
“Why should you think that? She loved adventures; she was always getting into scrapes like some mad boy. You should have seen the hedges she put her horse at!” He thought a little more, and averted his face. “Mind you, they argued terribly sometimes. I don’t know why. She would plead and rage. He was like a damned stone wall. She wept for days when he decided I was to go away to school. So, I don’t know. She was volatile. Perhaps it was suicide. We’ll never know. Father’s word is law up here; if he says it was an accident, no one’s going to argue.”
“What else do you remember about her?”
“Nothing.” His voice was sharp. “I don’t like this way of going on. Surely even you know it’s damned bad form to talk about somebody’s mother?”
“I think it may be important to your predicament.”
“How could it possibly be related?”
