Page 34 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Perhaps not.” John didn’t like where this conversation seemed to be leading. Not that he’d had the slightest whiff of anything of that type from the Duke. He decided to be more direct. “I mention doctors, my lord, because perhaps you have some old trouble.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Trouble that started when—forgive me—when the first Lady Dalton passed away.”
Dalton jerked to his feet. “What do you know of that?”
John got to his feet, too. “Nothing, my lord. If you would confide in me, perhaps I could find someone who could—”
“Could what, damn you? What do you mean by coming in here with your hints and suggestions?”
“Perhaps I could find someone who could help you.”
“You, I suppose?”
“Not necessarily me. I would help you if I could, sir.” He tried to sound sincere, in case there was a part of Dalton, somewhere deep inside, that wanted help. “If you could give me any information. Anything that might help me, or a colleague, to understand the situation.”
“And how do I know I can trust you, eh?”
“You could ask Mr Paxton, perhaps? I believe I have given satisfaction at the Crystal Palace.”
“Hmph. Haven’t seen it. No wish to see it. All right, Blake. I’ll think on your suggestions. It’s true, I need a new angle. Good day to you.”
And he walked out, slow and stately as usual. John stared after him, wondering what had just happened, and whether it had gone well, and whether he’d got any kind of clue that could help him unravel the curse.
Chapter Eight
When Thornby got backto the house, Prout and Abbott half-dragged him upstairs to his room and sent one of the maids up to bandage his ankle. They sent a new girl, who did the job with shaking hands, showing the whites of her eyes when he cursed under his breath at the pain. So, he dug his nails into his palms and didn’t curse again. She’d brought food and hot water, so he ate, washed and shaved. Once, having to shave himself had felt like the pinnacle of humiliation and inconvenience; these days he did it without thinking. He put on clean clothes and tossed the muddy rags that were his old ones outside the door.
Father had squinted suspiciously at his healed face, but in the end had shrugged and ridden away. He hadn’t said anything, but then, he didn’t have to. He’d said it already: “Miss Grey and Miss Lazenby. You’ll make yourself pleasant.”
Thornby lay on his bed, but straight away got up. It hurt to walk, but walking was one of the ways he stayed sane, so he limped about the room anyway. How like Father to have made Thornby inflict the pain on himself. If he’d been able to stop himself from fighting the chain, he wouldn’t have been hurt. But when it came to leaving the estate, he’d never been able to think rationally or control himself.
John’s revelation about Mother seemed a lot less shocking today. Perhaps she hadn’t been human, but she was still Mother—beautiful, spirited, and laughing. He didn’t feel any different in himself, either. He recalled some cherished memories—reading Ruskin in a sunlit room at Oxford, a day’s hunting in Dorset on that marvellous borrowed grey, fucking that handsome guardsman—but they all felt just the same. He was still himself. The only bad thing about it, as far as he could see, was that somehow it gave Father some hold over him.
But did it mean he also had latent magic in him? He’d never noticed any odd abilities. He’d never feared iron or had trouble going to church when necessary. He’d never had trouble crossing running water—or was that witches? The problem was, he knew so little about it all. Except, he had been able to answer the fairy queen’s questions and that was encouraging.
