Page 43 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Both of you.”
“I can tell you, it was actually a damned nasty surprise to find my trunk was practically empty when I got here. I didn’t believe Father’s valet when he told me there were only a few under-things and a couple of pairs of shoes. I suppose that was all my man had time to pack before they took the trunk. I even went to the box room to check, but it was true.”
“Your trunk came with you from London? But it was empty?”
“Yes, I’ve just told you.”
“So, why bring it?”
“I’ve no idea. I suppose it was the look of the thing.”
“Rubbish. Your father dragged you out of London without a hat or coat? He’d rather you walked around in ancient hand-me-downs than some decent clothes? He fights with you at the dinner table. He doesn’t give a damn how things look, does he? No more than you do, really.”
“I hope you’re not comparing us and finding similarities.”
“But listen; he brought the trunk. So, it’s important.”
“A trunk? A battered old thing I’ve had since I went away to school?”
“You’ve had it since the first time you left home?”
“Yes, he gave it to me himself, along with a lecture about taking care of my belongings— Oh my God, there’s something in it, isn’t there? Or there was. This—whatever it is—this token. Come quick, before someone stops us.”
They made their escape through the faded glories of the Venetian saloon, Thornby opening one of those doors that resembled a panelled wall, with the handle cleverly concealed in the wainscoting. He led the way, taking a confusing route through both narrow servants’ passageways, and wide public corridors.
In the gloomy box room, the trunk squatted in a corner. Thornby had called it a battered old thing, but for an item of luggage nearly twenty years old, John was struck by the quality. It was made of the strongest materials, and the Dezombrey arms looked freshly painted.
John sank to his knees, opened the trunk, and ran his hands around the inside. “Right, we’re looking for something that dates back to your childhood. You got that burn when you were nine, so it’s at least that old. Maybe older.”
“You don’t think the trunk itself could be the thing?”
“Does it feel important to you?”
Thornby shrugged. “Not especially. But it is mine.”
“Your father is keeping you here with something damned powerful. I think you’ll know it the moment—wait! I felt something. That other feeling.”
Thornby, examining the side of the trunk closest to the window, said, “There are marks here.”
Along one bottom edge, lines were scored in the heavy leather. Thornby prodded these and a flap in the leather came loose. Thornby wiggled something, then pulled out a shallow drawer, a couple of inches deep and a foot square. He put his fingers in the empty drawer, then snatched them back as though something had bitten him.
“There was something here, all right. I feel—peculiar,” Thornby said.
“May I look?”
John touched a cautious fingertip to the inside of the wooden drawer. There was no ordinary magic to be sensed, and nothing else came clear. But that seemed the way of this other kind of magic; if he looked directly for it, it slid away from him. He carried the drawer to the box-room window.
“What’s that?” John pressed a finger into one corner of the drawer. Stuck to the end of his finger was a hair. It was an inch long, brown, but gold where the light struck it.
Thornby peered at it. “It’s not mine. Wrong colour.”
“Were you fair as a child?”
“I suppose I was, now you mention it.” Thornby looked again. “But that’s not a child’s hair, is it? It’s not fine enough. It’s a bit bristly. It’s more like—” He went spectacularly white, and backed away to sit on the nearest trunk. “It’s from an animal, isn’t it? Is that bad? What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The token’s supposed to be part of me, isn’t it? What if it’s—oh, God—what if I’m a werewolf?”
