Page 56 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
He’d set the sigil to find Lord Dalton. But what if his lordship had sent someone else to do the dirty work? What if Lord Dalton had simply been enjoying an innocent early morning ride? John examined the idea. It smelled like horse-shit, so it probably was. Chances were that Dalton had done it himself. John felt a pang of guilt; he couldn’t help but wonder if this was somehow revenge. For a moment, last night, Lord Dalton had seen his dead wife in his son. Perhaps he realised his appetites had been manipulated. Was this vicious act some kind of retribution?
But at least they now knew that the token was in the park, somewhere within a fifteen-minute gallop. They were closing in. Where would Dalton hide it out of doors? It could be buried, or tucked into a niche in a stone wall, or perhaps in a hollow tree. John looked up from the muddy track, considering the old oaks and elms and the gentle green curves of the park.
He wanted to keep searching, but there’d been something wrong with Soren beyond those nasty-looking cuts. When he’d touched Soren’s shoulder, a jolt of that uncanny otherness had pulsed through him, and it had been screaming—the mad, magical scream of something pushed beyond its limits. Something was breaking. Would Soren break with it?
John turned and ran back to the house. He came in Raskelf’s wide front door to a cluster of people, all with their backs to him, all looking down at something on the Great Stair. The Greys were there, all five of them. A flustered-looking housemaid with a dust-pan ran away from the group.
John pushed to the front to find Soren lying on the stairs. He was dressed in his usual black Regency breeches and coat, but he was dishevelled, and ashen-pale with a bloody handprint on his face. His eyes were open, but unfocused. He was gasping for breath. Mr Grey was trying to help him to his feet.
“Oh, Mr Blake, Lord Thornby is ill!” He wasn’t sure which of the ladies had spoken. One of the girls was crying.
“Ah, Mr Blake! Your assistance, please,” said Mr Grey, and then, to his wife, “My dear, make sure that girl fetches a doctor. Good lord! The staff here!”
They got Soren up and began to carry him to his room. He wasn’t walking; his feet trailed behind him, and his head lolled.
“What happened?” John said. The magical screaming had stopped, but he could still sense that terrible wrongness. Had Dalton done too much? What if Soren never came back to himself?
“We saw him on the stairs. Looked like he was seeing a ghost! I’ve never seen a fellow look so. Then he collapsed. I think he’s bleeding from the chest. I don’t understand it.” Mr Grey’s round face was red with effort and alarm.
Soren’s arm was limp around John’s shoulders, his hand like ice. They got him to his room and put him on the bed, which was in disarray with blood on the sheets. John took his hand. “Soren?Soren!”
“Mr Blake, does Lord Thornby have some trouble I should know about? Consumption, maybe?” said Mr Grey.
Soren’s fingers suddenly tightened on his own, but his eyes didn’t focus. “John?”
Relief flooded him. “Yes, I’m here. And Mr Grey.”
“You didn’t find it, did you?” Soren said.
John glanced at Mr Grey. “I can manage, Mr Grey. Thank you for your help.”
“I’ll stay till the doctor comes, eh?” Mr Grey said.
“We’ll never find it, will we? John, I—I don’t think I can bear it—” Soren began to cry.
“Soren! Of course we’ll find it!” Watching him weep had been bad enough that night in the hazel thicket. Now John felt as if his heart was caught in a vice.
“Why does he hate me so much? It was him, wasn’t it, who burnt my foot? And now—”
“What’s he on about?” Mr Grey said. “Feverish, I think.”
“Mr Grey, perhaps you could make sure someone brings brandy? And smelling salts? And bandages and water and towels and so on?” He made the list as long as he could, hoping to give Soren time to recover. “The bells don’t always seem to work here. It might be best to go down to the kitchen yourself.”
“Yes, all right. I must say I don’t think much of the staff here. Lord Dalton must be a saint;Iwouldn’t tolerate it.” Mr Grey left the room.
“Soren, what happened?”
“I thought I’d died. It was so cold. And dark. I couldn’t remember the light. I couldn’t remember the sun.”
“Can you see me, now?”
“Nearly.” He touched John’s cheek. His fingers were so cold they almost burned. “John. I wish I’d met you in London.”
“Soren—”
“Actually, no. You’d have hated me.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.”
