Page 68 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Ludicrous. That was the opposite of what John should do. Was he going to spend his life looking for someone who didn’t want him? Stupid. He’d never expected to be lucky in love anyway. Men of his type never were. You were lucky if you never got caught.
But sod those bloody factories. He was never going back there. And sod the Institute. Everything they’d taught him was wrong. At least Soren had given him that realisation. In a way, he wasn’t really alone and never had been. The salt, the pins, his other materials—they wanted him, wanted the magic. The soldiers had taken most of his things when they put him in the cell, but he could feel the salt in his pocket, a light, warm awareness, like having a cat on his lap.
Perhaps he’d leave England. Perhaps they had better ideas about magic in other countries. India, maybe? New Zealand? How did magicians there do things?
But he was thinking like a free man. He was assuming that justice would be done and his innocence proved. But Dalton wanted him to hang, not only for freeing Soren, but for loving him too. The glow of warmth from the rowan twig died, leaving him shaking in the cold. The word of a marquess carried more weight than that of an ironmonger’s son from a not terribly respectable profession. John had never been on the wrong side of the law, but he knew well that the theory of things and the reality are often very different. In theory, English law was the best in the world and the truth would out. In practice, if Dalton lied on the stand, and got his men to lie, even direct intervention from the Duke would not save John. He wondered, bitterly, if he could make friends with the hangman’s noose in the few seconds between meeting it and having it throttle him.
The iron bars of the cell door were murmuring at him and he put a hand to them. The cell was so small there was no need to get up. The bars had known all kinds of chimera keys, glamours and demons. The stone walls likewise wanted to tell what they’d seen. Spells to conceal, to disguise. Love charms. Love charms, in a lock-up? Yes, the walls kept telling him,love, love, love. He told them to shut up, and tried to put thoughts of the gallows out of his mind. He stroked the trembling rowan twig, igniting it once again, and tried to go to sleep curled around its feeble warmth.
He woke from a miserable half-doze to men shouting in the street, doors banging and the slap of feet on stone. Orange lantern light made wild shadows on the walls. And outside, directly under the barred window, a familiar voice said, with crystal diction and withering scorn, “Do Ilooklike a drowned corpse, Mr Howarth? Well? I grant the costume is quite apropos. But I think you’ll find my fist quite warm and dry.Ifyou’d care to try it?”
Soren.
Something exploded inside John’s chest. Joy, sheer delight, and a tide of relief. There was a mumbling response; that must be Howarth.
Then Soren again; “No, I damned well won’t take a drink with you, sir. You’ll open this door, and you’ll do it now. I don’t give a rat’s arse what the Marquess told you.I’mtelling you toopen it.” The last two words were a feral snarl.
John got to his feet and nearly fell. The room was spinning. Whatever had exploded inside him had not abated. It was intensifying, now moving beyond the confines of his body and effervescing in the air around him. He clutched the bars of the door for support; they started to tell him about a glamour from twenty years ago. In his pocket, the salt was whining like a dog that hears its master.Love, love, lovethe walls started humming, despite the fact that he wasn’t even touching them.
“Please,” he said. “Quiet now.” How on earth was he supposed to compose himself when everything was clamouring at him, and the entire world was fizzing like champagne? Was it magic?
Then Soren was there, grabbing John’s hands through the bars and snapping at the man with the keys. At the same time, the salt was singing with joy, wriggling with ecstasy in John’s pocket. The rowan twig kept flaring with heat, not quite in time with his heartbeat; it felt unnervingly as though he had two hearts, and both of them pounding. And the Och resin found it had a voice too, and began trilling like a canary.
Now Soren was standing directly in front of him, looking into his face and saying something that sounded urgent. Their hands were clasped together. John shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Please be quiet,” John said. He was beginning to feel afraid. The magic was too strong. All he wanted to do was to gaze at Soren, but everything was too loud, too distracting. “Everyone. Please.”
“John?” Soren’s voice rang loud in the sudden silence.
John stared at him, taking deep breaths. Soren looked more handsome than before, if that was conceivable. Some subtle energy flowed from him; it lit his eyes, it was in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. It was a fluid power that could not contain itself, even though Soren was frowning, looking at John in concern. Soren no longer had any marks on him. No scratches, no bruises. There were patches of colour in his cheeks. He looked as vital as if he’d just come from a morning walk. But he wasn’t a dream. He was wearing a ghastly old canvas shirt and trousers, and a jacket that looked as though someone had once painted it with tar.
John tried to decide what to say. Should he explain that the world had just started talking at him? What about the murder charge? Lord Dalton and his hunt for another seal woman? The chase across the moors? The sealskin?
“I wouldn’t have taken it.” He realised only after hearing the words that he’d said them aloud.
“I know. John—I—Christ, I’m so sorry.”
Soren threw his arms around him. John patted his shoulder, trying to pull away. He felt there were a hundred people crowding into the ante-room outside the cell and peering through the door. He had no idea who they were, but this was no place for displays of affection. Not of the kind he would display anyway.
“Can we—leave?” His voice dragged. The walls were whispering about love charms again. The air was beginning to bubble.
“Yes, come on,” Soren said, leading the way. “Apparently, you murdered me, but since I’m walking around swearing at everybody, I think that charge is dropped. Are you all right?”
“Maybe. Are you?”
“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Wait! What about your father? He’ll come! Howarth’ll fetch him! Where—”
“John, stop!” Soren lowered his voice. “Father’s gone. Dead. The sea took him.”
They’d made it into the street, but suddenly John had to sit down. There was nowhere to sit, so he put a hand on someone’s house front so he could lean on it. It wanted to tell him about a spell for better grouting. He groaned and rested his back against it instead. The street was loud with chattering, people or things, he wasn’t sure. The lantern kept swinging. Even the shadows seemed alive.
So, Dalton was dead. Without getting his heart’s desire. Without seeing another seal-woman. John wished he could hate the man and be glad, but instead—To have someone like Soren’s mother. To fuck it up. To never get over that person. What had Dalton said?Anyone else will be ashes in your mouth. John’s own mouth felt like that. And Soren—back again. For how long? How long until he went into the sea again?
“John, what’s the matter? Are you drunk? You don’tsmelldrunk.”
“When you came, everything started talking. The walls, the salt. Those cobbles—”
