Salt Magic, Skin Magic Page 10

  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?”

  “Well, where was she from?”

  Thornby sighed, with the air of one humouring a fool. “Do you think they named me Soren on a whim? She was Danish. Her name was Rosa. You saw the portrait; she was a famous beauty in the twenties and half of London was in love with her. There were all kinds of duels and poems and ridiculous wagers to bring her bouquets. Dozens of lovesick men wanting to call Father out and marry her themselves.” He smiled, looking at Blake under his lashes. “I’m very like her, apparently. They say she drove men mad with longing.”

  Blake looked, for a moment, like an awkward boy. Thornby grinned. “Mr Blake, are you blushing?”

  “I wish you’d take this seriously. Where did your father meet her? Here, I suppose?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe he brought her to England, but he’d already married her. In Denmark, I always supposed. What’s this all about? Why don’t you just tell me what you’re getting at?”

  “Have you met any of her side of the family? Any aunts or uncles or whatever?”

  “I can’t say that I have. But then Denmark’s a dashed long way.”

  “They didn’t come for the funeral?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t go myself. I was at school, remember? I suppose they thought it would upset me.”

  “Thornby, I—”

  “I hope you’re not going to say you’re sorry again. Really, it’s none of your business how I feel.”

  Blake looked suddenly very bleak, staring at the impossibly green field where Mother had died and Father had revenged himself on the lake that had taken her. “No, I suppose not.”

  He sounded defeated and Thornby felt suddenly odious, like the impertinent little whelp his father thought him.

  “Mr Blake, I—I beg your pardon. That was damned rude. It’s very decent of you to worry about upsetting me.”

  “Lord Thornby, I’m afraid I have a theory. Actually, it’s more than a theory. I’m certain. But I don’t think you’re going to like it very much.”

  “No? Out with it, then.” He put on his best social face and fixed his eyes on a particularly baroque flourish on the roof. He would not show how he felt, no matter what came. He would look at that damned ugly curlicue and get through this.

  “Well, there are certain similarities, between you and the fairies. You must have noticed: my magic doesn’t work on you, and it doesn’t work on them. And the way you knew the answers to the queen’s questions—I don’t think an ordinary man would have known. And then—your mother. Seeing that portrait just now—my God, Thornby, you saw it! She had a look of that place, didn’t she? She and the queen especially. You must have noticed. And her writing; it wasn’t a lady’s writing, was it?

  “I’m afraid I don’t think she was Danish at all. I think your father got her from that other place. I think he had to teach her to read and write and act the lady. I expect he said she was Danish to explain away the oddities of her accent and behaviour. I don’t know how he kept her here. Maybe she really loved him, but I think it’s more likely he had the same hold over her that he has over you. And, I—well, that’s what I think.”

  Thornby felt as if Blake had punched him in the stomach. Mother not human? Which made him—what? If anyone had dared to suggest such a thing a couple of years ago, he’d have laughed in their face. Now, after all the months of gnawing self-doubt and mystery, after the horror of being trapped in that place, and the chase—

  He turned, very slowly, so he didn’t fall over, to look at Blake.

  “Have you finished?” He’d been aiming for the tone he’d use on an impudent servant, but it came out wobbly. It occurred to him that this might be why Blake had hesitated in the spare room. This might be why he hadn’t wanted to touch him at first. Because Blake thought he was some half-breed creature. Not human. The idea that Blake might be revolted by him, and had only managed to master his revulsion long enough for a bit of a tug—

  “I’m sorry, Thornby. It’s what I think.”

  “You’re sorry a lot lately, aren’t you? So, my mother was an inhuman freak, was she? And I’m one too. And even my Christian name is some sort of—of—red herring?”

  He clenched his fists, shock giving way to anger. The sheer nerve of the fellow, to suggest such a thing! He wasn’t sure why he was so furious, since it was clearly ludicrous. He felt strangely shivery, the way one did with a fever. He thought, for a horrible moment, he might throw up again, and swallowed hard.

  Blake’s apologetic expression wasn’t helping. Oh God, what if Blake was sorry for him? Had he acted out of pity in the spare room?

  “But it’s the clue we need, isn’t it? Don’t you see that it narrows the search?” Blake said.

  “But it doesn’t!” He spat it out. “We still haven’t the faintest idea what we’re looking for! Christ, you call yourself a magician, but you’re bloody useless, aren’t you? If you were any real sort of magician you could make Father let me go. But for some reason you haven’t offered. You could frighten him into it, probably. Or threaten him. But you haven’t. All you’ve done is get yourself into trouble. Why the hell should I believe your theory? What is the Dee Institute anyway? For all I know it’s where they send the hopeless cases who’ll never amount to anything!”

  “Is that what you want me to do; frighten your father for you?”

  “Yes! Why not? Force him to let me go! Make him do it!”

  “That’s witchcraft.”

  “So, sneaking around and using that voice on people, and looking through other men’s things is all right, is it? But thrashing a damned bully would be wrong?”

  “It’s witchcraft, Thornby. I won’t do it. For the same reason you haven’t broken into his room and attacked him in his sleep.”

  “I’m not asking you to murder him, for God’s sake! Just to force him—I don’t know. Scare him. Whatever you feel isn’t beneath you.”

  “He’s cursed. Did you remember that? Whether your mother did it, or whether it’s just happened due to the circumstances, I don’t know, but—”

  “And that excuses him, does it? He can ruin the family and run the place into the ground and do whatever the hell he likes to all of us because he’s cursed?”

  “It’s driving him. It makes him dangerous and unpredictable. If I did as you ask, if I frightened him—say I told his bedroom furniture to fly about the room next time he’s in it—and then I went in and said I’d only stop it if he let you go—do you think he’d do it? Do you really think so? I wouldn’t like to bet on it myself. I think he’d lash out. Probably at you. We don’t know how he’s doing what he’s doing. Can’t you see it’s too dangerous?”

  “So, you’re scared of him,” Thornby said, contemptuously, and had the satisfaction of seeing a spark of anger light up in Blake’s dark eyes.

  “Don’t mistake me for some street entertainer because all you
’ve seen so far are a few tricks. But there’s a curse involved that comes from that other place. And in any case, as I’ve said, frightening people with magic into doing what you want is witchcraft.”

  “So, stop short of hurting him. But there must be—”

  “Would you like me to trap him somewhere, maybe? To keep him somewhere until he does as I wish? Is that what you want me to do, to be like him?”

  Blake’s turned-down mouth had gone beyond grim to decidedly forbidding. He shifted his stance, as if leaning into the argument. Thornby drew himself up too, welcoming the rage that was washing over him. His fists were itching to hit something. To finally have someone to lash out at. To banish helplessness with a punch and see the result bleeding in front of him. Father had a way of making himself impregnable, of retreating behind his title and his mysterious power until it was impossible to do anything.

  But Blake—

  One could touch a man like Blake. One could hit him. One could hurt him.

  “It sounds like justice to me,” Thornby said scornfully. “Would you be brave enough to do it, if I ordered it?”

  “It’s not a question of bravery. I damned well won’t do it,” Blake snapped. “I know you’re used to people doing as you say, but you can’t order me around, so you can stop trying.”

  They glared at each other. Thornby was one trembling breath from hitting him, when Blake’s expression suddenly softened. He took a step back and relaxed his shoulders, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

  “Thornby, let’s not quarrel. It won’t help. Look, at the moment he suspects nothing, so we’ve got free rein to look about. It’s better to be subtle, isn’t it?”

  So, he wouldn’t fight. He wouldn’t give the satisfaction. But there was something in his voice, some tenderness, some question, that left him wide open. The urge to hurt him shifted focus. But at the same time Thornby remembered how the argument had started. Mother, not human. And the world seemed again to lurch beneath his feet. Every certainty, every belief, every idea he’d ever had about himself seemed to be crumbling away like ash.

  “So, my mother was a fairy, was she? That’s what you’re saying, you know. Do you know what a fool you sound?” His voice was thin, but it was perfectly under control.

  “I know how it sounds. Until last night I wouldn’t have believed it myself.”

  “And what does that make me? You’re a lunatic. I don’t know why I thought you could help me. You may as well go back to London. Although I quite like your idea about attacking him in his sleep. Perhaps you’ll leave your marvellous key behind when you go? Good day, Mr Blake. Since you’re not interested, I’ve got cowslips to suck.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away. He had no idea where he was going, but wherever it was, it was as far as possible from the ridiculous Mr Blake and his preposterous ideas.

  Chapter Seven

  Dinner was nearly over.

  “Where’s Lord Thornby this evening?” John kept his voice pleasant and even.

  “Bad form. Late for dinner,” Mr Derwent mumbled. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “He does enjoy long walks,” Lady Amelia remarked.

  “Youth must have its day,” said Lord Dalton, each word dripping with scorn. “So easy to lose track of time, eh?”

  John nodded politely, but his stomach was tying itself in knots. After Thornby had left him on the terrace, he’d dragged himself upstairs. He’d been so tired even Raskelf’s incessant whispering hadn’t stopped him sleeping for an hour or two. When he woke, he’d spent the rest of the day looking for Thornby, but he’d not found him.

  Was Thornby avoiding him? He hadn’t taken John’s news very well. It was a bloody difficult thing to take. She’d been his mother. To learn she hadn’t been human; it would shake a man to his core.

  God, why did Raskelf have to be so big? The place was a labyrinth—one could wander it endlessly and never find the person one was looking for. But was Thornby avoiding him, or had something happened to him? Thornby had stalked away in high dudgeon and there were culverts aplenty on the estate where a distracted man could twist an ankle. The hole they called Jennie’s Pot had a cliff over twenty yards high. Of course, Thornby must know the estate the way John knew his iron pins, but it had turned foggy, which could have confused him.

  Or he could have fallen foul of poachers. Some of the locals John had spoken to seemed to have great affection for Lord Thornby; his eccentricities impressed them. They expected the nobility to be different, and if Thornby was ‘touched’ and known to shout epithets at hedges and go shooting in court clothes, he was touched in such an odd and lordly way that it gave the local people bragging rights. But not everybody felt like that. Some of them were plain afraid of him, some with fear so deep, John felt it bordered on hate. What if Thornby met someone like that in the depths of the park?

  Or what if John had broken the news too bluntly? What if Thornby simply couldn’t take it, on top of everything else? What if Thornby had decided he couldn’t go on? Was he even now lying dead in some ditch with his brains blown out—beautiful eyes glazed and dull, flawless skin growing cold?

  John felt sick. He stopped pushing his venison about with his fork.

  “Surely Lord Thornby should be at dinner by now? Shall I go and look for him?” He half got to his feet.

  “Sit down, man. He’ll come in his own good time,” Lord Dalton said. “Farrell, more wine.”

  “My lord.” John sat.

  The Judas Voice had worked well on Dalton, but it would not stand up if he antagonised the man. He ate a bite of something without tasting it. Perhaps Thornby simply didn’t want to see him. Perhaps he was regretting what had happened in the spare room. Or perhaps he was indifferent to it. John himself generally walked away from such encounters without a second thought. Just because he was aching to see Thornby again—to hold him, to kiss him, to breathe him in—it didn’t mean Thornby felt the same.

  “Mr Blake, will you take another glass of claret?” Lord Dalton waved a hand as if offering the entire contents of his cellar.

  “Thank you.” He felt it would choke him, but it seemed polite to accept.

  Did Dalton seem in a more expansive mood than usual? There was something almost gleeful about him, like a boy with a secret.

  John felt as if ice-water had been poured down his spine. Dalton had done something to Thornby. He knew it. He’ll come in his own good time—there had been a subtle smugness to that comment. Dalton knew it wasn’t true.

  The moment he could escape from dinner, John checked every room he could think of that locked, but found no sign of Thornby. And there was no point setting any seeking charms; Thornby would be as impervious to those as he was to everything else.

  John slumped down onto a cold marble step, careless of his evening clothes. The temptation to go and confront Lord Dalton was strong, but he didn’t dare to play his hand so openly just yet. He still had no idea what to do about the curse. He’d once seen a cursed woman who washed her hands until the fingers were bloody stumps. What would Lord Dalton’s curse drive him to do?

  He must think. He must think like Dalton. If Thornby was correct, then Dalton wanted the money that a wife for Thornby would bring. Dalton had tried a waiting game; isolating Thornby, not even allowing him his valet, using loneliness and boredom and mystery as weapons. But Thornby’s resolve had held. And now Dalton’s patience had run out. So, Dalton would up the stakes—to force Thornby to obey him. The other night at dinner the Marquess had threatened Thornby with ‘a demonstration’. A demonstration that meant Thornby had missed dinner and was nowhere in the house...

  God, what a fool John had been, searching the Hall! It was obvious. He ran down the stairs, grabbing his overcoat on the way out. The worst thing Dalton could do to Thornby was to take him off the estate and hold him there. The magic that bound Thornby to the estate would do the rest; it would be torture. Would he find Thornby flayed raw? Bled to death? Or with his mind gone, from being
kept away too long?

  No. Dalton needed Thornby relatively whole and sane if Miss Grey or Miss Lazenby were to marry him. So Thornby would be somewhere near the boundary. Probably merely trapped in some way.

  Outside, the fog had lifted, but grey wraiths still swirled around, moved by a cold wind from the north. John ran west along the driveway towards the village, feeling in his pockets for the rowan twig and vial of sulphur. He dipped the twig, sending power to both until they kindled and burnt with a cold, blue, un-consuming fire. Now he had a light, he easily found the path along the estate boundary.

  But which way to go? He looked one way, then the other. If he turned the wrong way, he might search all night and Dalton would get back to Thornby first. John could not allow that to happen. He forced himself to breathe, to think.

  Dalton would need to keep Thornby hidden, perhaps in a wood or a lonely barn. To the west was the village, with people always coming and going. To the north, the Howarths had several game-keepers who patrolled the moors, and besides, the moorland was too open. So, perhaps to the south? Or the east?

  John turned left, heading south-east along the path Thornby’s feet had worn smooth over the months. He held the rowan twig high, hoping Thornby might see it and call out. He called himself, pausing often to listen. Every rustle of the wind in the trees, every bark of a fox or hoot of an owl sounded like Thornby’s voice calling in answer. Occasionally John would range off the path to investigate a clump of trees, a hay-stack, or a curve in a stone wall.

  Then, in a patch of woodland south of the house, he heard Thornby’s voice. It was hoarse, as if he’d been calling for a long time. John ducked behind a thick growth of holly, feet slipping in mud and wet leaves. In the rowan twig’s cold blue light he could see Thornby writhing on the ground under a tree, hands outstretched to the estate boundary, about a foot out of his reach.

  John wasn’t sure if Thornby recognised him. The younger man’s face was dead white and set in a rictus of agony and desperation. He was still trying to get back to the estate, but his ankle was manacled to a huge oak with an iron chain. The strange otherness John had sensed that day on the moor was now an unbearable, relentless keening, a magical whine of panic and pain.