Salt Magic, Skin Magic Read online

  “I find I can forgive you. I can’t think why.” Thornby closed his eyes. “I suppose we should go and look for this token, but let’s have five more minutes. Yes?”

  “I should get to my salt. See if it has any ideas.”

  “All right, I’ll come.” But he yawned, and sighed, settling closer, and in another minute, he was asleep.

  John admired the curve of his cheekbone, the feathery darkness of his lashes, and that mouth—just looking at it made his cock twitch. He was in over his head, he knew it. Not only did he feel as if Thornby had clouted him hard in some tender part he’d never known he had—but professionally speaking too.

  He hadn’t said so, but finding a token he couldn’t trace with magic would be nearly impossible. When he’d thought they were looking for a spell, he’d been confident he’d recognise it if they found it. But a token could be anything. They were often crudely-made dolls, but it could be a ring or a seal, a pen or a button. Raskelf stretched around them—miles of passageways, hundreds of rooms, a million hiding places. And then there was the estate. They could search for a lifetime and never find it.

  John knew where he was with iron, or salt, or a sulky furnace. He knew where he was with his sigils and herbs. But he was trained for industry, for the painstaking preparations and day-to-day drudgery of factory magic. And now he was caught in a morass of mystery and magic and lust, and he was out of his depth.

  He should go back to London, tell Catterall what was going on. John had never asked for help with magic before, but this was different. Perhaps Catterall would pay for back-up. But who? He considered the other materials men, but no-one seemed quite right for a job as unusual as this. Perhaps a theurgist? Not Rokeby, Catterall wouldn’t stomach him. And, frankly, John wasn’t eager to see the effect of Rokeby’s best smile on Thornby. Or Lady Dalton. Or anyone. Rokeby was, sort of, a friend, and could generally be relied upon in an emergency, but he had also fucked half of London, and swindled the other half. No, not Rokeby.

  Perhaps Armstrong, though he was busy at the Home Office just now, and unlikely to obey Catterall’s say-so. Maybe Christie would help, if he could be pried away from the Palace. John found himself scowling at the mere thought of Christie’s supercilious nose poking around Raskelf. “Spot of bother, Blake? All a little too much, eh? Why don’t you run along and play with your pins and needles? What we need here is some real magic.”

  But did it matter, if it meant Thornby could get away? If the curse on Lord Dalton could be lifted and Lady Dalton’s happiness restored?

  Only, would Armstrong or Christie let Thornby free once they knew what he was? They both dealt in demons; would they see Thornby as one? Although he’d never conjured up a demon himself, John knew they came from somewhere. Somewhere different again from the place he and Thornby had gone. But would Armstrong or Christie see it as different? They would probably hate Thornby on principle, with added revulsion thrown in if they realised he preferred men.

  And in any case, something kept revolting in him. Something fierce and proud he thought he’d left behind at thirteen, when it had become clear to everyone that he was no theurgist and never would be. When he’d been accepted at the Institute at ten years old, he’d thought he’d be like Prospero one day, only younger. Magic would sing in his blood, and storms rage if he snapped his fingers. Caliban would do his bidding. And Ariel be his friend.

  And then it had all turned to dust. He worked with materials. With common clay. He must support industry. It was fitting, really. His father was a shop-keeper. Armstrong’s father was a gentleman farmer. Christie’s was a barrister, with some connection to the Palace. Rokeby’s origins were discreetly veiled, but rumour had it he was a by-blow of royalty.

  And so John’s magic had become a tool, a chore, a skill he could peddle like any tradesman. True, he’d gained the respect of the industrialists he worked for, and they’d paid him handsomely, too. He tried to be grateful. But since when was magic so mundane? Since when did it mean he had to spend his days strengthening bridges or testing ore samples? The only joy he ever felt in it was on those rare occasions when his materials spoke back to him—and that was a dangerous indulgence, a mere side-effect.

  He allowed himself another long look at Thornby. He could gaze at him all day if he let himself, but that would help no-one. Instead, he kissed Thornby’s cheek where it was criss-crossed with a dozen small scratches from the hazel thicket, then slid carefully out of bed.

  As he did so, his bare foot crunched something small and fragile. He lifted his heel to find a white shell, like a tiny wing, now lying broken on the threadbare carpet. He frowned and pushed the two halves back together with his toe. It must belong to Thornby; perhaps he’d been sketching it.

  He pulled on his drawers and trousers, and was putting on his shirt when he noticed another shell, so white it glowed in the grey morning light. Then he saw another, and another. Maybe six or seven, leading in a trail to one of the iron pins that stood quivering by the door. He froze, casting about with all his senses, then glanced at Thornby, still asleep. Should John wake him? And say what?

  He touched the nearest shell. Nothing. Just a shell.

  He crept to the pin and found a growth of barnacles clustering upon it, as if the pin had spent weeks underwater. And when he picked it up, there was emanating from it not merely his own pent-up magic, but an undercurrent of something rich and strange that made his heart leap and his skin prickle. Then the barnacles began to crumble to nothing under his fingers. The shells winked out, one by one, like tiny gas-lights, and the room was once again as ordinary as it could be with a man as beautiful as Thornby asleep in it.

  John picked up the other pin, finished dressing, moved the chair, and very nearly ran down the passage to his room to begin his experiments. Once there, he laid out the materials he used most often—the salt, the pins, the spancel, the eye, the sand, the ward stone, and the rowan twig. He tried to explain the situation to them—with magic, with words. He asked for help. And then he waited.

  What he got was silence.

  And yet, as he sat on the dusty floorboards with the materials spread in front of him, he felt strangely hopeful. Because it was not a dead, uninterested silence; instead, there was a quality of surprise to it. It was the kind of gobsmacked silence he might get if he went to a workhouse, found the least considered, lowliest resident, and asked her what she thought of the New Poor Law and how things could be improved.

  It was the silence of someone who has never thought to be asked; the silence of someone frantically and inexpertly gathering their thoughts because they are hardly ever invited to articulate them. At least, that was what he imagined. He listened, and listened, and occasionally tried to explain what he wanted in a slightly different way, and then he listened some more.

  When he finally looked up, it was to discover he was stiff from sitting on the cold floor, that it was past midnight and the entire household was in bed. He dimly remembered turning the maid away at the door when she’d come to draw the curtains and light the fire, saying he’d do it himself, and then forgetting. He went to bed, still listening, still with that deep, considering, surprised silence emanating from his materials.

  Chapter Nine

  The following afternoon, the Greys arrived; Mr Grey, Mrs Grey, Miss Harriet Grey, and two younger girls who looked just out of the schoolroom. John understood that the family had no noble connections, but that Mr Grey had made a fortune in textiles. Mr Grey’s plump, red, untroubled countenance was vaguely familiar; surely John had seen him at some Manchester mill? Mr Grey gave no sign of recognising him, but all the same, he mentally rehearsed a few remarks about Lord Dalton’s business interests, in case Mr Grey should suddenly remember him and think to quiz him on his place in the world.

  Mrs Grey was a worried-looking lady with fluttering hands and a nervous laugh. She was obviously ill at ease taking tea in such exalted company, but Lady Dalton was doing her best to be charming, and her best was considerable.
Mrs Grey was soon smiling more naturally and talking with less forced animation. There were curd tarts and tiny sandwiches; very decent ones, for Raskelf. John gathered that Dalton had borrowed the Howarths’ cook.

  The Lazenbys would not arrive until the following day, and Miss Grey had obviously been told to press her advantage. Her light-brown hair was elaborately arranged and she wore a showy dress of primrose satin that suited her creamy complexion very well. She displayed none of her mother’s nerves, and accepted Lord Dalton’s antique courtesies with grace. Probably she was pretty enough to be used to all manner of attentions being paid to her.

  Then Thornby made his entrance. He was late, of course. John gathered he made a habit of it to antagonise his father. But, for the majority of this party at any rate, the wait had clearly been worth it. All the female members of the Grey family froze and widened their eyes. Even Mrs Grey blushed prettily.

  Perhaps in honour of the occasion, Thornby had abandoned his usual black, and indeed, the century. He was a vision of Georgian style in a cream silk court suit: tail coat and breeches, cream silk stockings, and a waistcoat of pale green and cream stripes sprigged with pink flowers. He wanted only a sword and powdered peruke and he would have made a suitable escort for Marie Antionette.

  John found his own eyes had narrowed, partly with amusement and partly with speculation. It was impossible—for him, anyway—to look at Thornby dressed in such a way and not imagine undressing him. Mr Grey looked puzzled, and slightly suspicious, as if he was trying to work out whether Thornby’s costume was a subtle insult. Miss Grey almost dropped her shawl when Thornby was introduced to her; her first sign of nerves. Thornby bowed, very properly, and took her for a halting stroll in the long picture gallery, it being too wet outside to walk along the terrace.

  As Thornby limped past, John could hear him saying, “Yes, a gin trap, Miss Grey. Such a cruel device! But let us find something more pleasant to discuss. Are you interested in art?”

  Lord Dalton, watching his son, seemed to veer from barely concealed rage to satisfaction that the Greys were here, and that Thornby was, at least for now, being civil.

  About half-way through the afternoon, Miss Grey went to talk to Lady Dalton. Lord Dalton had taken Mr and Mrs Grey into the long gallery and was impressing some family history upon them with the aid of the paintings. The two younger girls were looking through a cabinet of curiosities with Mr Derwent. John found Thornby standing next to him.

  “Well, this is torture, isn’t it?” said Thornby.

  “Miss Grey seems nice enough.”

  “She saw Ophelia six times. You’ve no idea what a wretch I feel, lying to a lady who admires Millais. What a way to spend an afternoon!”

  Thornby pulled fretfully at the cuffs of his tight coat. No one was watching, and John allowed himself one sideways glance. But it was not the pleasure he’d expected, because he could see that, for Thornby, the afternoon really was torture, almost as bad, in its way, as being chained outside the estate. One saw the Georgian confection he was wearing and expected frivolity, but there was nothing light-hearted about him. His eyes were defeated.

  Of course, John had known for days that Thornby was desperate to leave Raskelf. It was so easy to forget, because Thornby hid his desperation behind that careless and teasing facade, but it was just that—a facade—and if it crumbled, as it appeared to be crumbling now—

  What Thornby needed was to be held. To be gentled with hands and voice like a frightened horse, and then given a damned hard ride until he forgot everything except his own need. And then—release, even if it was not the more fundamental release he craved, but only the momentary sweet release of the body. For now, in the drawing room, John couldn’t give him that. But he could give him a few more bricks for his facade—a chance to tease, and maybe smile, and feel human once again.

  He cast about for a topic that might do, and asked, “Why do you wear those old-fashioned clothes? I’ve been wondering since I arrived.”

  Thornby looked at him blankly for a moment, then managed a tiny, intimate smile. “You don’t like them?”

  “I wasn’t complaining, just wondering why.”

  “I made a vow to my grandfather on his deathbed that I would always dress as he believed a gentleman should—which is thus.” Thornby made an elegant gesture. A spark of mischief had appeared in his eyes.

  “A deathbed vow? Is that what you tell the ladies?”

  “The ladies, Mr Blake, are too polite to ask. But it’s what I tell those persons who think it acceptable to ask me personal questions.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Thornby. No personal questions? A pity. Then I’d better not ask how you’d like me to fuck you later.”

  Thornby’s eyes widened and his lips parted. He made a noise in his throat, part gasp, part horrified laughter, and glanced over his shoulder.

  “No one can hear,” John said.

  “Christ, I hope not.” Thornby closed his eyes for a moment. “If you give me a cockstand in public I’ll never forgive you. These breeches are awfully tight.”

  “Yes, thank you, I noticed. So perhaps now you’ll tell me why you wear them?”

  Thornby smiled—a genuine smile that lit up his eyes. “You’re a very determined fellow, aren’t you?”

  “I’m patient too. You know, I enjoyed hearing you say ‘please’ yesterday. Perhaps I might give you another lesson in manners, by being very, very patient with you, later on tonight.”

  Thornby stared at him, a faint flush colouring his face. “Play fair, John. Miss Grey could step over any moment. Come then, I’ll give you the truth. It’s all down to my doctor.”

  “Your doctor?”

  “Yes. We have very singular miasmas here in the north. Trousers allow more bad air to circulate upon the limbs, and to well-bred gentlemen this can be very detrimental. Of course, common persons, such as yourself, aren’t affected, but my blood is more puissant, and is therefore more sensitive to such things.”

  John regarded him as sternly as he could, trying not to laugh. “Later, you will genuinely regret this.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What if there is no ‘later’, until you tell me?”

  “I don’t believe you’d do that.”

  “Let me remind you how patient I am.”

  Thornby smiled again. “I look forward, Mr Blake, to testing the limits of your patience. But for now, I think I’d better just tell you that I wear these clothes because I haven’t any others.”

  “That’s true?”

  “Gospel. Well, mostly.”

  John frowned. “Why not visit the tailor?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Ask him to visit you.”

  “Father told him not to.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Really, it’s true. When I got here, I had the clothes I was wearing when Father hustled me away from London. One pair of trousers and a silk smoking jacket. Nothing else. Not even a hat. When I complained, Father said he’d be happy to buy me a suit to get married in, or I could find plenty of old clothes in the attics. Obviously, he thought I’d fold when I saw what was there, but I called his bluff and put them on. It annoys him no end that I walk about as though I like them. I must say I felt a little eccentric the first time I went out, but it’s not as though I go anywhere, so it hardly matters.”

  “So, your father makes you dress like that?” John said, still struggling with the idea.

  “Not as such, today. In fact, he provides a very decent range of contemporary tailoring when there are ladies present who may want to marry me, but I stick to my breeches just to show him.”

  “That’s the most bloody-minded thing I ever heard.”

  “Who? Father? Or me?”

  “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?”