Salt Magic, Skin Magic Page 4

  John put a hand on the door-frame between study and bed-chamber and closed his eyes. As his mind cleared, the magical susurration that filled Raskelf and disturbed his sleep came into focus. He was beginning to get used to it and to feel that this was nothing out of the usual for the old place. He was used to more modern buildings—mills, factories, foundries, or his own rooms in London—but Raskelf had a long history. Traces of magic from past centuries were held here.

  He let the old wood tell its secrets. It had seen a werelight; white spangles conjured from a posy of flowers, but that was a hundred years ago. It remembered blood and screaming, and the carrion-sweet stink of a demon, but that was older still. And, in the distant past, some fertility magic to do with corn, so faint it was barely a whisper.

  There was nothing else.

  He went into the study. An easel displayed a half-finished water-colour of Raskelf Hall at dawn. It was rather fine, not that he was any judge. Thornby seemed to have only one brush and one very small, nearly-empty box of paints. John looked through the books: Ovid, Virgil, Herodotus, Shakespeare—all old and bound in blue leather, probably from Raskelf’s cavernous library. No books of magic.

  A floorboard creaked in the bedroom and his heart leapt into his mouth. But it was just the old house, talking to itself in an ordinary way.

  He opened the drawers in the desk and rifled through the papers. There were a lot of ink and pencil sketches of plants and woodland animals. Also, a few drawings of Lady Amelia, a sketch of Stewart, the drunken estate manager, looking surprisingly noble, and a couple of self portraits. Thornby had a lively and expressive style, but no magic emanated from the drawings.

  John put everything back, reserving one of the self-portraits, which he put in his pocketbook. A good likeness of a person, drawn by that same person, could be a useful ingredient for a charm if he needed it later on. Not that magic had seemed to work on Thornby yet, but it would certainly be better than an old stocking.

  He had been half avoiding the bed, with all its associations, but the place a person slept was a powerful touch-point. He went back into the bedroom and put his hand on the once-rich red brocade hangings. They had faded on the side closest to the window to a dirty beige. The brocade remembered a love charm from fifty years ago, and a slightly older spell to get a woman pregnant with a boy. But neither of these were related to Thornby. John breathed deeper and stroked the brocade, beguiling it, his magic running up and down its threads. It wanted to please him, but had nothing more to tell.

  As he drew his fingers away, it offered him a flash of Thornby; head flung back, long throat exposed, nightshirt bunched around his chest, one hand wrapped around his erect cock, his slender body gilded by firelight.

  The image went straight to John’s groin and he cursed under his breath. As if he needed any more distractions of that kind. But he could hardly blame the brocade. Sex wasn’t magic, of course, but inanimate objects would sometimes mistake it for such, and offer it up to a magician. His entire body was quivering with tension and he took a deep breath, trying to relax.

  So, there was no recent magic, not one tiny thing.

  Which meant he had indeed accused an innocent man and bullied him into a course of action that had left him injured. His heart sank. So, now he would have to do it. He would have to face up to Thornby and apologise. And try not to think of Thornby frigging himself as he did it. Marvellous. That would make it a whole lot easier. His head throbbed, in tandem with his groin. Damnation. Where was all this leading? What was he doing here? Why wasn’t he in Manchester checking the spells on the looms? Or in London making sure no-one had another go at the Crystal Palace?

  The gong for luncheon made him jump again. Truly, this sneaking around in another man’s rooms was repellent. And yet, even at the Institute they’d never counselled against intelligence gathering, if the cause was just or for the good of the Empire. Discretion. Restraint. Independence. Sometimes the ends justify the means. True, those lectures had been aimed at the theurgists who were going into politics, the military or the church, but he supposed the theory held true in more personal situations.

  Lord Thornby, thank goodness, was not present in the dining room.

  John and Lady Dalton made polite conversation while they ate watery pea soup and over-cooked trout. John tried several times to engage Lady Amelia and the elderly cousin, Mr Derwent, in the conversation, but his sallies went nowhere. Mr Derwent had a Ming seal in his pocket; John could hear it hissing affrontedly.

  On his first night here, dining by candlelight, he’d thought Lady Dalton had looked nervous, and thinner than he remembered her. Now, by daylight, he was shocked at the change in her. He had met her once at Catterall’s place in London before her marriage. She had not been beautiful even then, but her kindness, vivacity, and youth had lent her considerable charm. He remembered that evening in London he had been tired and silent, absorbed in some trouble from the foundry. And although she had been an heiress engaged to marry a marquess, she had taken a great deal of trouble to draw him out and introduce him to her friends.

  Now her once fresh complexion was marred with blemishes which echoed the plum colour of her dress. The charm she was wearing reeked of rancid milk and cough pastilles. Her eyes, of a very pale blue, were sunken, and she gasped when Mr Derwent dropped his spoon against his bowl. She was trying to put a brave face on it, but she was miserably afraid. A spark of anger lit inside John, ruining his appetite.

  After lunch, when he offered her his arm and a turn about the garden, she grabbed him like a drowning woman and pulled him onto the urn-lined terrace at the front of the house.

  “Mr Blake, where have you been? Where were you yesterday? I was afraid you had left! Have you spoken to Lord Thornby? Have you told him he must stop it?”

  “I have spoken to him. But he knows nothing of magic, I promise. He’s not doing anything to you.”

  The house loomed over them, spires and baroque ornaments bristling. On the other side of the terrace, beyond the stone urns, an over-grown yew hedge rose nearly as tall as the house. It was oppressive, like walking in a tunnel. He steered her along to where the hedge stopped, giving a view onto a very green field. They were outside the empty west wing now. He kept walking, trying to shake the feeling that curtains were twitching as they passed.

  “But he is!” She lowered her voice. “Or someone is. There was a hedgehog under my bed last night. I could hear it scratching about before I knew what it was. And it seems—uncanny, somehow. How could it have got in, unless someone put it there? And who could it be but him? Does it—does it mean something?”

  Up close, the charm she was wearing had a practiced feel; rough, but put together with confidence. It was mostly to do with sex and fertility, but there was a ward in there too, to protect from evil. She hadn’t made it, yet it had a female feel. She’d probably bought it from a country wise-woman. Bizarrely, the thing kept reminding him of cattle, until he realised that whoever had put it together was more used to making charms for cows. Probably without meaning to, she’d given Lady Dalton a charm that might make a bull think her fair game. It was terribly dangerous. He must get it off her, and give her something better.

  “A hedgehog?” he said.

  “I told my maid to put it in a hat box in case you’d like to look at it. It’s in an empty stall in the stables.” She blushed and ducked her head. “It’s nothing, is it? I’m being silly.”

  “It’s not silly,” he said seriously. “It is an odd place to find a hedgehog. Let’s go and look at it.”

  The hedgehog froze when he lifted the lid of the hat box. He put a finger on its spines, hoping it would keep its fleas to itself. Its nose started whiffling, its boot-button eyes peering up at him anxiously. He could feel the life fizzing around inside it. God, give him an honest iron beam any day! He tried to concentrate, and to ignore Lady Dalton who stood wringing her hands by the stable door. The creature carried no charms. It was not cursed. It had not been summoned. It was
not a construct. It had not been dosed with any kind of potion. There were no wards on it. There were no traces of magic at all.

  And yet, as he knelt over it, there came again that faint, strange something he had noticed when he was forcing Thornby to leave the estate. The moment he noticed it, it was gone and he felt he’d imagined it. Could this creature somehow be related? But how? It was certainly not anybody’s familiar, and yet—

  “I think it’s just a hedgehog.” He had no wish to alarm Lady Dalton with vague suspicions. He stood, brushing straw from his knees. “But, may I keep it in your hat box a little longer, my lady?”

  She stopped wringing her hands and clasped them as if in prayer. “Please tell me the truth. Do you think there’s something odd about it or not?”

  He could see his answer mattered a great deal. It was tempting to shield her, but she was caught in the middle of this. He owed her the truth, surely.

  “Yes, there’s something odd. I think I’m imagining it, but—” He gestured helplessly.

  “Yes! That’s it! One knows there’s something wrong. But one can’t...” She trailed off, then burst out, “Mr Blake, I’m so glad you’ve come! I’m so glad my cousin persuaded you. Don’t you feel there’s something terribly uncanny here at Raskelf? I’ve no proof, so I feel such a fool, but I can’t help it.”

  He looked at her closely. Could it be she had some unladylike sensitivity to magic, including this mysterious maybe-magic he had yet to pinpoint?

  “I feel it too,” he said. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever come across before. But I feel it.”

  She closed her eyes. ‘Thank God,” she whispered. “You’ve no idea what it’s been like. And everyone thinking me a silly girl.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “No. I can see you don’t.” She managed a watery smile.

  “Let’s get this creature a drink and a bite to eat, shall we? But first you’d better give me that charm you’re wearing. I’m afraid it’s not quite the thing, you know.”

  She blushed. “Oh! How did you—oh, but of course you know. I was desperate. She said it would keep me safe.”

  He refrained from saying, It might if you were a cow, and held out his hand. Still blushing, she pulled a cord from around her neck and handed him a small leather bag that had been hidden inside her dress. It was linked to her, and the smell stopped the moment it left her hand.

  “Will I be safe without it?”

  “I’ll give you something better. You know, I’m certain Lord Thornby is not working magic on you, but he thinks his father is doing something to him. What do you know about this story that Lord Dalton won’t let Lord Thornby leave the estate until he marries?”

  “He does want Thornby to get married. And he did put his foot down about some goings on in London. A painting of a—a lady from Greek mythology. I expect you heard about it; it was in all the papers. Lord Thornby has to stay here until he makes a respectable marriage.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s the family name, Mr Blake! Lord Thornby is very unwise, sometimes. The Marquess wants him to settle down. Surely any father would want that?”

  “But is it true Lord Thornby can’t leave the estate?”

  “Dalton has stopped his allowance. I suppose that’s what Lord Thornby means if he says he can’t leave. He hasn’t any income.”

  “What if I told you he really can’t leave; that there’s something keeping him here.”

  “Magic?”

  John sighed. “If it is, I can’t detect it, but I don’t see how it could be anything else. Do you suspect anyone else around here of using magic?”

  “No.” She looked down at some shreds of mucky straw that had stuck to her plum-coloured boot. “I bought my charm in Pickering; that’s miles away. It couldn’t be Mr Derwent could it? He seems so vague and old, but he does have some odd curios, doesn’t he?”

  “He does,” John agreed. “But, I beg your pardon, what about Lord Dalton? Lord Thornby says his father admits it openly, and has told him that once he marries, he can leave. His father claims to have that power.”

  There was a long pause. She bunched her hands in a fold of her dress. So, this was the possibility she didn’t want to consider: that her own husband was doing these things to her. He had already frittered away all of her money. Now, as well as his coldness towards her, was he also secretly terrorising her?

  “I don’t know,” she said eventually, her voice faint.

  “Has Lord Dalton ever behaved oddly, would you say?”

  “Not especially. He’s always buying little rocky islands, ‘skerries’ I think they’re called. I did think it was an odd enthusiasm when I first met him, but he believes in seaweed as a fertiliser, and, well, to me, gentlemen often seem odd in their interests. I once met a viscount who talked about the benefits of martingales for over an hour. An hour, Mr Blake! Through seven courses!”

  She smiled, timidly, as if half expecting him to launch into a lecture about martingales himself. He smiled back.

  Emboldened, she went on. “When I met Lord Dalton, he was different. He was courteous. He was never unkind. Perhaps he wasn’t as conventional as most of the men I’d met, but I liked that about him. He never seemed to care what people thought. My parents had cared so much! To meet someone who didn’t—” She paused, searching for the right word. “It was liberating, Mr Blake. I suppose I married him for one of the worst possible reasons, but I really thought...”

  Her voice, which had become almost a whisper, trailed off.

  “You wouldn’t be the first young lady to have her head turned by a nobleman,” John said kindly.

  She looked at him blankly. “That’s what people think, isn’t it? I wanted the title. Lady Dalton. That’s what George believes.”

  “That’s not the case?”

  “Of course I understand why people assume that.”

  Her voice was resigned. She was used to not being believed. He waited silently for the truth.

  “He begged me. Begged me on his knees. None of the others did that. But the real reason...” She broke off again, and John averted his eyes to spare her embarrassment, expecting a tale of passion or seduction, but she surprised him again.

  “I was sorry for him,” she said. “I know that’s the worst reason to marry someone. I was such a fool! But I’m still sorry for him, even now. I know he neglects his duties and there’s no money, and he and Thornby argue terribly. But there’s something driving him to it. I don’t mean to say it’s magic. It’s more—his first wife dying. And he loved her so much. I thought—if we were married—and it did seem to work at first. Sometimes he would be so kind! When we first came to Raskelf he would bring me flowers. Not big bouquets from the gardens, but daisies or violets. He picked them himself. Or he said he did. Maybe it was the gardener’s boy all along. But it all stopped when he brought Lord Thornby home.”

  She stood there by the stable door, a strand of dirty straw held forgotten in her hand, eyes unfocused, remembering.

  John could think of another, meaner, reason why Lord Dalton might bring her wildflowers rather than bouquets, but he didn’t voice it. The idea of the aggressive, grizzled marquess picking violets sat uncomfortably with his idea of the man, but then most men did sometimes behave strangely where women were concerned, especially if those women were wealthy heiresses.

  So, she’d married Lord Dalton because she was sorry for him. It was, truly, a terrible reason to marry someone, but perhaps love might have grown if her husband had continued to treat her kindly. He wondered again if she had some sensitivity to magic, if perhaps she could sense the curse, and pity the man under it without knowing why. If she’d been a boy, she’d have been tested. She might have gone to the Institute or had an apprenticeship somewhere.

  John made his excuses, went upstairs and began to put a ward charm on a handkerchief she’d given him. He made wards all the time, but his usual customers were factory workers or their bosses, and he usually warded from fire
, from crushing or slicing injuries, from cotton fibre in the lungs, or from mistakes brought on by exhaustion and hunger. This was a different sort of job entirely; warding from the unknown, from general malice. He took his time over it. He even went back to his books at one point. Wards for ladies tended to contain a soporific, to calm and reassure. But he weighed the bag of Hochmel beads in his hand and put them to one side. He never used them for the mill girls; they needed their wits about them. If Lady Dalton indeed had some sensitivity to hidden magic, it seemed wrong to dull her senses to it while she was caught in the middle of it all.

  He put the charmed handkerchief in his pocket, to give to her, and his fingers caught the edge of the sketch he had put in his pocket-book.

  He took out the portrait of Lord Thornby and examined it. At first, all he could see was his own desire. There was something in Thornby’s face that surpassed the classical by falling short of it. Perhaps his nose was too narrow, his mouth too wide, and his cheeks too hollow, but these imperfections let John know he was flesh, not marble, and the knowledge made his heart pound.

  But after a while, he began to see in a different way. Thornby had drawn himself at a slight angle, chin thrust out to the viewer, eyes hooded. When John had first glanced at it, he’d thought it an arrogant pose. But now he looked closer and saw that it was not. In fact, he’d seen the attitude before, in people terribly bereaved; the eyes full of despair, the mouth tense. It was the face of a man held together with pride, because that was all he had left.

  John sighed and put the portrait back in his pocket. He’d done as Catterall had asked; he’d come to Raskelf, he’d looked for magic. He’d proven Lord Thornby’s innocence. But Lady Dalton was still in trouble. The Marquess was cursed, but by whom? And Thornby, the strangest, most beautiful, and most disconcerting man he’d ever met, was somehow trapped at the heart of it.

  He could not walk away.

  ***

  Thornby got back to the house empty-handed. Trying to borrow money from the rector had gone spectacularly badly. Thornby, hadn’t, of course, been able to actually call upon the man, because he couldn’t walk to the village any more, but he’d hovered at the gates to the estate until he’d been able to persuade a passer-by to fetch the fellow for him. The rector had listened, purse-mouthed, to Thornby’s plea for money, then read him a little lecture about gambling debts and prodigal sons and wished him good day. Thornby, hot-faced with embarrassment and fury, had simply had to watch him go.