by Lee Welch
But then Thornby didn’t feel like a materials man either, and John could generally recognise his own kind. So, how had Thornby broken those charms? Now John was closer, and had longer to concentrate on Thornby alone, he thought there might be something magical, at the very edge of his awareness, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Most magicians used demons or materials, but there were other ways, so perhaps Thornby used some unfamiliar method.
John charged his ward stone, and put it back in his pocket. He patted his bag of salt and checked his Gelomorous twine and the demon trap, just in case. Whatever spells Thornby cared to throw at him, he was ready. In fact, he was almost looking forward to a fight. It would be a pleasure to best the little sod and make him apologise to Lady Dalton.
They reached an open place a hundred yards from a small pine spinney. The dark trees were contorted sideways as if fleeing the icy wind. The sun, behind its grey pall of cloud, was beginning to set. Thornby suddenly stopped and swung around.
“Well, Mr Blake? I suppose you’d like to explain yourself?” Thornby’s chin was up, beautiful mouth curved in disdain.
“Look here, your lordship.” John infused the word with contempt. “You may have broken a couple of simple charms, but you’re no match for me. I studied at the Dee Institute. I’m sure you know what that means.”
“The Dee Institute?” Thornby looked heavenward, as if for inspiration. “That’s not in Oxbridge. Some working men’s establishment, I suppose?”
Even while he was being insulted, John couldn’t help admiring the lovely clean lines of Thornby’s profile. How he’d like to wipe the jeer from those pretty lips. How he’d like to watch those proud eyes close in surrender. How he’d like— He hunched defensively. Thornby was too attractive to be true. “A glamour? It won’t work.”
“A what?”
“What do you have against Lady Dalton?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard. Are you jealous?”
“Of her?”
Thornby looked so astonished John felt a moment of uncertainty, but it was better to plough on. The sooner it came out, the sooner he could leave.
“She thinks you’re using magic to frighten her,” John said. “And I think she’s right. You saw through my sand-eye charm just now, didn’t you? So, you’ve a bit of craft at least. But it’s not on. Aren’t you a gentleman? Well, I’m a friend of her cousin, and I’m here on his behalf”—he advanced a pace—“to make you stop.”
“Magic? Sand-eye?” Thornby backed away, shaking his head. “You’ve lost me, Mr Blake. Magic isn’t real, is it? It’s tricks and superstition. Something for low types, perhaps, but hardly something I should dabble in. And why, pray, should I take any notice of Lady Dalton? She was a fool to marry my father, but I should hardly—” He frowned, stared at John. “Wait. You say magic’s real? You say you know about it?”
“I told you, I went to the Dee Institute.”
“And I told you I’ve never heard of the place. And I’m certainly not doing anything to Lady Dalton. But if you know about such things, perhaps you can tell me; why can’t I leave the estate? Is that magic?”
“Perhaps you’d rather stay and plague your step-mother?”
“Haven’t done your crib very well, have you Mr Blake? She hasn’t been here for months. Of course, it’s been the season, but she didn’t stay long last winter either.”
“No, because she’s avoiding you.”
Thornby rolled his eyes. “Have you asked the servants, Mr Blake? Have you talked with Stewart, the estate manager? If you can catch him sober enough he’ll tell you; I can’t leave. If I wanted to annoy Lady Dalton, wouldn’t it be more practical to follow her to London or Hertfordshire or wherever it is she goes? But I’ve been here. All summer. Again. I’ve been stuck at Raskelf for a year and a half, and I damn well wish I wasn’t.”
There was something convincing about Thornby’s attitude. If Thornby had been of any other class, John would have thought he was telling the truth, pure and simple. But Thornby had such a high-handed manner. Then there was the matter of the broken sand-eye charm. And what was this story about not being able to leave? John had noticed no magical boundaries when he’d entered or left the estate. Was Thornby trying to gammon him?
A note of strain entered Thornby’s voice. “My father says it’s his doing. He’s quite open about it. Says if I marry as he wishes, he has the power to let me go. I don’t know if that’s true, and I don’t know that it’s magic. In fact, I thought it might be mesmerism.”
John frowned. Mesmerism sounded unlikely, and when he’d first met Lord Dalton he’d received no sense of magical power from him. On the contrary, he’d felt the man to be labouring under some awful stinking burden. “But you’d leave if you could? You’d leave Lady Dalton alone?”
“You do harp on that! I’m not doing anything to her, I tell you. But you’re right. I’d be delighted to leave this benighted bloody place and live my life again.”
“And see Ophelia. And the Crystal Palace.”
“Quite.” Unexpectedly, Thornby blushed, and turned his gaze to the pine trees.
John admired the blush with a part of his mind, actually wanting to smile at the memory of Thornby haranguing the countryside. A thrill of triumph was twisting in his belly at having broken Thornby’s haughty facade. He had to resist an absurd, fleeting urge to boast a little about his involvement with Paxton. I helped to build it, you know, the Crystal Palace. Ridiculous. He decided to call Thornby’s bluff.
“All right. Why don’t you leave? Now. You could walk to the nearest village. I’m sure you could commandeer a carriage to get you to a station.”
“I turn back. Every time.” Thornby folded his arms, trying for nonchalance, but instead looking like a boy accused of breaking a window. John was surprised to see that he was trembling.
“Perhaps this time will be different.”
“Why should it? I tried earlier. I wrote on my hand. I...”
Thornby looked so distressed, John felt a moment of sympathy, quickly followed by suspicion.
“Come,” John said. “If your father has a spell on you, I need to see it working to understand it. The boundary is there. Why don’t I take your arm?”
John took Thornby’s elbow in a vice-like grip and walked him off the well-worn path that marked the estate boundary. He could feel Thornby quivering with tension, but no spells. After only a pace or two, Thornby began to struggle. John grabbed his forearm as well.
“Come, my lord, we’re walking across the moor. You can go anywhere you please.”
Thornby’s head was bowed as if he were walking into a storm. He was muttering something about being late for dinner.
“That doesn’t matter; you’ll be having dinner in York. You know, I can’t detect a trace of magic being worked against you. Not one tiny jot.”
“Howarth’s land. Trespassing—”
“Mr Howarth won’t mind. Not going to poach his grouse, are we? Don’t you think it fascinating that, as far as I can tell, there’s no magic? No binding, no barrier, nothing.”
John took another couple of steps, forcing Thornby to stagger after him. But then Thornby began trying to escape in real earnest, twisting like a hooked fish. John clung to him, kept pulling.
“There’s no magic,” John said through gritted teeth. But, even as he spoke, he felt again that faint, barely detectable, something. Glamour? He thought not, though it was hard to concentrate with Thornby thrashing around. They took another step, and Thornby fell to his knees, groaning, doubled over as if in pain.
“Come on, man, get up.”
He bent to pull Thornby to his feet and saw that the skin on Thornby’s forehead was tearing open, blood running down his face. Blood was trickling from his nose; blood was all over his hand, and seeping from under his fingernails.
“What the devil!” John recoiled, letting go. Shock and shame coursed through him in equal measures. He had only meant to prove there was no m
agic, but instead—
He watched in horror as Thornby crawled back inside the boundary of Raskelf and collapsed.
Chapter Three
Thornby woke to yellow sunshine across his bed, dust motes dancing lazily above him. It must be late. He yawned, and winced, and the pain from his face brought yesterday’s events flooding back.
He jerked upright. He was on top of the covers, still wearing yesterday’s mud and blood-spattered clothes. His left hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, dried blood crusted black under his fingernails. He touched his face, feeling more bandages. His left elbow twinged; it was bruised from Blake’s grip.
Blake had forced him to walk onto Howarth’s land. Thornby had, at the time, half-hoped that with the forceful Mr Blake at his side, he would simply be swept away from Raskelf, across the moors to freedom.
But then, of course, he had wanted to turn back.
And Blake had not let him.
Thornby shuddered. It hadn’t merely been the pain of his tearing skin. It had been that hideous sense of strength and spirit draining away, as if some unseen presence was sucking his essence, leaving him nothing but bone.
He got up, cautiously removed the blood-soaked bandages, and considered himself in the glass. Ghastly. The skin was broken open on forehead and cheekbone as if he’d been flung against a stone wall. The back of his left hand was one big graze, and his fingertips stung as if he’d been shredding nettles.
He dimly remembered Blake helping him back to the Hall, half carrying him. Thornby had been weak as a kitten, every step an eternity of weariness. He’d never taken so ill after trying to leave, but then he’d never got so far before. On his own, he’d managed three or four paces at most. With Blake, he must have taken seven or eight.
Most of the details of the long walk home had faded, but despite the circumstances, the sensation he remembered best was that of Blake’s arm around his shoulders. He closed his eyes to recall better the warmth and strength of Blake’s body next to his. A surprising pang of excitement twisted down through his gut to his groin.
Well, not so surprising. He hadn’t bedded a man for eighteen months, and Mr Blake was quite handsome, even if he was an overbearing bastard. When they’d got back to Raskelf, Blake had taken him to a seldom-used cards room, cleaned the wounds with some smelly stuff, and dressed them. Thornby had been too exhausted to speak, but Blake had seemed to understand that Thornby didn’t want anyone informed of the situation. Then, pushing Blake away, he’d staggered up to bed and been asleep before he could remove his coat.
And now, despite his torn skin—or perhaps even because of it—his stomach was knotting with something that felt a lot like hope. The wounds were proof, and they rather seemed to be proof of magic. What was more, Blake claimed to be a magician. He’d talked as if magic was as real as turnips or table-legs, as if breaking charms and casting spells were plausible, everyday things.
Did Lady Dalton really think Thornby was casting spells on her? He hardly knew her. He avoided her mostly, assuming that, since she’d accepted his father, she must be the biggest fool or the most ruthless social climber in England. She was the orphan daughter of a wealthy industrialist, and had once been fabulously wealthy. As far as Thornby knew, her money was already gone. Father had disposed of it like chaff upon the wind.
He could think of no reason why she would blame him, not Lord Dalton, for her troubles, but why would Blake lie? Thornby didn’t feel he was a man who made mischief. For all his talk of spells and magic, he seemed intensely practical; a man who took action and expected results and had no need of falsehoods. And he had not been entirely heartless; having conducted his experiment, another man might have walked off and left Thornby bleeding in the mud. Blake had not done that.
Then he remembered Blake saying, “You’re no match for me”, his voice full of scorn, and the pleasant glow of having had a strong arm around him faded. Truth be told, Blake was rather terrifying. If he was a magician, what did that mean? One heard rumours of men who sold their souls in return for occult powers. Was Blake of that type? A devil-worshipper?
A memory popped into his mind; he'd once seen what appeared to be a freshly-skinned baboon galloping down the Strand, dodging carriages and pedestrians. He’d exclaimed, grabbing at his companions, but they’d seen nothing. How they missed it, he’d never understood, for the thing ran right by them, glistening red, jaws agape. Someone had suggested it had been an injured dog, and Thornby had tried to forget about it.
He stood before the looking-glass, heart racing as if the hideous baboon-thing had just careened through his chamber. Was it possible he’d truly seen a devil conjured from the pit of hell? After all, dogs didn’t usually have claws like scythes, or forked tongues.
Did Blake consort with devils? What was in that big, heavy trunk? Did he have some baboon-like familiar lurking in his room? He had no valet. Did that mean he was so unspeakable no decent man would work for him?
Thornby imagined himself approaching Mr Blake and asking for help, and could barely suppress a shudder. If only he had something to offer the fellow. In the past, he’d generally bought his way out of trouble; it was amazing what a judicious sovereign could do. But these days he hadn’t a penny to his name. He’d had nothing since London. Father had stopped his allowance, and he’d never been able to bring himself to beg. He hardly liked the idea of playing the supplicant now, but then he liked the idea of approaching Mr Blake empty-handed even less.
So, who to accost for a loan? The staff were no good, and Aunt Amelia had nothing. Mr Derwent likewise. Thornby would rather die than approach Lady Dalton, and the village people thought sixpence a princely sum; they were out of the question. What a vile equation this was, weighing up the easiest mark! He sighed. Perhaps the rector could be prevailed upon? Thornby began to change his clothes.
***
John spent the morning roaming around Raskelf, talking to the servants and looking for recent spells or traces of demons in the more public parts of the house. He kept turning corners and finding yet another long corridor with doors letting onto dust-sheeted rooms, another gloomy gallery, another cold marble staircase, another infestation of black beetles.
His fingertips were dry and grey from touching dusty surfaces. Cobwebs trailed over his cuffs. He was tired of the sound of his own footsteps and the murmurs of the house, and he could not shake the feeling of being watched. But he found no traces of recent magic.
He’d started the morning with two aims: to interview Lord Dalton and to avoid Lord Thornby.
Speaking to Lord Dalton would help him to assess the truth of Thornby’s claim that his father was keeping him at Raskelf, possibly by magical means. It would also let John get a better look at the curse that was following Dalton around like a swarm of flies on a night-soil cart. John felt sure the two things must be connected. But Lord Dalton had left early to visit his neighbours, the Howarths, and was not expected back for lunch. John learned this from Warren, Lord Dalton’s valet, who was fussing endlessly in his lordship’s rooms.
At least John had been successful in avoiding Lord Thornby. Possibly this had been made easier by the fact that Thornby seemed to be avoiding him too. Thornby did not appear all morning. If he had breakfasted at all, he had done so in his room, and he had certainly not joined his step-mother and aunt at church. Apparently, he never went, much to the scullery maid’s horror. But then, if he couldn’t leave the estate, of course he couldn’t go.
Thornby seemed like an innocent man. Ever since John had watched his face tear open on Howarth’s land, a horrible suspicion had been growing in him that he had behaved like a bully and a boor. The thought that he might have to apologise was enough to make him curse under his breath. He could almost see the supercilious triumph, almost hear the condescending tone. Being wrong was bad enough, but being wrong in front of a superior little prick like Thornby—damnation!
But. If Thornby was innocent, why did good charms not work on him? What on earth had gon
e on yesterday on Howarth’s land? John had detected no magic even while Thornby’s face tore open in front of his eyes. So, to be absolutely sure that Thornby was as innocent of witchcraft as he claimed, John had to get into his rooms.
Magicians couldn’t help leaving traces of their art in the places they lived. Raskelf Hall taken as a residence was far too big, but Thornby’s own rooms would leave John in no doubt. No one could talk to inanimate things as well as John; he was the best the Institute had seen. Even the theurgists admitted it, much as it galled them to be beaten at anything by a materials man.
Of course, he felt a natural disinclination to go nosing around in another man’s rooms, but if he hoped to escape the factories and mills one day, this was probably the kind of thing he’d have to get used to.
Eventually, just before lunch, John looked for the hundredth time out of one of the warped and bubbly old windows on the first floor, and this time caught a glimpse of Thornby heading towards the village on an old black horse. He had a purposeful air, and John would have given much to know where he was going. But now was the perfect chance. One of the housemaids had pointed out the door to Lord Thornby’s room. John went there and tapped on it, heart beating rather fast. There was no answer, but the door came off the latch and opened an inch.
Thornby’s bed-chamber was as shabby as the rest of Raskelf. Faded red silk damask adorned the walls, and faded red brocade hung from an old four-poster. A shaft of sunlight lay across the bed, and the room had the same sense of potential, of energy only momentarily absent, as an empty stage. An ancient-looking clothes press, as big as a small cottage, contained a few of Thornby’s old-fashioned clothes. There was a small room off to one side—perhaps an old powder room, to judge from the collection of empty wig stands—and on the other side, a small study.