Salt Magic, Skin Magic

by Lee Welch

  “Does it feel important to you?”

  Thornby shrugged. “Not especially. But it is mine.”

  “Your father is keeping you here with something damned powerful. I think you’ll know it the moment—wait! I felt something. That other feeling.”

  Thornby, examining the side of the trunk closest to the window, said, “There are marks here.”

  Along one bottom edge, lines were scored in the heavy leather. Thornby prodded these and a flap in the leather came loose. Thornby wiggled something, then pulled out a shallow drawer, a couple of inches deep and a foot square. He put his fingers in the empty drawer, then snatched them back as though something had bitten him.

  “There was something here, all right. I feel—peculiar,” Thornby said.

  “May I look?”

  John touched a cautious fingertip to the inside of the wooden drawer. There was no ordinary magic to be sensed, and nothing else came clear. But that seemed the way of this other kind of magic; if he looked directly for it, it slid away from him. He carried the drawer to the box-room window.

  “What’s that?” John pressed a finger into one corner of the drawer. Stuck to the end of his finger was a hair. It was an inch long, brown, but gold where the light struck it.

  Thornby peered at it. “It’s not mine. Wrong colour.”

  “Were you fair as a child?”

  “I suppose I was, now you mention it.” Thornby looked again. “But that’s not a child’s hair, is it? It’s not fine enough. It’s a bit bristly. It’s more like—” He went spectacularly white, and backed away to sit on the nearest trunk. “It’s from an animal, isn’t it? Is that bad? What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The token’s supposed to be part of me, isn’t it? What if it’s—oh, God—what if I’m a werewolf?”

  “This isn’t wolf hair.” John angled his finger to the light again.

  “Isn’t it? How do you know?”

  “Because I use wolf hair in one of my charms, and this isn’t it.”

  “Oh.” Thornby ran a shaky hand across his face. “Christ, you’re useful to have around, aren’t you? I don’t suppose there’s another man in Yorkshire who could have told me that.”

  “But I do think it’s from an animal. Sorry, Thornby. Still, you seem to have got on all right as a man for—how old are you? Twenty-seven years—so whatever it is, I think you just need it in your possession.”

  “I could put it in a safe and never think of it again?”

  “Exactly. So long as it’s yours, you can go where you like, I suspect. Which is why you were able to go off to school and Oxford and London and so on. Because it’s your trunk and so its contents were yours, too. Until your father took it. Anyway, we’ve another clue, thanks to me asking you rude personal questions.”

  Thornby managed a watery smile. “I’m beginning to appreciate your impertinence, Mr Blake.”

  “Good. You’ve no idea how impertinent I plan to be, once everyone’s gone to bed. And don’t lose your nerve about this hunt because we found a hair. It doesn’t mean you’re half beast. Maybe it’s a lucky rabbit’s foot. Your mother might have charmed it for you.”

  He looked at the hair again, trying to place it. Could it be from a rabbit? It was an odd colour for a rabbit, but perhaps. Or if colour was no clue, maybe some kind of golden fox? Or a deer?

  Thornby sighed, head bowed as if contemplating his silk-clad knees. “You’ve no idea how discomforting it is, learning you’re not fully human. It’s not that I mind Mother being different; it’s because it gives Father this awful hold over me. I’m bloody frightened. I’ve been going slowly mad this last eighteen months, and now I— Look, you don’t think it would be better to marry Miss Grey or whoever, and then—well, I know he’ll take the money, but at least I could get away. I’d have my name. I could borrow, or get some position with an income to support her. Couldn’t I?”

  “You trust him to give it to you?”

  “But if I’ve done as he wants? I can’t get married more than once, can I? So, if I’m no further use to him, why not let me go?”

  “Of course, it’s up to you.”

  “But you wouldn’t, would you?” Thornby said.

  “No, and for the same reason you haven’t; because you won’t put an innocent girl into the middle of all this. Because you’re a gentleman. When you’re not sucking my cock, that is.”

  Thornby gave a helpless snort of laughter. “You’re right. I just—I think I shall go mad if I have to stay here another minute. John, you will get me out, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will. Come, you go back to the Greys and I’ll tidy up here.” John took his pocketbook out and carefully put the hair between two blank pages. “I’ve shown my face downstairs. I’ll go back to my materials now.”

  “I wish we could stay up here. How’s it going, your research?”

  “Fine. I’m onto something. And this hair will help tremendously. It’s part of what we’re looking for. If I can find the right sigil, this’ll lead us straight to the token. So, chin up, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Thornby left him, and John tidied up and went back to his room. He’d told Thornby things were fine, but in fact he was far from sure. His materials had still not offered up much in the way of suggestions, but the quality of their silence was less stunned, more pensive.

  So, he hadn’t lied to Thornby. It was going well.

  Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Ten

  The following morning, Thornby went to breakfast early, hoping to catch John alone before the rest of the household came down. He’d been to John’s room late last night, and John, as promised, had been very impertinent indeed.

  He had used his tongue. Everywhere. He’d made Thornby writhe and whimper and plead. And then John had fished a small vial of oil from one of the many pockets of his discarded jacket. He had applied the oil liberally, and fucked Thornby so expertly that he’d begged some more. And afterwards, John had held him, and kissed him, and smiled his rare unguarded smile. Thornby had had plenty of lovers, but never one as intent as John. Perhaps all the listening to walls and tables the man had done had given him some sort of magical intuition, because he seemed to know instinctively what felt good and what felt so-so, and what felt so incandescent one forgot to breathe.

  John had talked of this and that—of his childhood, talking to the nails and tools in his father’s shop; of training at the Dee Institute; and of his last job, helping to build the Crystal Palace and then protecting it from magical attack. Apparently, there were a number of men from the professions who didn’t think a jumped-up gardener’s design should have been chosen for such a great edifice. So, among other things, there had been freak storms and flurries of ensorcelled bats flinging themselves at the glass at night. Some people had wanted very much to make Joseph Paxton look bad. They had gone so far as to hire magicians to try to make it happen. John had stopped them.

  He hadn’t been boasting. In fact, Thornby felt, it was rather the opposite; John was giving him the facts about his life, letting him know who he was. He was an ironmonger’s son made good. And if he spoke like a gentleman, it was because he’d had it beaten into him at the Institute, because they prided themselves on turning out magicians who could serve at the highest levels. In the same way one wouldn’t tolerate a valet who wiped his nose on his sleeve, one preferred one’s magicians with manners.

  Thornby gathered that magic, as a profession, was on something of a cusp. The Dee Institute that John was so proud of having attended had been founded in 1578 as an Academy by Queen Bess’ court magician, Dr Dee. Alchemy had been worth investing in, back then; even the Queen had had stakes. But over the centuries the Academy had degraded. It had become a dark place, of superstition, charlatans, and poppycock. Magic had become bastardised and ineffectual.

  John was a new kind of man. He’d come, as a boy, to an Institute revitalised during the Regency by recent discoveries in the fields of both th
eurgy and materials. Now, John and his colleagues sought recognition; respect, even. Because although magic was once again becoming a force to be reckoned with, it was not yet respectable. Indeed, to hear John tell it, much of society saw magicians as akin to the prostitutes who served London; they were regrettable, a necessary evil. One barely acknowledged their existence, yet sometimes nothing else would do. John was determined to change this attitude. He considered that magic should be at least as well-regarded as horticulture, medicine, or law.

  Whatever John had intended by telling him all this, the end result was that Thornby felt a little overwhelmed. Not only was it the most fascinating pillow-talk he had heard, but it was becoming clear to him that John wasn’t just any magician, but a very remarkable one. John didn’t say so, but Thornby felt sure Paxton could have had almost any magician in England—and it turned out there were quite a few of them—and he had chosen John. Because when it came to iron and glass and other inanimate things, John was the best in the land.

  John had said he planned to rise early and get out of the way of the party so he could work on finding the token. Thornby had gone back to his own room, expecting to sleep like a man who’s just been fucked into oblivion. But he’d woken almost hourly. When he woke for the fifth time at five o’clock, he finally realised it was because he was hoping to see John again before the day started.

  As he entered the breakfast room, he saw that Lady Dalton had beaten him to it. She was sitting next to John, but neither of them seemed to be eating. Lady Dalton looked rather red in the face, and shot to her feet like a startled rabbit when she saw him. She nodded to him, gave John a look of plain entreaty, and fled the room.

  Thornby looked after her. “Is she all right?”

  John gave him a hunted, distracted look. “I suppose she’s as right as anyone could be with a cursed husband and a troupe of fairies moving their things around. Anyway, I told her to start putting walnuts out; that will probably help.”

  “But what was she saying?”

  “I’m sorry, Thornby, I’m not sure I should say. It was a private matter.”

  “I hope you trust me.” It came out more stiffly than he’d intended.

  He could not help looking at John, so neatly buttoned and tied, and thinking about what they’d done last night. He was fairly sure John was remembering too, because he looked Thornby up and down and a fleeting look of satisfaction crossed his face, to be followed by a covetous one. Then his harassed expression returned and he picked up his fork.

  “Of course I trust you,” he said, then muttered, almost to himself, “I’ll never complain about factory work again.” He put his fork down again and put his fingertips to his temples.

  “John, what on earth did she say? Please tell me. Who would I tell anyway?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Did she tell you not to?”

  “No, but I...”

  “Well, maybe I can help?”

  John gave him an odd look, almost as if he was trying not to smile. “I doubt it. But I suppose it is sort of family business. She wants a baby. She wants me to—see to it.”

  “A baby? She wants you—you to—” He couldn’t go on.

  John looked up at him, frowned, and then, to his surprise, gave a splutter of horrified laughter. “What do you think I mean? She wants me to make a charm for her. To make your father—you know—visit her. Christ!”

  “Oh. I thought...”

  “Thornby, she’s married. She’s a lady. With morals. Why would you even think that?”

  “She fancies you.”

  “What? Of course she doesn’t. But the point is; should I do it? I said no, at first, but then I agreed to think about it.”

  “A baby, eh? Can you do that?”

  Thornby helped himself to ham and eggs and sat opposite. It looked as though John had eaten about half a plate of kedgeree before being distracted by Lady Dalton. Now he picked up his knife and fork again. He had nice hands, well-proportioned and capable-looking.

  “I never have. I don’t do magic on people, usually, except for wards. I sometimes use the Voice on factory owners, but if anyone found out, I’d never work again, so I don’t do it very often. Ethical and family matters are for church mages, or political theurgists, not someone like me.”

  “But, you could?” Thornby realised he was starving and hove to. Everything was done properly for once, thanks to the cook borrowed from the Howarths.

  “I don’t know. I can’t make him love her. I told her so. Love charms never work. Not that that stops people like Rokeby charging through the nose for them. But it is possible to incite lust. And, perhaps, if I give her an extra strong fertility charm at the same time...” He put his knife and fork down without having eaten anything and sipped from what looked like a cold cup of coffee. “Then there’s the curse to consider. What if the magics react with each other? Mind you, the curse didn’t stop him having relations with her in the past—so I suppose that’s safe enough. I wouldn’t be charming him to do something completely against the grain.”

  “Well, why not? She hasn’t had much else out of him, has she?”

  “He could hurt her. He could hurt other people. You can’t focus lust—you have to put the right person in the right place, and hope it all goes to plan. Even most theurgists won’t touch this sort of thing. Let alone with a fairy curse complicating matters.”

  “But you’re better than them.”

  John laughed, mirthlessly. “Where did you get that idea? I’m really not. There’s a reason theurgy’s called the Royal Road. It’s far more powerful to raise a demon to do what you want. Once you’ve trapped it, there’s no more messing about with materials. It has to obey. And a demon can do almost anything—they can travel fantastically fast, create instant illusions, affect the weather—all kinds of things I can’t do.”

  “Well, I don’t see it that way.”

  “Forgive me, Thornby, but you don’t know anything about it.”

  “But demons are demons, aren’t they? It’s not just a name? They’re evil. Aren’t they?”

  “They’re vile. Hideous. They’ll trick you if they can. That’s why it takes so much power to call them up and make them serve.”

  “There you are, then. You’re better than that. Your materials help you. They’re not out to get you. Are they?”

  “No, but—” John frowned. “You’re missing the point.”

  “I don’t think so. Would you rather have a friend who wanted to help or a powerful slave who’d kill you the first chance he got? I know which I’d prefer.”

  John glared at him for a moment, and then blurted out, “But how can anyone be friends with a glass eye or a bag of salt? I mean, really? How can I trust some random side effect? Sometimes I think I must be fooling myself! Magicians don’t take advice from their materials. In fact, we’re told not to, because we’re meant to be in control. But for most men, it never comes up because they discard their basic materials. I’m a freak, Thornby, for always sweeping up my salt like a thrifty housewife. And my results are unexpected. I can’t replicate them. I mean, at the Crystal Palace, when those damned bats started hurling themselves at the glass—I used a shield charm at first, but I had the salt out and it— You know, I can’t believe I’m bothering you with all this. You don’t know the first thing about magic.”

  His tone had run from annoyance through self-loathing to defeat. Thornby put down his knife and fork, a cold slither of despair running down his back. The food he’d just eaten sat in a lump in his stomach. If John was defeated, then he was stuck.

  Then a spark of hope lit in him, because there was something he’d noticed about the way John talked about his abilities, and about the abilities of the demon-masters he called theurgists. In spite of all the marvellous things he could do, John needed confidence, and it was up to Thornby to provide it. Hadn’t most of Thornby’s upbringing been based on the premise that one day he’d lead men? To command, yes, but also to boost morale and do whateve
r else was necessary. He’d never bothered about it all before, but if there was one man in the world he cared about inspiring, it was John Blake, magician.

  And at any minute someone could walk in and disturb them. The sun was well up now.

  “John, I might not know about magic, but I can smell snobbery a mile off, and that’s what these theurgists are. Snobs.” John opened his mouth to protest and Thornby held up a finger. “Don’t interrupt. And the reason I know about snobs is because I used to be one, and I know they’ll stop at nothing to belittle anyone who isn’t like them.”

  John said nothing, just stared at him across the table.

  Thornby went on, urgently, “And while you’re at it, you can stop fussing about experiments and replication. It’s magic, isn’t it? It’s not science.”

  “Yes, but—” John broke off, frowning. “Well, you’re right, it’s not science.”

  “No, even though they’ve taught you to use it in a methodical way. I’m not denying it’s damned clever, all this stuff you’ve learned to do. But if you want to be friends with a bag of salt, I really don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

  John was still staring at him, shaking his head a little. Not disagreeing, exactly, just trying to assess what he’d said. Thornby could almost hear his mind whirling. Then John gave him a baffled smile, and when he spoke there was hope in his voice, and wonder too. “I think you may have just turned three hundred years of magical theory on its head. I never, ever thought of it like that.”

  A giddy lightness was beating in Thornby’s chest—a marvellous feeling of having cheated something awful and at the same time given John something he valued.

  “Well, no, because you were brought up to respect the experts. Whereas I was brought up to know I’m always right because I’m me. I think you should have a little more confidence in your observations, because I think you’re onto something wonderful.”

  “And you’re always right.”

  “These days, I have been known to make the occasional mistake. It’s the low company I’ve been keeping. It’s tarnishing my infallibility.”