Salt Magic, Skin Magic

by Lee Welch

  John smiled. “You can still sound like an arrogant little prick when you want to.”

  “Yes, can’t I? Perhaps you should make me beg for it again. It might bring me down a peg or two.”

  “Ha, it hasn’t yet. Perhaps next time I’ll leave you begging for it, and read a book by the fireside for a bit.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! If you did, you might get a surprise. Perhaps it would be a pleasant one? Do you ever let people fuck you, Mr Blake? Because I would. Like a shot. If you wanted me to.”

  John blinked. “I don’t, usually.”

  “I didn’t think so. But you have tried it?”

  “I didn’t like it.”

  Thornby opened his mouth to say; “Well, never mind”, but John added, slowly, “Actually, perhaps it’s more that I didn’t much care for the fellows I tried it with.”

  “Then I hope I’m nothing like them.”

  “You’re not like them.”

  To Thornby, the phrase seemed to ring in the air like the chime of a knife against crystal. John was just sitting there, fingers on the handle of his cold cup of coffee, not even looking him in the eye.

  “John, did you just agree to try it again?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

  “I’m almost as good at it as you. I’d make you come so hard the chandeliers would turn into swans and fly away—even if you did your trick with those pins.”

  John smiled. “We’ll see.”

  His eyes, always dark, had gone black with arousal, and something else Thornby couldn’t quite place. But he felt that, given the slightest encouragement, John would probably try anything. Some men just wouldn’t, no matter how you tried to persuade them. Some men, he knew, took one look at him and saw: pretty, skinny, artistic, and made up their minds right there about what he liked and wanted. And it annoyed the hell out of him.

  John might have a taste for being dictatorial in the bedroom, but there was something receptive about him, too. Of course, a man might be adventurous in some aspects of his life and conservative in others, but John, for all his wariness, seemed open to the idea of experimentation. Look at all this business about taking advice from a bag of salt! And God, he was handsome. Thornby had thought him good-looking enough when they had met, but he seemed to get more attractive the longer one knew him. It was the way he made the air crackle with possibilities, the way his hands seemed to listen when they were on one’s skin.

  Thornby cleared his throat. “Well, today’s going to last forever, isn’t it? The Lazenbys arrive this morning, and then there’ll be shooting, followed by tea, and dinner with about twenty courses. And then music, probably, until I scream.”

  John, who had been staring at him, said, “Yes,” as if he hadn’t heard, then sat back in his chair, visibly changing tack. “You know, if I vary the wards when I give her the fertility charm—it’ll be bulky, but she could manage—I could—”

  “I think I’ll leave you to it. You should eat, too.”

  “Sorry. Talking shop at you again.”

  “No, it’s more—if I keep looking at you, I shall die of swollen balls. Did you know, when you’re thinking, you have a ferocious scowl that I really find quite devastating.”

  “Thornby. Soren. Wait; before you go.” John reached into his pocket and brought out what looked like an ordinary grey river pebble. “I want to give you this.”

  Thornby took it on the palm of his hand and looked closer. It was swirling internally with what seemed to be pearlescent smoke.

  “It’s a tracker stone,” John said. “If you put it in your pocket, I’ll be able to find you. I can’t find you using the ordinary methods, but if your father tries that trick with the chain again, I can set up a sigil and it’ll lead me straight to the stone.”

  “What a clever thing!” He held it to the light; the grey swirls shifted and sparkled. “Thank you, John. You’re marvellous.”

  It was only once he was walking along the passage towards the gun room that he realised what he’d said.

  He’d meant to say ‘it’s marvellous’. But that wasn’t what he’d said at all.

  Would John have noticed? Of course he would; he noticed everything. Thornby felt strangely exposed—as he had the morning John had held his scarred foot in his hands. Did it matter, to feel that way? Thornby liked flirting with people, and giving those light, overblown compliments that perhaps one didn’t really mean. But he hadn’t spoken like that at all. It had sounded quite sincere; almost a little breathy. Like a girl swooning over a flower.

  He realised he’d frozen with his hand on the balustrade of the main staircase. He could hear voices coming along the first floor passage—Mr and Mrs Grey coming down to breakfast with at least one of their daughters.

  Swooning? He didn’t do that. He had enough to worry about.

  John wanted him. And John could get him out of Raskelf. Wasn’t that what all this was about? A fair exchange? And if he enjoyed it himself then so much the better.

  But you’re marvellous? Not sleeping for wanting to see the man at breakfast? But the thing was; John was marvellous. Stunningly marvellous. A bloody magician. With those dark eyes and that smile, and in bed—

  It was as if another woodland path had opened up in the middle of a threadbare spare room, and Thornby was being invited to walk down it.

  The voices were getting closer. If he didn’t go now, the Greys would find him standing in the hallway, gawping at nothing with a cockstand like a flagpole. He adjusted his breeches as best he could, and hurried on down the passage to make sure Stewart wasn’t too soused to see that they got the guns ready properly.

  ***

  That night, when the last shooting story had been told, the last piano piece applauded, and everyone had gone to bed, Thornby took his candle and crept along to John’s room. He hadn’t managed to speak to him in private since this morning at breakfast. He was desperate to know whether John had discovered anything. And just as desperate to see him. But the room was empty.

  Eventually he found John loitering in the passage near Lord Dalton’s door. A candle was guttering in a tarnished ormolu sconce, sending shadows flickering up the walls.

  “John?” he said softly.

  John’s face lit up for a moment, then went solemn. “Look, I can’t see you tonight. You’d better go.”

  “You’ve done it, haven’t you? You’ve charmed Father.”

  “Yes.”

  Thornby couldn’t help shivering a little. Although, in theory, he agreed that Lady Dalton deserved to have things her way for once, in practice it was a bit horrible to think of John doing something so intimate, so controlling to anyone. Surely no-one should have that much power over another person? Thornby put his candle down in an empty marble niche that had once held a Sèvres vase. It had probably been sold, like so much else.

  “Is she in with him?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Oh. So, it hasn’t worked?” He almost felt relieved.

  “I don’t know,” John snapped, then added, “Sorry. I thought, better it doesn’t work at all than something goes wrong. But I may have been too subtle. He may not seek anyone out. He may just—” He made a slight, but unmistakable, movement with his hand.

  Thornby shuddered. “This whole thing’s rather horrible, isn’t it?”

  “Worse for you, probably. He’s just a man to me. And not a very nice one either.”

  “Where’s my lady?”

  “Waiting inside the door of her room. The moment she hears him come out, she’ll open the door. Or I’ll go and knock on her door. He’ll see her. He’ll go to her. That’s the theory anyway.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer if she waited here?”

  “She’s in her nightgown. Mind you, everyone else has gone to bed now. He’s still awake though, I think. I heard a noise not long ago.”

  “He won’t—I mean—if he sees you. He won’t have a go at you, will he?”

  John gave him an unreadable look.
“He’s not that way, is he?”

  “I doubt it. How would I know? No.” He realised he had never thought about his father’s predilections, and certainly did not want to think about them now.

  The sound of a door opening made them both jump. But it was down the corridor. A moment later Lady Dalton came out. She wore a white nightgown with a lace shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and carried a candle. When she saw Thornby she paused, then raised her chin and came towards them.

  “My lady,” John said.

  “Mr Blake. Good evening, Lord Thornby.”

  Thornby bowed. “Ma’am. I was just leaving. I’ll wish you a good night.”

  “You know, don’t you?” she said to him.

  John went crimson. “My lady, I—I—”

  “It’s not his fault. He wasn’t going to tell me. I wheedled it out of him,” Thornby said quickly.

  “Actually, he persuaded me to go ahead with it,” John managed.

  “Then I thank you, Lord Thornby. It’s all right, Mr Blake. I would rather you hadn’t mentioned it, but since you have—well. It doesn’t matter. In any case, I intend to knock on the door.”

  “Oh, are you sure?” John said.

  “I’m not waiting in my room another minute. You’ve done your part. Now I’m doing mine. It may not be ladylike, but I shall do it anyway.”

  “Brava,” Thornby murmured.

  Lady Dalton raised her chin a little higher. “You may both leave now.”

  “My lady, I would rather stay,” John said.

  “And I would rather you leave, Mr Blake.”

  “Just in case something goes wrong.”

  “It will not. I’m done being scared, Mr Blake. I’ve asked you to do this and I’m taking responsibility for it. And I would prefer—”

  Lord Dalton’s door opened abruptly, startling them all. His lordship stood swaying in the doorway for a moment, backlit by the fire that was warming his room. Brandy fumes came off him and his clothes were dishevelled. Before anyone could speak he stepped forward and grabbed Thornby by the jaw.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Thornby tried to pull away. “Just saying good night, sir.”

  “Damn my eyes, you look like her.”

  Thornby stared at him in horror. His father turned his face slightly from one side to the other, examining him. Thornby tried to twist out of his grip, but Lord Dalton held tight.

  Lady Dalton said loudly, “My lord!”

  “Eh?” Dalton turned to her. He didn’t let Thornby go, but his grip loosened and Thornby managed to break free. He staggered a few steps backwards, away from his father.

  “My lord,” Lady Dalton said again, a little quieter, but a challenge rang in her voice.

  Lord Dalton made a harrumphing sound in his throat, but he was looking at her. Thornby realised John had taken his arm and was trying to make him retreat silently down the passage. They backed away until Lord Dalton’s door closed, with both lord and lady inside.

  “Bloody hell. All right?” John said to him.

  “Fine.” His jaw felt burned by Lord Dalton’s grip as if by some kind of acid that would not wash away. He shuddered. It was a filthy feeling, having his own father look at him as if he was a whore for the taking. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Will she be all right, do you think?”

  “I hope so. He is her husband. She’s been with him before.”

  “Had we better wait?”

  “You should go. I’ll wait. There’s a spare room opposite. I’ll leave the door ajar. If she screams—”

  “Can I wait with you?”

  “Better not.”

  “If she screams, aren’t two better than one?”

  “Damn it, Soren, do I have to say it? It nearly went wrong because you were here. Because you look like your mother.”

  “But he wouldn’t have. Not really. Would he?”

  “I hope not.” John glanced at him, and added, “No, of course not. But I still think it’d be better if you weren’t around.”

  “What an absolutely ghastly business.”

  “Yes, well, that’s magic, I suppose. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll look in on you first thing. Yes?”

  “All right.” He couldn’t stop shivering. Going to his cold bed alone was the last thing he wanted. Not that he wanted sex just now, either. But he wanted John’s arms around him. Wanted some evidence of kindness or tenderness in the world, not just manipulation and horror.

  John was already walking silently back down the passage to the spare room opposite Father’s. Thornby turned and began to walk slowly in the opposite direction to his own bedchamber, wondering suddenly if John had ever tried to incite lust in him. Then he remembered that, of course, John’s magic didn’t work on him. So, everything he’d felt with John was quite natural—or at least divinely unnatural.

  He’d almost managed to make himself smile, when he remembered that he was doing everything he could to encourage John to discover certain old sigils that might work on him.

  To free him, of course.

  But what if, when it came to it, John didn’t choose to free him?

  Only, he would, of course.

  All the same, Raskelf felt lonelier and colder than usual, and when he got to his room he was almost relieved John wouldn’t be coming tonight. He got into bed, and lay awake for a long, long time.

  ***

  John sat on the floor in the dark just inside the door of the spare room and waited for Lady Dalton to scream. Or not.

  When Dalton had grabbed Soren like that—

  He breathed out hard, trying to get rid of the tension. So easily it could have gone wrong. He wished he could have gone with Soren. Perhaps not for sex; the knowledge that Lord Dalton was in with Lady Dalton was somehow the biggest passion-killer imaginable—but just to be with him. Just to hold him and feel his warmth. How good it would be to look into those beautiful grey eyes and see them smile.

  He had waited several hours, and almost dozed off, when he heard the door open, and Lady Dalton whisper, “Mr Blake? Lord Thornby?”

  He scrambled up and pulled the door open.

  She stood in the doorway of Lord Dalton’s room, a candle in her hand. He was so relieved to see her without bruises or tears that, at first, he couldn’t speak.

  “I knew you’d wait,” she whispered. “You must read this.”

  She was pushing a piece of paper at him.

  “What is it? Are you all right?” He took it but didn’t look at it.

  “Yes, yes, I’m quite well.” She sounded impatient. “Read it. It was in his pocket.”

  “Is he—?”

  “Asleep.”

  He listened and could indeed hear faint snores. “The charm lasts until daybreak,” he reminded her.

  “For goodness sake, Mr Blake,” she hissed. “Will you read the letter!”

  She lowered her candle to make it easier for him.

  Lord Dalton,

  I am relieved to hear Lord Thornby’s periods of mania appear to be less frequent and severe in nature as his marriage prospects improve. As your lordship has so rightly pointed out, behaving kindly and morally in these cases is always for the best, and the loving guidance of a father may be the only treatment required in this case. Many young men of a sensitive temperament may be nervous before this great step in life, and all may resolve itself once he is happily settled.

  Regarding the periods of listlessness you mention, I do suggest that some therapeutic employment suitable to a young man of Lord Thornby’s station would be advisable, as long as it is not too taxing or exciting.

  Your last letter has set my mind much at ease and I believe there are true grounds for optimism. However, should you require my services in the future, please do not hesitate. Reversals can occur quite suddenly and quick action may be better than delaying overly long.

  Should you find yourself in this position I can assure you that the interior of Clifton House is most commodious and well adapted, h
aving been built for the purpose.

  Your servant, sir

  Gilbert Holmes, MD, Superintendent, Clifton House, York

  John stared at her, blood running cold.

  “Clifton House,” she said. “It’s a lunatic asylum near York.”

  He nodded, finding no words.

  “You must get him out, Mr Blake.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “He must delay marrying as long as he can. I never believed him. All those things he says at dinner. But it’s true. His instinct has been right all along! Dalton will marry him off, wait until he has the girl’s money and then discredit him and take the money himself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dalton’s a—a monster, isn’t he?” Her voice suddenly broke. She gave one sob, and clapped her hand over her mouth to silence herself.

  “My lady, it may not be in his nature. He’s cursed. It may be driving him to do these things.”

  “To put his son in an asylum, even though he’s sane? What could be so important that he would do that?”

  “The money, I suppose.”

  “But he will simply spend it on some useless bits of rock in the middle of the sea! What is the point, Mr Blake? What is his purpose?”

  “I don’t know. I am trying to discover it. If I could understand—”

  There was a sound in the room behind her, of a man snorting and turning over in bed, then snoring again at a slightly different timbre.

  She at once had control of herself again. She plucked the letter out of John’s hand. “You may go now, Mr Blake. I am quite capable of managing for the rest of the night.”

  “I see that, my lady. Thank you.”

  She gave him a nod, and was gone. He stood in the dark, staring at nothing for a long moment, then pulled the rowan twig and sulphur from his pocket, made a light, and set off through the dark passages to Soren.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thornby woke to find his room bathed in unnatural blue-white light, and John standing by his bed looking as pale and ghastly as a corpse. He shrank away instinctively and reached for the matches.

  “What’s happened?” By the warm glow of candlelight, John looked more alive, but still haunted. “Is she all right?”