Page 52 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Chapter Eleven
Thornby woke to findhis 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?”
“She’s damned brave. Your father doesn’t deserve her.”
“Yes, but is she all right? You look terrible.”
“She’s fine. I think it may have worked. Everything felt—right.”
“But isn’t that good? Then what’s the matter?”
“I’m afraid I’ve something to tell you.”
Thornby listened in silence to the tale about the letter and all it implied. He’d thought he had no illusions left about Father, but the words ‘lunatic asylum’ sent a bolt of terror through him that, for a moment, seared rational thought away. Perhaps there had still been a part of him that wanted to believe the whole thing some awful misunderstanding; that Father wanted him to marry for benevolent reasons. Now that part of him died.
“May I sit down?” John said, making him jump.
Thornby nodded, not trusting his voice, and moved over to make room. John sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand over his. His usually tidy hair was rumpled, his cravat loose, dark smudges were under his eyes. He was glaring at nothing, as if he’d eat one alive if one so much as cleared one’s throat.
Yes, he looked daunting. Yes, he’d just magicked Father. And, yes, he could probably do a thousand alarming things with merely the contents of his pockets. But he was a decent man trying to do the right thing. No, it was more than that. He was the kind of man who gave walnuts to hedgehogs, who listened to frightened young ladies, and who tried to make you smile when it felt as if the world was caving in. And then he might fuck you until you forgot your own name. Thornby was suddenly ashamed for having been afraid of him earlier. It was Father who cast horror across everything. If John found a way to let him go, of course he would use it.
Thornby turned his hand over and laced their fingers together. John looked at him and tried to smile. He couldn’t quite manage it, but the fact that he was trying filled the empty place inside Thornby with something warm. Perhaps it was hope?
“Did you look at that hair?” Thornby asked. “You said it might be useful.”
“It is useful. I just have to find the right sigil.”
“I expect you scarcely had time today.”
“I did get a sigil from the spancel. It felt partly right.” John shook his head, eyes distant, probably remembering occult lines and curves of salt. “But something was missing. Some extra material, maybe? I don’t know. And I daren’t experiment until I’m sure; it might destroy the hair.”
“I see.”
John stroked his thumb over Thornby’s wrist, soothing, encouraging. “It was promising, but the spancel gets distressed if I press it too hard. And then it’s difficult to make out what it means. I’ll ask it again tomorrow.”
“It gets distressed? What on earth is it?”
“It’s a tether for magic. It’s very old. Much older than anything else I use. That’s partly why I’m so hopeful. It’s seen centuries of magic.”
“But what’s it made from?”
John gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Trade secret.”
In spite of everything, Thornby almost smiled. “Go on, tell me.”
