Page 55 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Go to sleep. I’ll see the maid off when she comes.” But he yawned himself.
“You should sleep, too. I’m going.”
John got up, put on just enough clothes for decency, gathered his pins, and was gone. It was much colder without him. Thornby pulled his nightshirt back on and glanced over the edge of the bed. The octopus was nowhere to be seen, yet he did not feel relieved. Instead, he was a little crestfallen, as if a friend had left without saying good-bye. He settled into the spot where John had been lying. It still smelled of him, faintly, and there was some residual warmth. Thornby pulled the eiderdown over his head and was asleep.
***
Thornby woke to a sharppain in his chest, as if something was biting him. He gasped and convulsed, curling his knees up, trying to grab the source of the pain. His waking brain threw him some confused ideas about adders or rats. But his hands met nothing. His eyes flew open. The fire had been lit and the curtains opened, and in the grey light of morning, the red bloom of blood was soaking the front of his nightshirt.
Then the agony returned double-fold. He jack-knifed in the bed, clutching at his chest, trying to get away from whatever was hurting him. He pushed himself up on one elbow. Nothing sharp was there—just the laces of the nightshirt. Yet the pain seared through him again. He struggled out of bed, half falling, and ripped the front of the nightshirt open. There were two long slashes across his chest, nearly from nipple to nipple, both bleeding freely. And as he watched, another began to open up. He grabbed at it, trying to hold his skin together with his hands, twisting in agony, trying to escape.
An attack. From nowhere.
His foot catching fire all those years ago.
This was the same. It was magic. Father was cutting the token.
He must get to John, because John could find people. Father would lead them straight to it.
He staggered to the door, chest burning and throbbing. The front of the nightshirt stuck to him, glistening red, as if he’d had his heart cut out. He put blood-sticky fingers to the door handle, and froze as footsteps hurried past. But he had to get to Johnnow. He opened the door to see the vanishing form of one of the housemaids. Apart from that, the passage was empty. For now. He ran, hunched over, expecting more pain at any moment. He got to John’s door and burst through it.
John sat bolt upright, hair tousled, eyes already alert. “Soren?Christ! What the fuck!” He leapt out of bed, wearing nothing but his drawers and shirt.
Thornby clutched the bedpost. “The token. He—he—”
Words were far too difficult. He let the torn nightshirt fall open. There were three long cuts, the bottom two masked with blood, as if he’d been sliced open with a razor. Blood had dripped down to his stomach, and beyond.
John was pulling things out of the pockets of his jacket, which lay over the stand. “Don’t be afraid. This is a good thing. If it’s your father doing it, he’ll lead us straight to it, the bastard.”
Thornby bunched the ragged edges of the blood-soaked nightshirt and tried to stem the bleeding. Don’t be afraid? He was shivering with fear. Father could hurt him any time, without warning. At least, with a blow, one could usually see it coming. And what if Father decided to do worse than cut him? What about fire? He’d used it before. What if—?
John was kneeling on the carpet, making an intricate pattern of salt. He put a cigar cutter in the centre of it, shook a small vial and poured something that looked like blood onto the salt nearby. He took the glass eye in one hand. Then he touched the salt in that purposeful, deliberate way, and the cigar cutter glowed red and melted into a yellow puddle, scorching a hole in the carpet.
“He’s in the park. To the west of the house,” John said.
“In the park?” The edges of Thornby’s vision were darkening. He sank to his knees. “Where?”
“Don’t know.” John was pulling his clothes on. “He’s on the move.”
“I...don’t...” Thornby closed his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate. “Where, exactly, in the park?”
“Don’t know. I’m going to look.” John paused in front of him to grip his shoulder, then ran out of the room.
The sigil John had made was still on the floor, the melted cigar cutter a black ash-encrusted blob. He’d gone in such a hurry he’d left his salt behind. That was unlike him. Thornby touched the closest line of salt with one bloodied finger. It made him feel a little better, as if he was touching John’s hand. John had acted fast. Look how he’d had that cigar cutter, which must have belonged to Father, as if he’d been expecting this very eventuality. But it had still taken time to get here, make the sigil and locate Lord Dalton.
Would Father still be there, with it? Or would he have hidden it again and left?
Thornby should go himself, out into the park to help John look.
He staggered back to his room and kicked the bloody nightshirt under the bed like a guilty secret. There was warm water in the jug, so he cleaned himself up and started to get dressed. But his hands were shaking so he could barely do his buttons. His chest burned, and his head kept spinning. Worst was the hideous anticipation: expecting, all the time, that the pain could come again, and he would never know when. He fumbled with the buckles at his knees, but they defeated him entirely. What did it matter? He was only wearing these ridiculous clothes to annoy Father. And Father didn’t care, not really.
He started down the passage. It seemed darker than usual, and narrower. Strange smells kept assailing him: old perfume and dusty stone overlaying some sickly carrion stench. The air seemed to be pressing down on him so he could barely draw breath.
He’d reached the bottom of the stairs when darkness descended as if it were pitch black night. He clung to the banister. There was a peculiar rushing in his ears. Was it his own blood surging around? His knees were giving. He was sure he had not let go of the banister, but could no longer feel it under his hand. He was lying on some cold, uneven surface that was not the stairs or the hall floor. It was so cold, so dark. And, somehow, it hadalwaysbeen cold and dark. He twisted his head, trying to find a whisper of fresh air, or a glimmer of light. But there was none, and there never had been. He tried to rally—ofcoursethere was sunlight and fresh autumn air. But these things didn’t seem real. All his life, he had been stuck here in this terrible cold, this terrible dark. Always confined. Always.
***
John got outside tosee Lord Dalton arriving back at the house at a gallop on his big chestnut thoroughbred. He tried to follow the horse’s trail, but it led towards the village, and the way was so muddy it was difficult to make it out. How long had it taken Soren to get to him? How long to cast the sigil, get dressed and get outside? Ten minutes? To be safe, he must suppose the token could be anywhere within a fifteen-minute radius. How fast could Dalton’s horse gallop? Pretty fast—it was a fine creature.
