Page 6 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“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; Ican’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 whenhe’dentered 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 magic, but instead—
