Page 8 of The Magpie Lord
He closed his eyes and cursed internally. It would be a great deal easier to walk away if Lucien Vaudrey was cast in the same mould as his brother Hector, and he wanted to walk away, very much.
He needed to clear his mind. He listened to the Chinese syllables for a few moments more as he calmed his breathing, the vowels sliding up and down the tonal scale in a deeply foreign way. Then he stretched out his hands and let his fingers do the hearing.
The etheric flow rushed past, tickling his nerve endings. Crane’s effervescent, unnatural hilarity bubbled through the ether, whisking away the remnants of the jack’s stain. Merrick was a solid presence, earth to Crane’s air, blocking the flow. The tide was coming in up the Thames, not far away, and Stephen sensed salt water rippling, thesurge of boats, wet wood and sailcloth, the quiet throb of the garden around him, but mostly he could feel Crane, sharp and silver, standing out from the surrounding world like a knife in a drawer full of wooden spoons.
Champagne hands, he thought, as he fell into the ether.
“MR. DAY?”
Stephen blinked himself out of his reverie and glanced at the moon. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, pulling strength from the etheric flow that ran through him, but he felt rather better. There was a distinct chill in the night air, and Crane was looking at him, slightly puzzled, and definitely sober.
“Yes,” he said. “I beg your pardon, I was thinking. How are you feeling, Lord Crane?”
“Normal. Not consumed by misery. Not going mad. My arms hurt like blazes, and I’m embarrassed to recall that I said a variety of offensive things to you, but otherwise I’ve never felt better. I’ve spent the last two months under a shadow, and I’m only realising how dark it was now it’s lifted. I owe you a very great deal, Mr. Day. I understand your repugnance at my family name, but...”
He held out his hand. Stephen hesitated, but forced himself to take it. He watched Crane’s face as bare skin touched and saw no repulsion there, just startled interest.
“That’s still remarkable, even when I’m in my right mind. Whatisit?”
“Hard to explain.” Stephen had no intention of explaining. “I work with my hands.”
“It’s...magic?”
“Could we go inside? If you’re not too tired, there are some things I think we need to discuss.”
Chapter Four
The Judas jack was lying on the floor where Stephen had dropped it. It looked like a piece of gnarled old wood, nothing more. Crane prodded it with the toe of his shoe.
“Don’t touch it,” Stephen told him. “I’ll get rid of it.”
“Thank you,” said Crane. “You know, I feel in need of a drink. I don’t suppose that would be acceptable?”
“Ah... Yes. Thank you.”
Crane hesitated. “I’ve no idea what we have other than wine, whisky, brandy and port. Water?”
“Wine, thank you.”
“You drink wine? Really?”
“Yes...why not?”
“Shamans don’t,” said Crane. “Yu Len would storm out of the room leaving curses in his wake if I defiled his spiritual purity with this particularly good Burgundy.”
“I’m not a shaman.” Stephen tasted the wine he was handed. “Fortunately.” He didn’t often drink good wine, but he had no trouble detecting the quality here.
“What are you, exactly?” Crane enquired.
“A practitioner.”
“Practitioner. What does that mean?”
“It describes what I do, in a way that’s meaningful to other people who do similar things,” said Stephen. “There are other words with which you’re doubtless more familiar.”
“So I, as a layman, might call you a witch or a warlock?” suggested Crane, and immediately held his hands up in apology before Stephen could utter his angry response. “I beg your pardon if that was offensive, I really didn’t mean to insult you.”
Stephen took a calming breath. “A warlock is something else. I’m not a warlock.”
