Page 26 of The Magpie Lord
He knew it had all happened. But part of his mind was insisting it hadn’t—because Stephen had made him think it hadn’t. Because Stephen had gone into his mind, and practiced on his thoughts.
Stephen, the shaman he trusted to protect him, the man he had started thinking of as his friend.
Crane stared unseeingly at the surface of the desk, face tightening as he thought it over. When he was sure he was right, he got up, walked out of the room to the library and knocked on the door in arestrained, calm, steady fashion for about five minutes without stopping, until his knuckles were getting sore.
Finally Stephen opened the door a crack and gave him a look of exasperation. Crane responded with a bland smile, and kicked the door open so hard that the other man had to leap back to avoid being hit.
STEPHEN HAD BARELYslept the previous night. He had compounded that shameless performance in the garden with a disgraceful abuse of his powers: he had tortured himself for half the night with reproaches and the other half with images of what might have been, painfully aware of Crane oblivious and asleep in the next room. He had been scarcely able to meet Crane’s eyes at breakfast for anger at himself, and he had spent the morning getting increasingly frustrated at the maddening difficulty of casting in this ridiculous, hateful house. It had taken him hours to get into a state of focus that meant he could force the meagre ether to do his bidding, and the knocking that broke his concentration was almost as unwelcome as the results he was seeing, or the heavy oak door that came within two inches of breaking his nose.
“What thedevil?” he demanded as Crane strode in and back-heeled the door shut with a slam.
“I,” said Crane sweetly, “have just accepted a dinner invitation for us both. Tonight.”
“You’ve done what? Why?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Crane stalked forward. Stephen dropped back a pace. “I was happily refusing the importunities of a pair of dullards, when quite suddenly I found myself realising that I was being terribly rude and it was absolutely necessary that I should attend this tedious social engagement. Much as, in the past weeks, I have found myself thinking that I was a worthless piece of human waste who ought to kill myself.”
“Oh! You think—”
“Much as,” Crane went on over him, taking another step forward so that Stephen was backed up against the desk, “last night, just after you revealed yourself as the world’s best card-sharper and faced down a bloodyghost, I found myself thinking that you’re really a very dull little man that I don’t want to pay any attention to. Isn’t that odd?”
Stephen froze. Crane glared at him, ugly with rage, clenching his fists. “You damned little swine, how dare you play the fool with my mind?”
He shoved, hard; Stephen squirmed sideways. “Not the desk, don’t knock the desk!” he yelped. “I’ve spent all morning doing that—”
“The hell with the desk.” Crane shoved it, hard. There was a sad tinkling clatter as a tangle of something metallic collapsed, and Stephen gave a pained cry of protest, which Crane ignored, reaching for him again. Stephen ducked under his arm and sidestepped. Crane grabbed him by the shoulders, walked him back two paces and slammed him against a bookshelf.
“Ow.”
Crane stared down. Stephen could feel himself flushing, but he met Crane’s eyes directly.
“Well?” demanded Crane.
“Well, you’re right, of course.”
“Why?”
Stephen looked at him steadily, refusing to drop his eyes. “It’s safer.”
“For whom?”
“Me. Can you let me go, please, I’ve got some sort of atlas in my back.”
Crane shifted his hands from Stephen’s shoulders to the shelves behind, but didn’t otherwise move, so that Stephen was still trapped by his body and outstretched arms. “That was neither an explanation, nor an apology. I want both. What did you do to me?”
“I put fluence on you. Influence. To lead your thoughts in the direction I wanted them to go.”
“Why?” asked Crane again.
“If I wanted to discuss it, I wouldn’t have used fluence in the first place. You know, I’m used to people being taller than me, and I really don’t find it as intimidating as you may imagine, so you may as well step back.”
Crane leaned forward and down instead, eyes snapping with fury. “Will you be more intimidated when I wring your neck, you little sod?”
Stephen reached up and put a finger on Crane’s throat. “Listen to me. Step back two paces, calmly.”
Crane stepped back. Stephen rolled his narrow shoulders and took a breath, counting mentally. When he reached six, he saw the rage ignite in Crane’s face and rapidly moved away from the wall.
“You fucking little shit!” Crane lunged. Stephen ducked, jinked sideways and retreated in earnest as Crane went for him, far faster than he’d anticipated. He skipped backwards and found Crane had backed him against the desk again. The taller man grabbed him, astonishingly hard, and threw him backwards, so that the breath burst out of him, and before he could move, Crane was over him, pinning him down.
