(A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord (9 page)

“No, you do
not
,” said Day, standing over the grotesque pieta. He ripped open the bag of salt and iron as he spoke, with his fingers in an odd, clawlike position. The white and grey dust hung in the air above the Hector thing for a few unnatural seconds. Day’s fingers stabbed downwards, and the dust descended with intense force, like monsoon rain—

And Hector wasn’t there.

Crane stood and stared at the empty stone floor. He felt the sharp prickle of Day’s hand on his arm.

“Come on, out of here. I’ve no idea how long that will keep it away. Walk. Left leg. Right. Left. Come on.”

Crane made himself walk. They emerged into the moonlight, out of the rose-lined path, and Crane took a deep, shuddering breath.

“The next time I say
run
,” Day said, “listen to me. Please.”

“I’ll listen the next time you say not to come at all. Jesus Christ. I need to sit down.”

Day looked round quickly, and half-pulled him over to a square stone that had once been a statue’s pedestal. Crane sat heavily on the rough stone and slumped forward, resting his forearms on his thighs to support himself.

“I need your left hand.” Day squatted down next to him.

Crane extended it without asking. Day took it, brushing his thumb over Crane’s knuckles. A pale yellow light from nowhere illuminated the skin.

“What the—”

“Me, that’s just me,” Day said hastily. “Sorry. I need to see.”

“What’s that on my hand?”

Day’s thumb slid over the dead white patch on his knuckles. “It’s an abreaction. You’ve heard of people’s hair turning white when they see a ghost? Like that. It shouldn’t be permanent if I can deal with it now. Otherwise it’ll just be a white patch. Nothing to worry about.” His thumb moved back and forth, gentle but firm, prickling champagne bubbles on Crane’s skin.

There was silence for a few moments. Finally Crane forced out, “That thing. Was that Hector? His—his spirit? His soul?”

“I’m not a theologian.” Day’s hand was folded around Crane’s as his thumb slid over the skin, fingertips tingling against Crane’s palm. “And this isn’t my field. But…it reacted to you, it reacted to your reaction, it was astonishingly physical and close to audible… I think it’s not Hector exactly, but it’s what’s left of Hector. Or what Hector is now.”

“Marvellous,” Crane muttered. “And it’s not gone for good?”

“Not yet. I might need help to get rid of it permanently.” Day hesitated. “Were you frightened of him, as a child?”

“Terrified. I used to spend half my time in the attic, hiding from him. One holiday he found me and broke my leg in a door so I couldn’t run away. It took him three tries. When I heard he was dead, we got drunk for a week.”

Day’s thumb had stilled, his grip tightening on Crane’s hand. “I will make it go away,” he said softly. “I’ll get rid of it for you. I promise.” His thumb resumed its circling movements, slower and a little firmer, warm and close and caressing. “You know,” he added, “there are a number of recommended methods of dealing with ghosts—salt and iron, harmonic resonance, some people swear by exorcism, and not just priests—but that’s the first time I’ve seen anyone try a left hook.”

“Now you say that,” Crane said, “it strikes me that it was a very stupid act.”

“It was brave.” Day sounded serious. “A bit stupid. But mostly brave.”

The shaman knelt before him in the moonlight, painfully close. At some point, Crane wasn’t sure when, he’d moved so that his arms were now resting on Crane’s thighs, warm and heavy. His hair glimmered dark copper in the cold light, and his caressing thumb was sending spangles of sensation up towards Crane’s elbow now.

Crane looked down at him. As if he’d felt the gaze, Day looked up, mouth slightly open, and his wide eyes met Crane’s for a long breathless moment.

Crane reached out with his free hand and brushed his thumb slowly over Day’s lips, pushing them gently apart, feeling his mouth move softly, opening, accepting the touch. His breath came fast against Crane’s hand. Crane’s need was suddenly, violently urgent after the night’s terror, and Stephen Day was kneeling before him, lips inviting, pupils dilated, a gift to be unwrapped. He pushed his thumb further into the warm mouth and felt a flicker of tongue against his skin, a tentative taste.

“Stephen,” said Crane softly, trying out the name.

Stephen tilted his head back a little. “I…I don’t…”

“Oh, you do.” Crane stroked his fingers possessively over the small chin. “You really do. Lovely boy.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” Stephen said weakly, and Crane’s lips curved, knowing that was surrender.

His hand closed on Stephen’s jaw, pulling him closer. “Come here. Unless you want to stay on your knees, of course,” he added, with a twitch of a brow, and something in the other man’s eyes went suddenly dark.

“Listen to me,” Stephen said. “I have been clearing the abreaction for the last few minutes. This has been dull and uneventful, and you’re keen to go in and do something more interesting than talk to me. I’m very boring and drab and unattractive, after all, and you’d be much happier talking to Mr. Merrick. You want to forget about me and go in, so you’re quite glad to hear that the abreaction has cleared.”

“Has it?” said Crane. “Oh, good. Can we go in?”

“Of course,” mumbled Stephen. He leaned backwards, shifting his bony elbows off Crane’s legs. The moonlight greyed his rather dull, mud-coloured eyes and nondescript features. He looked drawn and tense, almost distressed. Crane didn’t know why.

Crane rose and held out a hand. After a second Stephen took it, and Crane heaved him to his feet.

“Ow.”

“Did Hector—it—hurt you?” Crane asked.

“No. No, my knees are just a bit stiff. No damage done. Well, I caught my jacket on those roses.”

“Merrick is very good at rescuing clothes.” They fell into step back through the moon-shadowed grounds to Piper. “He kept me respectable for years. What happens next?”

“I’ll walk back the Judas jack tomorrow. See if I can find out where it was made and who did it. Prevent them doing anything else. And then I’ll find out what provoked the haunting and make it go away.”

“Where to?” Crane asked. “Hector, I mean. Where would he go?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Stephen. “
Away
is really all I’m concerned with. Does it matter?”

Crane shrugged as he opened the side door, and recoiled as he came face to face with Graham, standing right at the door. The old man held a candlestick, and his face was deeply wrinkled and malevolent in the dancing shadows as he looked them both over.

“Oh, there you are, your lordship,” he said. “I trust you had a pleasant time in the garden. Dear me, Mr. Day, your lower garments are quite wet. Perhaps you should spend less time on your knees.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off. Stephen looked after him, and turned to Crane, face neutral.

“It amuses him to be offensive,” Crane said, wondering whether Stephen had grasped the ludicrous insinuation. “My apologies. I’ll have a word.”

There was nothing in Stephen’s muddy eyes, except perhaps tiredness. “Don’t bother. Good night.”

Chapter Nine

The unseasonable sun was shining through the narrow windows of the drawing room, onto the faded carpets and brocade chairs, and Crane was bored.

Stephen had been particularly uninteresting at breakfast, barely meeting Crane’s eyes, making only polite and noncommittal remarks. Crane, deprived of conversation, found his mind kept wandering to Hector, and the jack, and the ghastly legal and financial tangle ahead of him, until he had all but forgotten the dull little man opposite him.

Stephen had disappeared after consuming a huge breakfast and was now sequestered in the library, where he had been all morning, armed with the most detailed map Crane possessed and supplies of tea and cake from Mrs. Mitching. Merrick had gone off to spread the agreed story that the cement fixing the stones of the Rose Walk had deteriorated catastrophically and it was likely to collapse on anyone foolish enough to walk through it. Crane had settled down with Piper’s accounts, which possessed all the clarity and order of a plate of
chao mian
noodles but none of the spice, and had thought that this would be the dullest thing he did all day, right up until the moment Sir James and Lady Thwaite arrived to make a morning call.

Sir James concluded his hunting anecdote with a hearty laugh, in which his wife joined. Crane said, “Very good,” without any effort at sincerity. “Now…”

“Well.” Sir James glanced at his wife. “I expect you’re wondering why we’re here, my lord, and the fact is, we’re having a dinner this evening.”

“We had no idea when you’d be back, you see,” put in Lady Thwaite. “Or we would have sent you a card. Naturally.”

“Cards,” said Sir James dismissively. “Man doesn’t need a card to share meat with his neighbours. Come and take pot luck with us this evening. You can meet our Helen again, and all the society roundabout here, not to mention the Brutons. Muriel’s friends, they are, coming up from London today. Just your sort. Sir Peter and Elise, that’s Lady Bruton, don’t know if you’ve met them? You London folk all know each other, I dare say.”

“That’s most kind of you, but—”

“Now, don’t say you have another engagement.” Lady Thwaite had an air of suppressed triumph. “The Millways are coming, and there will be Mr. Haining too. And really, I can’t
imagine
what else you could be doing.”

Crane could think of a number of occupations that would give him more pleasure, even in Piper. “I’m not engaged, as such, but I’m extremely busy. Matters are in something of a tangle here. I really can’t spare the time for social events, I’m afraid. Thank you anyway.” He rose as he spoke.

“But you must come.” Lady Thwaite stood too and took hold of Crane’s hand. “Listen to me. You can’t refuse to meet your neighbours and you really mustn’t decline. Come tonight, at seven, or you will offend us all and you don’t want to do that.”

“I—”

“Listen to me. You don’t want to refuse at all, dear Lord Crane. You know you must come. You have to meet Helen again. You like Helen so much, she’s so sweet and pretty. Such a lovely girl. So suitable, so eligible. You must come.”

Crane sighed internally, realising he would have to go. “Very well, then, thank you. But I’ve a guest with me here.”

“Bring him along!” said Sir James boisterously, getting in before his wife could speak. “The more the merrier.”

“I’ve no idea if he has dining clothes—”

“Oh, don’t bother about that!” said Sir James merrily. “We’re not sticklers, are we, my dear?”

Lady Thwaite patted Crane on the arm with a victorious smirk. “Of course not. And you must come, dear Lord Crane, you really, really must.”

Crane returned to his work for ten minutes or so after the Thwaites had left, cursing himself for giving in to a pointless social obligation, and wondering what the devil Stephen could wear to any kind of dinner. The man was barely presentable as it was. He caught himself reflecting that his own amber cufflinks would match Stephen’s eyes, the blend of warm brown and glowing gold, and wondered why he’d had that thought, because Stephen’s eyes were a drab clay colour…

He put his pen down.

He
knew
the man’s eyes were golden, changeable, intense. He’d watched them long enough. But he also knew they were dull and unattractive, because…

Because Stephen had told him so?

Crane made himself go over and over the last night, memories swimming to the surface as he concentrated. The cold rough stone. Stephen on his knees. Warm breath and soft lips against his hand.

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 a restrained, calm, steady fashion for about five minutes without stopping, until several rather confused-looking servants had gathered round him and 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 barely slept 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.