A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(117)

Beneath that, impossibly, he could feel the throb of the ley lines that crossed as they ran through this place and away: south to north, east to west, tugging with their vast tidal strength at the spark of magic in Edwin’s core.

His body fell to its knees. He barely noticed.

Hello, Edwin thought. My name is Edwin John Courcey, and I am determined to do this right.

This wasn’t just an ease of magic and of breathing. This was something ancient and unmapped, the land reminding him that blood-pledge was the oldest contract played out small—power for responsibility, to tend and to mend. Edwin breathed through it, dragging his awareness in from the trees and the hedge-roots, nearly gasping with relief as it shrank and sharpened to only the house itself. Even that was overwhelming for a few long moments: he was the joins of the wooden furniture, he was the skitter of mouse-feet in the gaps between walls, he was mirrors and clocks and dried herbs hung in the rafters and the charms for safety laid around every fireplace.

“Edwin,” Robin was saying.

Edwin dragged it all in until the tendrils of connection were only here in the parlour—and then it was all inside his chest, his throat, the whole world burning there as though if he opened his mouth it would all come pouring out like sunlight— And then it was just him and Robin, kneeling on the floor.

Robin’s face was close to Edwin’s and he looked worried. He was gripping Edwin’s fingers in his own, hard enough to be painful.

“Robin,” Edwin said. Coughed. “May I have my hands back?”

Robin gave him his hands back. Robin gave a grin of open affection and pure relief that brought the sunlight back into Edwin’s mouth for a fleeting moment.

“Are you all right?” Robin asked.

“I don’t know what I am,” said Edwin. “But yes. I’m all right.” In the spirit of enquiry, he sat back on his heels and tried to identify what he was feeling.

Somewhat to his shock, he decided it was joy.





Robin’s hand had mostly stopped bleeding, but one of the kitchen maids was summoned anyway. She cast a ticklish charm, which left the cut looking two days old; Robin supposed a knack for that sort of thing would be useful in her line of work. Edwin was telling Mrs. Greengage the housekeeper why Walter’s bag needed to be brought back down again and sent to London. The explanation was along the lines of the one he’d given to Sutton Cottage itself. My brother. Not welcome here.

Mrs. Greengage had only appeared, with a stately knock, in the wake of Walter’s hasty departure. Unlikely as it seemed, the disturbance in the house had been contained to the parlour alone; Robin should have realised it from the fact that no servants came running to see what the fuss was about when the room shook and the ivy moved. Now the ivy panel looked innocent and flat like all the others.

“May I ask if you and Sir Robert are still intending to stay overnight?” Mrs. Greengage asked.

They were. They would appreciate the chance to wash up, and possibly to rest before a late luncheon. No, they would not require assistance to dress. Robin hid a brief smile in his collar at the new notes of authority that filled Edwin’s voice.

Mrs. Greengage looked relieved at the prospect of not having to produce an impromptu valet from among the footmen. The housekeeper was thin and capable, with creases at her eyes as she looked at Edwin, who was toying fondly with the trim of his chair.

“I’d say it’s likely the house will show you to your rooms, sir,” she said. “Sir Robert, we’ve put your bag in the next room down.”

She was right. The house showed them the way. Sutton Cottage was large enough that light poorly penetrated the interior corridors of the largest wings, and old enough that the darkness of the wood and stone rendered it shadowy, deep, and cool. The way needed to be lit and warmed, and lit and warmed it was, by clusters of candles in glass lantern-shields. Whenever Edwin hesitated at the foot of a stair or the end of a hallway, a cluster would flare briefly brighter in invitation, guiding them on.

“You’re going to have a terrific chandler’s bill, with this lot,” murmured Robin.

Edwin’s face lit in turn with a smile, even as he reached out a hand to the nearest wall as though to protect it from Robin’s teasing. He’d been doing that—small touches, odd smiles—since he’d fallen to his knees in the grasp of whatever power of this magical estate had sent Walter packing. There were subtler changes too. That authority in his voice. A straighter angle of his shoulders.

They certainly weren’t being stashed in a guest wing this time. The suite Edwin was led to had gold damask wall coverings and comprised at least three rooms joined by doors. There was a bedroom with an imposing four-poster dominating the middle, and an adjoining dressing room, but the bulk of the suite was the large, friendly space that combined study and sitting room. A series of sofas surrounded a pale round table that looked like marble; the centre of it was a chessboard, black stone inset amongst the white. There was a writing desk and chair, a winged armchair adorned with cushions, and a sideboard with a row of full decanters and a tray of crystal glasses. The silk walls were otherwise bare, with faint squares showing the gaps where pictures had been; politely awaiting the imposition of a new occupier’s taste. It was a man’s haven of a room and Robin wanted to wrap himself in it like a blanket.

He directed his comments to the ceiling. “You do realise he’s only going to haul bookshelves in here and crowd everything else out.”