A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(18)

Hawthorn continued, “You, whatever your name is—no, I don’t care—you’ve been led here under false pretences. I am not a magician. I have no opinions on magical matters, and no interest in being dragged into them, even for ten seconds. A fact of which Mr. Courcey here is perfectly aware.”

“You needn’t worry that if you do me one favour I’m going to be knocking down your door at all hours, my lord,” said Robin. “Especially as you’re clearly about to depart for—where, exactly?”

“Lapland,” drawled Hawthorn.

Courcey stirred. “Really? You know, I read that—”

“No, not really. New York,” said Hawthorn repressively. “Get your pity project out of my sight, Courcey. I’ve packing to finish.”

Courcey’s eyes narrowed. “You could have been done helping us in the time it’s taken you to explain exactly how unhelpful you delight in being.”

Hawthorn’s eyes narrowed in return. He pushed off the dresser, taking a few steps into their space. Courcey was no more a short man than Robin was, but his slightness made the inches that Hawthorn had on the both of them seem exaggerated.

“And you should have known better than to try to wriggle around me like this. If you were here for a fuck, that’d be different. I suppose I might be willing to bend you over my bed for old times’ sake.”

Robin’s blood froze. He couldn’t have heard that correctly.

Beside him, Courcey had gone absolutely still. Robin looked at him, and knew instantly from the look on the man’s face that he had, in fact, heard exactly those words emerge from Hawthorn’s mouth. It was unthinkable. Nobody would confess offhandedly to that particular crime in front of a complete stranger. Unless Hawthorn had somehow guessed—somehow recognised— A calmer, less terrified part of Robin pointed out that even if Robin had been the kind of person to clutch at the pearls of disgusted morality and run straight to the police, there was no real evidence. It would be the word of an impoverished baronet against the word of Baron Hawthorn, son of an earl. Based on a single lewd joke.

“Then again,” Hawthorn went on, “perhaps I wouldn’t. Pallid little librarians were never really to my taste.”

Furious humiliation washed Courcey’s expression like a pail of tossed water. Robin glanced away, and anger flared in his chest.

“Don’t pay me any mind,” Hawthorn added, directed at Robin now. “I’m just riling him up. Can you blame me? It’s so easy to do.”

“I rather think I can blame you, my lord,” said Robin, “given you’re being a complete arse for no reason at all.”

After another frozen eternity—during which Robin’s skin crawled with the knowledge that he’d likely just made an enemy of the one person Courcey thought could help them—Hawthorn gave a crack of rough but genuine laughter.

“Good luck with your curse, Mr. Nobody,” he said. “Never fear: Courcey here just loves a good puzzle. He goes far wilder for figuring things out from books than he ever did for anything that I—”

“You bastard,” said Courcey, a strained whisper. “You fucking bastard, Jack.”

“The curse,” said Robin, striking out desperately for a change of subject—and finding one. Looking anywhere but at Courcey had meant he’d looked more closely at the pattern on his own arm. “It’s changed.”

“How?” said Courcey. He frowned down at it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. There’s more of it,” Robin said. “More lines—it’s more intricate. And it’s covering an inch more skin than it was last night.” He swallowed against a new rise of trepidation. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing good,” said Hawthorn. His shrug, when they both turned to him, was insouciant. But his eyes had sharpened.

“Jack,” snapped Courcey.

A deep, put-upon sigh. “A rune-curse that replicates its own pattern in situ is a bad sign. Whatever its purpose is, it’ll keep getting worse.”

A spasm of icy dismay made Robin’s shoulders twitch. “How do I get rid of it?”

“I don’t know—no, Courcey, I don’t.” Hawthorn’s sharpness now had an edge of—not pity, else Robin would have found himself throwing some more unwise punches. But a frank sympathy. “I do wish you luck with it. But I’m not whatever solution you’re looking for.” His gaze wandered to Courcey and Robin waited for another piece of off-colour humour to emerge from that smirking mouth. Instead his lordship gave a small bow.

“Good to see you, Edwin, old chap. Don’t give my regards to your family. I never liked any of them.”

Courcey turned on his heel without returning either bow or farewell. He was halfway down the corridor when Robin, still in the doorway, felt sickly heat spread beneath his collar. Blotches of light danced at the corners of his vision; he clutched at the doorframe. The peppery sensation on his tongue was the same as it had been last night. He could smell caramel on the edge of burning, and a sudden wild flare of salt and flowers, like a summer breeze distilled— The ocean sliced the scene in half, an endless horizon of sea against blushing sky, the watercolours of sunset fading up to a darkening blue. Lord Hawthorn stood with one elbow leaned on a railing, looking outwards, nodding as though in response to speech. He turned suddenly and pulled a watch from his pocket by its chain, glancing down to check the time. He looked up and then gestured. Pointing to something.