A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(25)

“Even if it’s only to dinner?”

“You might be glad of it on the way back.”

“Seems as though it’d make some of the after-dark activities of your typical house party rather more difficult to carry out in stealth, if everyone has one,” said Robin before he could seize control of his tongue.

There was a pause. Edwin glanced at his feet, then back up. No smile had appeared, but the irony was dancing in the blue of his eyes now.

“Tell it to stay, and it will stay,” he said.

Feeling utterly foolish, Robin turned to his guidelight. “Stay,” he ordered, and took an experimental step. The light began to drift back to the position just outside the room’s door, where it had been when Robin emerged. “Come to heel?” Robin suggested, to the light’s utter disinterest.

“Amusing as this is,” said Edwin, “they’ll be waiting on us for dinner.”

“Tell me the truth,” Robin said. “Is my fork going to take it upon itself to deliver my peas to my mouth?”

“Only if Belinda’s still feeling playful,” said Edwin. He led the way down the corridor, his own guidelight bobbing along with him, before Robin could decide if he was joking.





Robin Blyth liked the house. That much was obvious.

And despite his attack of—nerves? misgivings?—upstairs, he was at ease at the dinner table, dropping comments when called for and falling into polite silence whenever the conversation tripped off into areas of interest only to magical society. His only misstep had been at the beginning of the meal, when he asked if they were waiting for Mrs. Courcey to join them. The room had suffered an expanding awkwardness before Edwin’s father said, “I’m afraid my wife is indisposed this evening,” with a glance at Edwin that said, quite plainly, that Edwin was failing to tidy up his own messes.

Now Edwin drank his soup without tasting it and watched Robin’s smile dimming and broadening as the ambience dictated. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly how to handle himself in company, even when the company was strange. Never mind his parents’ enemies, and never mind the Home Office—the Foreign Office should have snatched up the owner of that devastating smile and cultivated him like a hothouse plant.

For his part, Edwin was considering himself lucky to keep the food down. He always forgot, when he was in town. He always forgot how it felt to step past the Penhallick sign and have his magic shiver in confusion, and for his blood to tug at his veins. Penhallick House had been built on land handed over by the Crown a century ago to someone missing their Cornish roots, and handed over again—name and all—when it was bought by Edwin’s parents. Now it was his family’s land, young to magic, and every minute he spent here he could feel it trying to know him, trying to find power where so little power dwelled. There was an unsettling sense that the grounds themselves would rise up and buck him off like a skittish horse. It always felt identical to the message in his father’s eyes: coded on the best days, and blatant on the worst. I see what you are, and you are not enough.

“I thought it was that Gatling boy who had the liaison job,” said Walt. “Got sick of facing up to his own uselessness, did he?”

It took Edwin a moment to realise that his brother was speaking to him, and another to quell the stupid, juvenile flutter of panicked wariness. He should be past this cowardice. They were grown men. Walter Courcey was their father’s trusted lieutenant in business and a member of the Chief Minister’s advisory council; he had better things to do with his time now than think up creative new ways to torment his younger brother.

Edwin told himself this, silently and deliberately. It didn’t help. It didn’t change the fact that, dangerous curse or no, Edwin would have hesitated before coming to Penhallick at all if he’d known Walt would be here too.

“I don’t know,” Edwin said. “I haven’t seen Reggie for weeks.”

“A real blow for Sylvester Gatling, that was,” said Edwin’s father. The table fell quiet, faces turning respectfully. Clifford Courcey was not a large man, but he held himself with the aggressive self-assurance that Walt and Belinda had inherited. His unmagical business associates probably mistook it for the weight of money, but Edwin’s father had been born with the power that underlaid his poise. Earning his fortune had only gilded it.

He went on, “His only son too. Terrible thing, to see a branch of English magic dry up like that.”

“His daughters might make up for it in time,” offered Billy Byatt. “I heard the older one’s to be married.”

“No guarantee of the bloodline, all things told,” said Mr. Courcey darkly.

Heat climbed Edwin’s neck. He kept his mouth shut as a new course was laid on the table. Billy met Edwin’s eyes and quirked his lips in sympathy. Next to Edwin, he was the least powerful of the magicians in the room, and Edwin couldn’t help but read pitying fellow-feeling into the fact that Billy had always been the friendliest to him of Bel and Charlie’s set.

“Perhaps you can shed some light on the man’s whereabouts, Sir Robin,” said Walt. “Is Gatling a friend of yours? Sad to say, some people never quite get the knack of friendship, but you don’t strike me as that sort.”

His small smile invited Robin to play along with the jibe at Edwin’s expense. It was familiar enough to be exhausting. More than anything Walt liked to pause and admire the sites of his own previous victories, and by the time Walt left school he’d already torn up two of Edwin’s tentative friendships by the roots: one by simply presenting the choice of being tormented alongside Edwin or of escaping it, and the other—subtler—by poisoning them against him with half-truths. He’d left the earth salted in his wake; Edwin learned his lesson, and didn’t try to make any more connections that might prove tempting targets. It was fine. He’d always been most comfortable in his own company.