A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(48)
No, that wasn’t an ache. It was hot tension—it was tingling pepper on his tongue—it was the sensory weirdness that preceded the visions, light dancing at the corners of his eyes. He was noticing it earlier. He had time to anticipate.
“Edwin,” Robin said weakly, and leaned forward on his elbows, head drooping, just as the foresight took him. He managed to think, with a throb of irritation: Why can’t this be useful— A narrow street, a line of shop fronts in the glumness of fog. City lights glowing like the eyes of beasts. Grubby signs and brass trim, and a window full of clocks, almost dream-like through the murky air. Clocks spinning and ticking and pendulum-swaying. A slim male figure wrapped in coat and hat pushing open the door in order to enter the shop; a bell at the door’s top set into feverish tinkling motion.
Change. An elderly woman in a strangely small and windowless room, dressed in impeccable black silk, backed up against the wooden panels of the wall. Fear in her face, and then an angry smile emerging from the wrinkles that carved lines away from her thin lips. She flung out a hand and something flashed—a spell, a thrown knife? The next moment there was an answering flash, a glow of pink light around her neck, and the woman crumpled and fell.
Robin gasped back into himself. He felt Edwin’s hand first, the painful grip on his arm. Then he noticed the quiet that had fallen in the room.
“Still among the living,” said Robin, raising his head. He couldn’t suppress a wince.
“Still feeling the effects of Win’s experiments?” asked Belinda.
“Or was it that curse again?” put in Billy.
“To be frank, I’ve not been feeling the thing since taking that dunking yesterday.” Robin put a hand to his own head. “Perhaps I’m coming down with a cold.”
“Come on,” said Edwin quickly. “I’m sure we’ve a remedy or two in the kitchen.”
Nobody asked them to stay. Billy and Trudie were already trading amiable barbs about each other’s illusions as they left. So much for Belinda’s friends being taken with him. Robin was a little sad to quit the glorious parlour before he’d had a chance to poke his nose into all its corners, but he wasn’t sad to be alone with Edwin again.
Ten minutes later they were upstairs, in yet another parlour that Robin hadn’t entered before, cosily arranged near the fireplace. A servant had been dispatched to the kitchen with specific instructions as to which herbal tea Mr. Edwin wanted, and that it was not to be added to the water, but served alongside. A tea trolley was wheeled in before long. Alongside the tea set and the pot of water were a plate of iced gingerbread and a small decanter of brandy.
Edwin upended the bag of leaves onto a spare tray, and spread the green-grey mass of them to form a thin layer. Robin, nibbling gingerbread, watched with interest as Edwin pulled out his cradling string and built a spell that created a syrupy rainbow shimmer between his hands, like petroleum on puddles. Once it vanished into the leaves, Edwin dumped the lot into the teapot and stirred vigorously before replacing the lid.
“This is an imbuement,” said Edwin. “It has to be on the leaves, you see. Any kind of potion with magical properties has the magic applied to the plant ingredients first. Magic tends to adhere to life, or at least a place where life was. It can’t do much to clean water, and even less to an alcohol base. Infusion’s easier all round.”
“Magic and life,” said Robin. “I suppose it makes sense.”
“I’ve just got hold of a book by a last-century Japanese research magician, who wrote a lot on that subject,” said Edwin. “They’re doing so much more in other countries, they have academies . . . anyway, Kinoshita’s work was on the specific properties of living things and where they interact with magic. Of course, a lot of their plants are different, but—” He cut himself off with a jerk of his chin like a bottle twisting off the flow of wine. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I can—talk.”
“Don’t be,” said Robin. “Shall I be mother, then?” He poured the tea, careful with the strainer as it caught the sodden leaves. The imbued tea was a deep yellow. It had an odd background note that was almost buttery, and a sharp aftertaste that shot up to Robin’s nose like ginger. He wouldn’t call it delicious, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Halfway down the cup he became aware of warmth spilling down the muscles of his neck and shoulders, like sinking into a hot bath. He’d been wondering when to point out that he didn’t in fact need a cold remedy, but this was delightful nonetheless.
Edwin drank steadily. He looked about as tired as Robin felt; perhaps he was the one who needed the soothing effects of the potion, and had seized the excuse. Robin didn’t want to chew over the failed attempt at lifting the curse, so he struck out in the direction of another topic.
“Sounds like a rotten thing, what happened to Lord Hawthorn and his sister.”
Edwin made a noise of agreement.
“Is that why he’s—how he is?”
“No, he was like that before. But there was no cruelty to it. He wanted you to push back. He never truly wanted to hurt.”
“Were you close to his sister, at all?”
“Not close. But friendly. And Charlie was talking utter rot, at dinner, saying her magic sent her mad. I don’t know what happened to her, but it wasn’t that. She was born for that power. Both of them were. And Elsie had all of Jack’s energy, twice his charm. It was very easy to like her.”