A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(85)

“I have an idea.” He watched Robin’s unmoving face, the new dullness of those hazel eyes that had laughed at him; you have the best ideas. “I’m going to try again to lift the curse. Charlie, can you remember the spell I showed you last time?”

Charlie shifted, but the disapproving expression on his face wilted at Edwin’s glare. He nodded.

“Show me.”

“Win,” snapped Bel. “There’s no need to be rude.”

Charlie glanced at Robin, and demonstrated, with no magic behind the cradles. It was close; and Charlie was, after all, a profoundly powerful magician. If it was the right spell, if Edwin could create the right conditions, it would work. Edwin himself could control his power minutely, could lean into the reassuring tension of his cradling string, but he knew—he had it etched into his bones, from years and years of bitter experience—that control could only take you so far if the power behind it was missing. And Edwin would have to do the most dangerous part of this himself, with his own hands. No room for error or mistrust.

He had that wrenching sense of displacement again. He was on the wrong land. He was— No. No. He was a Courcey of Penhallick; he was, as Bel insisted, one of them. And he had something, he’d felt Robin’s danger abrade his skin where Bel had felt barely a sting, and— Another piece slid inexorably home in a mind still attuned to pattern. Was that it? Not a lack of connection, but more of one, the land pushing and pushing and Edwin, for years, closing himself off from it in shame?

An affinity. From a woman whose land had spun itself orchards from twigs and charms from saplings.

It had to mean something. He was going to make it mean something.

“Don’t touch him yet,” he said, whip-sharp, and dashed out of the library. He didn’t need to go far. The nearest exit was the front doors themselves. Edwin ran out into the rain, flinching at the first gust of drops dashed against him by the wind, and dropped to kneel on the gravel of the driveway. His slippers were already crusted with dampness and dirt.

Blood. He needed blood. The echo was so absurd that he nearly laughed. He lifted a hand to his cheek, which was wet with entirely the wrong substance.

Edwin pulled his string from the pocket of the rapidly soaking dressing gown, and cradled a very small sharpness. He drew it across the back of his hand—one more scratch to join the rest—and scooped up the tiny welling of blood with one finger while scrabbling in the gravel, creating a small crater to the dirt beneath.

“I, Edwin John Courcey, belong to the line of Florence and Clifford Courcey, who made pledge with you years ago. I know you’re still new to magic. I know I should have—tried harder, and sooner. I’m sorry. But a guest of this estate is in danger, and if there’s anything in my blood that you recognise, then help me. Help me now.”

Did he feel anything? Any crackle of agreement in the blood-dotted finger? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps; perhaps he imagined it. He’d have to try anyway.

He dripped tensely back to the library to find that Maud Blyth had woken up after all, and come in search of her brother. And found him.

“You have to help him,” Maud was demanding of Charlie. She had one of her hands on Robin’s shoulder. She was shrill and pale and really quite absurdly young, and Robin loved her more than anything else in the world, so Edwin managed to swallow a series of impolite words and said, “We’re going to try.”

Maud pressed her lips together, but she didn’t ask how, for which Edwin was grateful. He was aware of how horrific it might sound if he tried to explain.

Edwin had to rip Robin’s sleeve open to the shoulder in order to bare the entire curse. Despite his churning worry, his cheeks burned. It felt obvious that he’d already touched this arm, this skin, this man.

They quickly completed the first part of the spell, the ink-copy and the sympathy, and Edwin had Charlie build the dissolution spell and hold it at the ready so that they could move as fast as possible. Speed was going to be everything here.

Miggsy had been absolutely correct. Some curses would only die when the sufferer did.

Liminal states. Working in the gaps. Birth was a beginning; this was the ending.

Could you slow my pulse, with a spell like that?

Perhaps Penhallick didn’t think Robin was in danger yet, but Edwin was about to change its mind.

“Bel,” he said. “Fair warning. If I do this right, it might be uncomfortable for you.” And for their mother. He hated the thought, but shoved it aside. He’d find a way to explain it to her, to apologise—later. If it worked.

He seated himself again with his legs in contact with Robin’s, looped the string around his hands, and looked at his fingers. They didn’t shake at all. He took a deep breath and began.

When he’d done this to himself, it had felt like tiny invisible threads reaching out from his fingertips, hooking into the muscle of the heart, shivering with each beat. Allowing Edwin to gently, so gently, push his magic down the threads and persuade the muscle to take a longer interval between twitches. He’d read all he could find on the physiology of the heart. Some of it had been beyond him—he was no physician—but he’d read anyway, until he had a mental picture to work with.

Now Edwin let the light of the spell build and slink down those threads like dew down spider silk. It was strange not to have the thump of movement in his own chest, to know that the twitch he felt was the beat of Robin’s heart, steady and fast, held in Edwin’s hands.