He must go back at once and put the lid on. Thornby could almost see the inkwell tipping under a careless duster, a black puddle engulfing the work of months. These days the staff at Raskelf was composed of the incompetent or the unreliable-those who couldn’t secure a position elsewhere. Idiot! He’d left the lid off the inkwell. Although Father was damnably rude to the fellow, the rector had no quarrel with Thornby.Īnd stopped. Why shouldn’t he walk across a field? The rector wouldn’t mind. He glanced around, shoulders hunching with guilt, a cold sweat prickling out on his back. But perhaps it would be best to go back now anyway.Īs he put the watch away, he saw the writing on his hand again. He fumbled for his watch, hand shaking so much the glass front gave fractured reflections of sky, hedgerow, and his own pale face. The weak autumn sun was still some distance from the horizon. He stood, one pace away from the gate, breathing hard. Keeping his left hand in front of him as though offering an arm to an invisible lady, he took a deep breath and stepped across the estate boundary.Īs he did so, he realised he’d be late for dinner if he didn’t go back to the Hall now. A few bedraggled, black-faced sheep grazed at the far end, and Thornby knew he should shut the gate, but somehow did not quite like to. The hummocky field belonged to the rectory, which was a mile away in the village. The gate was on the Raskelf estate, which belonged to Thornby’s father, the ninth Marquess of Dalton. His hands had trembled as he’d done it, and the ‘l’ had smeared against his cuff. He’d written the word ‘leave’ on his skin in black ink. Soren, Lord Thornby, opened the rectory field gate and checked the back of his left hand for the hundredth time. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

Salt Magic, Skin Magic by Lee Welch