“Do you truly think you’re going to die?”
Edwin fumbled the pencil. “What?”
“Because I’ve known soldiers who are so convinced of their death that they start hurrying it along. And that’s dangerous for everyone around them.”
“You think I want to die?”
“I think you hate the idea of things you can’t understand and control, and if the opportunity came up to make it fast, painless, and meaningful—to sacrifice yourself—you’d be tempted.”
For a long moment Jack wondered if he was about to be punched. He’d have allowed it out of sheer novelty.
“Mrs. Vaughn told Maud that using the contract would require blood,” said Edwin at last, unwilling and quiet. “It seems unlikely that something as large as transforming it, putting its potential for misuse truly out of reach, would require anything less.”
“It doesn’t mean the blood has to be yours,” Jack said. “Must I point out that you’re no longer a foul-tempered librarian with no friends? Granted, the first two are still true. But there are people who’d grieve you.”
“God, you’re an arse,” said Edwin. “And of course I know that. Robin refused to let me only have one person.” He seemed as unnerved as Jack by the fact that they appeared to be having a conversation about emotions.
“Let you…？”
“I always thought about it the other way around. If one day Robin rushes into danger too far and too fast, if he ever does something heroic and stupid—I’d still have Maud and Addy. And Kitty, and Violet.”
“Not presuming on my account, I see.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Edwin shot back. “If I did lose Robin, it’d destroy me. But at least there’d be people around to pick up the pieces. And the same for Robin, if any of those visions come true. We can’t be one person alone, or two alone. Not and be prepared to risk anything. And we have signed up for a fight, Jack,” he added dryly. “Even you.”
Jack was now in the awkward position of having gone fishing for a piece of emotional immaturity so that he could stamp on it, and having instead hooked some evidence that Edwin had thought this through further and more intelligently than him. He cleared his throat.
“So long as you’re not planning any heroic stupidity yourself.”
“Not if I can avoid it. I really don’t want to die. I thought I might, in the Lockroom.” A quick shudder creased Edwin’s chin. “It didn’t feel meaningful at all. Only terrifying.”
Jack settled himself in the window seat and looked down onto the street. His leg felt full of blood. He’d been standing a long time. “I remember how it felt, being on Cheetham Hall’s land and able to draw on it for support,” he said. “It never felt like too much to handle.”
Never until the day he couldn’t talk about.
“No,” Edwin agreed. “When I’m at Sutton, even normal English magic is easier. But it’s especially easier to manage the different techniques that Flora Sutton and her friends used.” He set the notepaper down on a cushion and leaned against the wall. A relaxed lecturing stance. “I keep coming back to the idea of magic carving paths in us. Like ley lines in the land. Magic goes where it knows, where it’s already been. Learning new techniques feels like I’m making new, wider paths, so I thought…” A wry not-quite-smile. “I thought I could handle more. At first, in the Lockroom, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. And then it felt overwhelming. I was trying to use the wrong paths, the wrong language—I had only my will. And not enough of that, in the end.”
It wasn’t a lecture. It was closer to a confession. The only other magician around was Violet, who was new to this kind of responsibility; Edwin had played with Jack and Elsie as children, had visited Cheetham Hall when Jack’s relationship with it was uncomplicated and joyous and full. Edwin wanted to say this to someone who might understand.
“Modesty doesn’t suit you, Edwin,” Jack said. “Not enough will. Bollocks. You’re probably the most bloody-minded, determined, and intelligent magician in England, and you’re a lot more enjoyable to be around now you’ve realised it.”
Edwin stared at him. Then, flatly: “I didn’t know you knew how to give compliments.”
Jack let his mouth twitch. The breeze scudded clouds across the sky and shook the green leaves of the plane trees lining the street. A woman in a nurse’s cap and apron pushed a large perambulator down the footpath.
Edwin added, “And you’re certainly a lot easier to take in small doses. Though I still wouldn’t call it enjoyable.”
“Your opinion counts for nothing,” said Jack. “You have no taste.”
“Yes, I’ve often suspected as much.”
That won Jack’s attention again. A hint of challenge gleamed in the pale sky-blue of Edwin’s eyes. “But it turns out,” said Edwin, “there are people in the world who don’t think that spending time together also means fighting over every little thing.”
That was a direct stab, neatly under a rib. Jack had always enjoyed a good fight and the challenge of trading insults. He’d grown up knowing himself loved; either there was affection behind an insult, or it simply didn’t occur to him to take it seriously, because he’d never bothered to believe anything bad about himself. For a long time he’d assumed, as children did, that his experience was the only one. That everyone else also treated conflict as a game. The best and most personal cut won, but none of it meant anything.
After Elsie’s death he didn’t bother to learn new patterns, simply became more deliberate about them. It was easy to shove the world away, to make them hurt as badly as he was hurt. He already had the knack for it.
It had taken a regrettable amount of time for Jack to realise that for people like Edwin there was no self-belief to act as a shield. For Edwin the insults had been real and raw and grinding him down since the beginning of his life.
The nurse and her charge crossed the street. A motorcar crawled past, metal gleaming in the sun.
“I didn’t treat you particularly well,” said Jack. “You have my apology for that, for what it’s worth.”
The silence from Edwin was gratifyingly thick. Jack could have bottled it.
“I certainly didn’t know you could apologise.”
“I’ve no idea why you stuck around.”
Edwin coughed. Jack glanced at him; his cheeks were slightly pink.
“Not to inflate your hideous ego, but there were occasional compensations. But mostly, I didn’t know what I actually wanted. I didn’t know it was out there until I fell over it. Now.” Edwin pulled his cradling string from his pocket and began to demonstrate the kind of slow-releasing clause he wanted to anchor to the window. The emotions part of the conversation was closed.
Jack picked up the pencil and began to sketch some components of runes.
He was turning around within himself a private resolution that if anyone had to die for this nonsense—if Edwin’s transformation or negation did require it—then it would be him. But Jack had grown past his old gift for melodrama. Everyone had someone who would grieve them. Jack had promised his father, on returning from the Boer, that he wouldn’t deliberately put himself in harm’s way again.