“He won’t wake to prodding,” said Charlie. “Or slapping, come to that.”
“Or water dashed in his face,” said Bel. “I thought of sending to the kitchen for one of Mother’s reviving inhalations, but I don’t know what would be best.”
“Perhaps rosemary done over with—” Charlie started.
Edwin said, “How long has he been like this?”
“We don’t know,” said Bel.
“He’s been in here at least an hour, Mr. Edwin,” said the housekeeper. “Mary said he came in when she was lighting the fire.”
“Is it the curse?” repeated Charlie. It was rare enough that Charlie asked Edwin’s opinion on anything, let alone seemed genuinely keen to hear the answer, that Edwin took a moment to enjoy it. And then felt terrible for enjoying it.
“Yes. It’s the curse.”
He was, in a way, lying.
Last night, when Robin had collapsed in the curse’s grip, he hadn’t looked like this. He’d blacked out entirely; he’d been curled around the arm with the curse markings, even in his unconsciousness. This blank, perplexed expression, this half-waking unresponsiveness . . . Edwin had seen this on Robin before. He’d also stolen a glimpse at the books splayed open on the table.
This was foresight. Some horrid, stretched-out form of it. And it had Robin trapped as surely as they’d been in the maze.
At least an hour, Edwin thought, numb.
He said, “Has anyone told his sister? No—don’t,” as the housekeeper turned towards the maid. “Let her sleep. Thank you. That’s all.”
He didn’t watch as the servants left the room. He sat in the window seat, near Robin’s tucked-up bent knee, and tried to think. Someone getting lost in foresight was as far outside of Edwin’s experience as the runes on Robin’s arm. All he had to work with was the curse’s presence. The curse had brought the visions. Banishing the one should banish the other.
This felt like an examination dream. Solve the problem. Time ticking away. And as in dreams, thinking was like pushing through a crowded street against the flow of people, and meanwhile Robin was stuck halfway between sleeping and waking.
Liminal states.
It took Edwin a few moments to remember where he’d heard those words spoken, and to call up the rest of what Mrs. Sutton had said. Beginnings and endings are powerful. You can create profound change if you slip in through the gaps.
Edwin’s thoughts were working again. He had the grinding, half-painful half-wonderful sense that meant facts and precedents and logic were slowly finding one another in his mind, sliding into place, presenting a solution. Things said, over the past few days, unnoticed. Unconnected; now connecting. He was afraid to breathe in case he disturbed it.
“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.