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.”
Edwin’s low, fierce voice cracked on the word easy. Robin reached out and touched Edwin’s forearm, purely on instinct. He froze the next second, ready to draw away—ready for Edwin to draw away—but instead there was a small loosening of Edwin’s fingers, and an even smaller nod of his head: acknowledging comfort, giving permission. He even gave Robin a look that was, while a little surprised, almost friendly.
Robin smiled at him and took his hand away before he could trample on the moment. He wanted to memorise the details of the friendliness. A crinkle at the side of Edwin’s eyes. A softening around the mouth.
This was so deeply awkward. Usually one simply knew, when acquaintanceship was turning to friendship. It wasn’t the kind of thing men discussed at length. Robin had no idea whether Edwin would characterise them as friends; quite possibly not. But all of Robin’s muddled feelings, which had been set on a giant fairground swing during the past two days, now churned and bubbled in his chest and finally announced that they were going to be vocalised, and Robin had a few more seconds to decide exactly how.
“Thank you,” Robin blurted, which seemed safe.
“It’s barely anything,” said Edwin. “Even for someone like me. These leaves will take—”
“Not for the tea. For everything. I know it’s a beastly bother for you, coming here, and it’s even more beastly the way these people treat you.” It felt a relief, to say it aloud. “And I dare say most magical chaps would have simply—tipped me into the midden, as Miss Morrissey would say, or at least tipped me into the hands of that Assembly of yours, instead of spending so much time and effort trying to help me.”
Edwin’s lips were parted in what looked like astonishment.
Robin felt foolish enough that he contemplated upsetting the teapot as a diversion.
“Robin,” said Edwin finally. “I dragged you out to the countryside. Where you have been shot, magically drugged, set upon by wildlife, half-drowned, endured an escalating amount of pain from a curse that I can’t remove, and managed to smile through a number of activities with my sister and her ghastly friends. I’m thankful you haven’t hit me across the face and stormed back to London.”
Robin managed to hold his tongue on something truly unwise like You look like a Turner painting and I want to learn your textures with my fingertips. You are the most fascinating thing in this beautiful house. I’d like to introduce my fists to whoever taught you to stop talking about the things that interest you. Those were not things one blurted out to a friend. They were their own cradles of magic, an expression of the desire to transform one thing into another. And what if the magic went awry?
Robin took a long sip of tea, instead, and smiled at Edwin through the steam. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
They took the motorcar to Sutton Cottage the next day. Neither Walt nor Bel were keen drivers; Edwin was sure their father had only bought the thing and learned the basics of its workings in order to be able to discuss it knowledgeably with his business associates. The Daimler gathered expensive dust in the converted carriage-house, and the chauffeur had given notice out of sheer boredom after a handful of months.
A chauffeur was not needed. Robin referred vaguely to friends of his who owned motorcars and had taught him the knack of it in Hyde Park—“Though the speed limit’s only ten miles to the hour, in the Park. And it’s twice that in the country! This should be a lark.”
Edwin, who wished Robin had betrayed this boyish and limb-threatening enthusiasm before they’d pulled out onto the road proper, pulled his hat more firmly down onto his head and fiddled with his cradling string, trying to remember if he’d ever read anything about how to unbreak a broken skull.
They stopped in town and sent their telegrams. Once back on the main roads they passed a few carts without mishap, and even another motorcar full of men around university age, who applied themselves to the horn and waved their hats until Robin waved back at them. Robin seemed to have a sense of what he was doing, and no desire to go at reckless speeds. Edwin managed to relax enough to direct their progress from the map.
“I hope this does get us closer to Gatling,” Robin said abruptly, into what had been a pleasant silence. “I know you must be worried about him.”
“Yes,” said Edwin.