Burn Mark by Laura Powell Page B

became talismans to transmit and amplify sound. There were no exact rules for using the Seventh Sense and the fae often required the use of bodily substances as well as physical props. Lucas was of the popular opinion that witchwork was too makeshift, too grubby , to be considered a craft.
    Here goes nothing , he thought, as he held one of the glasses at the base of its stem. He had no option but to make things up as he went along. Grimacing slightly, he ran his forefinger inside his right ear, feeling for the whorls of bone and flesh, the warm hole of the drum. After spitting on his finger, he rubbed its wet tip round the rim of the glass.
    As the motion of his hand set up a wave of vibration travelling through the crystal, it began to hum, then sing. It was something he’d done in a science lesson on sound waves, back in prep school. But this time the fae in his head echoed in answer: a darker, richer note.
    Even when he lifted his finger from the rim of the first glass and moved to the second, the first kept up its thin whine. For a few moments the two sang together, their crystal bowls vibrating slightly. Once silence returned, and he ventured to pick the glasses up again, they hummed at his touch. Recognising him, welcoming him.
    The walls of the study were lined with books. Lucas placed one of the witchworked glasses on the empty section of a lower shelf. With a bit of luck it would be unnoticed there. He took the other glass back to the dining room, and hid it behind the curtains. As the fae subsided, his nerves shivered and hummed, as if his body was made of crystal too. He felt at peace for the first time that day.
     
    Half an hour later, Ashton Stearne returned. When Lucas heard his father’s tread along the corridor, he quickly moved from his bed to his desk, opening up a school text book at random. Ashton entered the room to see his son apparently deep in study.
    ‘How was the service?’ Lucas asked, as casually as he could make it.
    ‘It was fine, thank you. How . . . how are you?’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Good.’ Ashton nodded towards the desk. ‘Business as usual, I see. Very sensible.’
    ‘Did it go all right at the office?’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘What did they say? Have you spoken to Sir Ant—’
    ‘I said it was fine.’
    Lucas looked away. ‘Right. Sorry.’
    ‘No need to apologise. I’ve made you an appointment for Monday, by the way. We’ll leave here at nine.’
    ‘I should go on my own.’
    ‘Oh.’ A shadow crossed his father’s face. ‘I thought . . . I thought you might like some support.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Lucas awkwardly. ‘It’s just that it will be easier to keep a low profile if I’m alone. Though I suppose you’ll have to release an, er, official statement . . . ?’
    ‘Mm. For the moment, I’ve been asked to keep matters confidential until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.’
    Lucas took this to mean it hadn’t yet been decided whether or not his father would have to resign. He was at a critical stage in the Goodwin trial; if he had to pull out now, the case might well collapse.
    ‘Of course, Marisa needs to be informed. It’s probably better if she explains the situation to Philomena herself.’
    ‘OK. Sure. And then we can talk things over properly. I mean, there’s so much to discuss. So much to sort out. I need to know how –’
    ‘One thing at a time, old chap.’
     
    Marisa returned soon after her husband. From the top of the stairs, Lucas listened to the usual bustle of her arrival, and the point at which it was cut short by Ashton’s calm interjection. ‘A word, Marisa, if I may . . .’
    Lucas felt surprisingly little guilt at the betrayal he was about to make. His father had made it clear that the less Lucas knew about arrangements for his new life the better. Besides, everyone knew that witchkind were deceitful to the core. He was just reverting to type.
    He gave Marisa and Ashton a few moments in the study before putting his ear to the door.