Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

OCTOBER, 1806.

-J.C-

-

It is late. Rather too late, in fact, for anyone possessing anything so much as a modicum of respectability to be walking the streets of York. Especially on a night so bitterly cold as this, when the soot-black sky is cloudless and all is silence.

Well, almost all. There are two exceptions.

The first exception is the sound of John Childermass' shoes upon the pavement. A fine layer of mist skims his ankles and beneath his arm is a package of some sort, roughly rectangular, tied up with brown paper and string. It rustles a little as he walks briskly back to his room at the Starre Inn.

The second exception is the noise of abject frustration and despair which Childermass has just heard. It had come from the line of houses to his left - simple curiosity leads him to glance over at its source.

The noise's origin, it turns out, is a slight, dark man perched on somebody's front step, leant against a peeling and once-bright door. He looks to be a gentleman, although his threadbare coat is of scarcely better quality than Childermass' own. When he raises his head and looks up, Childermass sees bloodless skin and a face stained with tear-tracks.

Startled, the gentleman blinks and stands. Hope shines feverishly bright in his eyes.
"You can see me?" he asks, stumbling over the sheer speed with which he throws out his words.

Raising an eyebrow, Childermass nods.

"Oh!"

Childermass walks on, ready to think no more of this, to leave this strange drunken man on the doorstep and proceed with his own business. He has not gone four paces when the gentleman rushes over.

"No, no!" he cries, doggedly keeping pace with Childermass in a half-walking, half-running gait. His steps are quick, light and catlike - not the clumsy stagger of a drunkard. "Do not go, sir! You are the only person who has seen me this past week!"

It seems something is afoot. Obligingly, Childermass turns and raises an eyebrow. This had better be interesting - tomorrow he must ride back to Hurtfew, and it is already excessively late.

Both relieved and anxious, the gentleman smiles shakily, desperately at him.

"Why, then?" asks Childermass. "Explain. Why can nobody see you?"

"I haven't a clue." Then, his voice drops to a hushed whisper. "But sir," he says, "I am beginning to wonder if I might be - well - dead."

This gives Childermass pause. Eventually, he shakes his head at the expectant man.

"I do not think so. You look perfectly well."

The gentleman's laugh echoes strangely, as if it knows not where to go.
"Yes! I feel perfectly well. There is, of course, really every possibility that I am wrong. But no-one sees - or acknowledges me (apart from yourself, sir), and I cannot seem to even touch anything. And so," he says, tugging in discomfort at his collar, "I have reached the conclusion that I must be something, and that something is not alive. It is queer," he says with a frown, "I am surer of it than of my own name. Oh, but you must excuse my rudeness! My name - it is John Segundus. Most fortituous to meet you, sir."

He says all of this very fast, and every word of this tale feels more fantastic and unbelievable to Childermass, who begins to wonder if Mr Segundus is drunk after all.
"John Childermass," he returns, rather doubtfully. "Likewise."

They shake hands, or they would have, had his hand not passed cleanly through Mr Segundus'.

Childermass regards his fingertips in amazement, wondering what it was he'd felt in the stead of human skin. Something buzzing, something live. Childermass has the inexplicable feeling that he has just brushed fingers with the stars. Can it be magic?

Face colouring, Mr Segundus snatches his hand back. "Ah! Forgive me, I am not quite used to all this."

"When did it begin?" asks Childermass, his interest now keenly sparked. "What happened?"

Mr Segundus' brow knits. "It can hardly have been more than a week," he mutters, "yes, of that I am certain! But I am sorry; I... I do not quite remember. I suppose, if a ghost is what I am, then I should not have liked to know how I died, so perhaps that is for the best."

"Well," begins Childermass, useless to aid one in such a situation but feeling the urge to try nonetheless. "Did you have any message I could pass on?"

If Mr Segundus is truly dead, he could be shackled to the earth by unfinished business, the completion of which will, one hopes, let his spirit rest. That is how it tends to work in stories, and it is not as if they have any other point of reference. He is hopeful that it is so, for Mr Segundus' eyes light up as he proposes this.

"I am afraid I have no family to contact. But what I do have," says Mr Segundus, "is a question - if you- well, I do not mean to impose, but if you would be so good as to pass it on to the York Society of Magicians, I would be much obliged. They meet at the Starre Inn, once a month."

Them? Why on earth would anyone chuse to associate with such a group of bumbling fools of their own volition?

"Very well," says Childermass, regardless. "What is it?"

"Why," Mr Segundus asks impressively, "is magic no longer done in England?"

Despite himself, Childermass finds himself laughing under his breath. Mr Segundus' face abruptly crumples, so he amends, "I do not mock you, sir. Magic is by no means dead. My master is a practical magician himself."

Briefly there is silence as shock steals across Mr Segundus' face, rapidly superseded by a great intensity of excitement that lends much animation to his features.

"I- I beg your pardon? Practical, you say? A practical magician?"

So Mr Segundus, in stammered excitement, presents Childermass with an incessant flurry of queries and exclamations. Ah, it’s no matter. The years spent serving Mr Norrell have given Childermass seemingly unlimited reserves of patience, as it were.

Watching still in wry amusement, Childermass wonders if he might recall any tricks for the man walking alongside him - and decides that Norrell can never, ever hear of this.
Shifting the package into a more secure position under his arm, Childermass makes a few odd motions and mutters a word or two of Latin. He feels a swell of satisfaction when a small globe of light, roughly the size of a lemon, is induced to hover above his cupped hands.

Mr Segundus momentarily grips his arm in amazement.
"You did not say you were a magician as well, Mr Childermass!"

In response, Childermass nods at the many patches upon Mr Segundus' coat which betray him as a prolific mender. "I am no more a magician than you are a tailor."

Self-consciously touching the newest stitching, Mr Segundus flushes a little. "I suppose. Did your master teach you that spell?"

"I teach myself, from his books. Mr Norrell needs my service," he says with a shrug, "he looks the other way."

But here Childermass stops abruptly. There is something wrong.
"Yes? What is it?" asks Mr Segundus, also stopping.

"You touched my arm."

"Ah!” he exclaims, stepping back a pace. “I do apologise. I was most enthused. Really, I did not realize I had-" Suddenly taking Childermass' meaning, he breaks off mid-sentence. "Oh."

Mr Segundus tentatively reaches for the other man's shoulder, but this time his hand passes easily through. He stares curiously at Childermass for a long moment. Childermass stares back. Hearing an intake of breath from Mr Segundus, he sees, again, that an apology is due to leave that mouth.

He wonders if Mr Segundus is simply an apologetic sort of man, or whether he acts so for fear of losing Childermass’ conversation through offence. The thought gives him pause.

"I've no need of your apologies, Mr Segundus," he says. "You will find that I am not made of glass."

A sort of half-smile twists one side of Mr Segundus' face. "Thank you," he says quietly, and in return Childermass inclines his head in the barest of nods.

All this time, the ghost has been wringing his hands. Now he stops, frowning at his trembling fingers.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, only… They are still warm, a little. But I think they grow colder."

Childermass doesn't respond. In truth he feels as though the words have all been snatched from his throat.

"Goodness-" Mr Segundus laughs without humour as his voice shakes "-all this is a little too much."
He looks, thinks Childermass, exceedingly lost. And just as afraid.

Childermass' brow knits. "Do not bear it on your own," he offers, after several moments' consideration. "Come with me, if you like, and then at the very least you will not be alone."

"Truly? Thank you, sir!" A wide smile grows bright upon Mr Segundus' features, a red rose in bloom. "I will gladly do so," he nods, "if it is amenable to you. I shall try not to be a nuisance."

Childermass' mouth twitches. He does not believe this tangle of nervous energy compressed into the approximate shape of a man is capable of being a nuisance in even the remotest sense of the word. Nevertheless, he keeps this private humour to himself.

Continuing on his way to the Starre Inn, Childermass gestures for Mr Segundus to go with him. At first, his new acquaintance struggles to match pace with Childermass' brisk strides. But Childermass slows, and from there they quite easily manage to go side-by-side.

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY, 1807.

-

In the February of 1807, the esteemed York Society of Magicians meet at the Starre Inn. The members are seen to puzzle over a mysterious letter signed J. Childermass, writing on behalf of Mr Gilbert Norrell.

Now, the Society have heard of Mr Norrell before. They know two things of him. One - that he hoards a great many books of magic within his country residence. Two - he had once been invited to join their number, but had politely (although polite seemed too strong a word) declined.

At the time, the gentlemen of the Society had merely shrugged and continued on as usual. The general consensus was that the reclusive magician was naturally of lesser intelligence and afraid to appear in such learned company. ¹

But now, this queer Norrell man is claiming to be a practical magician - the letter details his proposal to perform magic for them.

Dr Foxcastle, president of the York Society, is quick in rising to action against the slight he has (somehow or other) perceived to his person, deriding Norrell and bullying the gentlemen of weaker temperament into agreement with all the delicacy of a sack of bricks. But, their interest fiercely sparked, a few men speak up. Chief among their number is Mr Honeyfoot, a jovial, red-faced man in his fifties who has found himself greatly dedicated to the cause of English magic.

Throughout the evening, Mr Honeyfoot turns regularly to his left, an excited remark upon the matter forming on his tongue. He then frowns, and glances about the room as if looking for someone, only to settle back down with an uneasy expression upon his countenance. ²

-

Mr Honeyfoot looks on in puzzlement at Mr Norrell's man of business, who has slunk through the looming shadows like Jane's black cat and now leans with cool indifference against a tall stone pillar.

He paints such a wild, disquieting picture that, upon first glance, Mr Honeyfoot himself had thought the manservant was the magician.
The darkness shrouds him; indeed, it beckons to him like an old friend! Hair falls about his twisted face in a ragged, greasy tangle. And most curiously, his gaze focuses on a spot about three feet to his right.

Mr Honeyfoot feels certain that there is something in that space. It unsettles him, for reasons he can hardly determine, that there is not.

The man is talking, as if to himself, but Mr Honeyfoot cannot rid himself of the idea that there should be someone else present.

Suddenly Mr Norrell's man laughs aloud, the volume stark and improper against the solemnity commanded by the cathedral. As the other gentlemen startle, Mr Honeyfoot wonders at this brazen countenance. Dark and glittering with mirth, the man's eyes flick, birdlike, to the gentlemen of the society, some personal joke playing across his crooked mouth. As if daring them to challenge the air of unsaid authority which surrounds him. Mr Honeyfoot looks quickly away, reminding himself that it is impolite to stare.

At the centre of their apprehensive group, Mr Foxcastle loudly declares his disbelief in Mr Norrell's magical ability for the umpteenth time, his loyal followers hastening to agree.

Somewhere out of sight, a bell tolls.

Mr Potts, a frail wisp of a man in his eighties, has been on edge all this time with his anticipation of the magic. He starts so badly at the bell that he nearly falls over and Mr Honeyfoot is obliged to catch him by the shoulder.

And that is when the magic begins, although Mr Honeyfoot will privately refer to it as the miracle from hereafter.

It does not take long, perhaps two minutes at the most, for a lilting, lamenting, singing, sighing, shouting, choking cacophony to erupt amongst the stone statues of York Cathedral.

It is all so utterly fantastical that, for but a moment, Mr Honeyfoot forgets the sting of losing the study of magic.

Listening attentively to the story of the strangled young girl, he is certain to take copious notes. Mr Honeyfoot steadily deciphers the deplorable muddle of languages, feeling a growing horror at the cruelty of her death. He tries very hard not to think of his youngest daughter. But Jane Honeyfoot frequents his mind nonetheless, and he catches glimpses of her fair hair bedecked in ivy leaves . . .

A sudden movement unsteadies Mr Honeyfoot. He looks about him and sees nothing. Nothing but the momentary mirage of a person - thin and transparent as watercolours painted onto the air!

This is followed by the sound of three footfalls - Mr Honeyfoot cannot help noticing their quick, excited rhythm - then something muffled and barely audible, which might have been laughter had his ears still been good enough for certainty.

Mr Honeyfoot shivers, but not from the cold. It is to be expected, he reasons, that cathedrals should be haunted by spirits. Despite all this, Mr Honeyfoot had not truly imagined that he should live to see such a thing! ³

It has escaped Mr Honeyfoot's notice that Mr Norrell's man had also looked up in quiet amusement when the laughter had sounded, smiling a crooked smile at the figure. It is just as well that Mr Honeyfoot had not seen for if he had, for I dare say he would have been so moved by interest as to question Childermass, at quite some length, upon the ghost. (And whilst Childermass' threatening airs may be unmatched, the sorry state of his acting is rather dire.)

-

FEBRUARY through MARCH, 1807.

-J.S-

-

The next few weeks pass them by in a bewildering blur. Childermass spends a great deal of time dashing all over the country on horseback, writing great and important letters to great and important persons, tracking down a plethora of magical texts, and (to Mr Segundus' abject disapproval!) bullying theoretical magicians out of the practice. The rest of the time, perhaps four or five hours a day if Childermass is lucky, he spends sleeping deeper than the dead - which is fairly lightly, all in all.

You see, Mr Segundus is not resting a great deal; unfamiliar places do not agree with him. Combined with the effect of his unnatural circumstances, they are yielding nightmares aplenty - a fallen house, a stilling heart, a crashing storm. A death, a circle, a cycle, images burning and blurring together till John Segundus wakes, alone, in the cold and the dark, and takes shaky breaths to steady his racing pulse, feeling a pang of homesickness for his little room in Lady Peckett’s Yard.

Most nights he looks to stave off sleep for as long as he can, although this is perhaps not a sustainable solution. In doing this, he does not remember his dreaming, which is some relief, but nevertheless Mr Segundus faces the idea of sleep with a certain degree of discomfort.

On the worst nights, when he has been left badly shaken, when the hours stretch out for what feel like days, he knows there is no salvaging of his sleep. That is when Mr Segundus abandons the pretence of even trying to return to dreams and goes to wander Mr Norrell's labyrinth like some sort of lovelorn shade. ⁴

(If what he is is indeed a ghost, then Mr Segundus finds it odd that he has not seen any others. But there must be ghosts. Hurtfew is a very old house, after all - its foundations were laid in the time of John Uskglass! Perhaps he has mistaken them for servants. But no, he can recognise the household staff by now and not one of them is dead. It is possible that ghosts simply cannot see each other - or that they do not shew themselves to him. Mr Segundus prefers to believe the second possibility. It seems rather too cruel, too lonely to accept the first as the truth.)

One such night - plagued by the memory of his late brother - finds Mr Segundus in the library, glancing over the worn spines of Mr Norrell’s books. ⁵ His fingers itch to take a book down and turn its pages, to drink in the arcane knowledge so very frustratingly close at hand- But he dares not try. It would be pointless to attempt. And perhaps... Perhaps, a reminder of his condition is not what he needs.

"Can't sleep?"

Mr Segundus jumps.

He turns to find a certain someone leaning against the opposite wall, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. It is so dark that Mr Segundus would hardly have been able to determine the other man's presence if not for the whites of his glittering eyes, stark against the shadows.
Perhaps, one might think, he is more suited to being a ghost than Mr Segundus. Certainly he paints a more Romantic image; it is as if he has been ripped directly from the pages of Miss Radcliffe.

"Mr Childermass," says Mr Segundus.

And Mr Childermass (for it is he) nods. "Mr Segundus."

"It is very early," says Mr Segundus, kicking himself internally for stating the obvious. "I would suggest you try for some sleep yourself, sir. You need it more than me, I am sure!"

Childermass shakes his head. "I've business in Newcastle."

Mr Segundus frowns with incomprehension and twists to face the windows. The curtains are, unhelpfully, drawn, but he is certain that the dawn is still a long way off.

"Now? But it is still dark!" he exclaims. "It cannot be gone five!"

"Four-"

"Four?"

Childermass sighs. "Aye, sir. Four," he repeats, in the same weary tones reserved for Mr Norrell. "I am setting off early. My... friends have discovered a work of Sutton-Grove's in the Duke of R____'s possession."

He says 'friends' in such a manner that Mr Segundus rather doubts that this is the true word for what they are. Spies? Informants? Accomplices? If someone were to warn him that John Childermass was a notorious criminal, Mr Segundus would not know enough about him to rightfully deny it. It may be that Mr Segundus is in possession of a more romantic mind than he quite realizes but Childermass, it seems, is altogether more mystery than man.

"Are you not exhausted?"

"Aren't you?"

"Mr Childermass," he chides, "you are avoiding my question. But why must you leave so early?"

Surely it is not wise to ride so early in the morning. Moreover, why Childermass should chuse to do so of his own accord is beyond Mr Segundus.

Childermass laughs, the sound deep and rumbling, and this softens some of the worry in Mr Segundus' breast.
"Don't fret," he says, still not answering the question. "I am used to these hours."

They walk to the stables together. This night air is still and cold; Childermass' footsteps are impossibly loud in the silence (and Mr Segundus' make no sound at all). Skies turning from black to navy betray the first inklings of day. Trees extend bare, spidery branches to the skies in unrequited embrace, seeming to reach higher and higher till Mr Segundus believes he might stumble and redirects his attention to the ground.

It is rather windy. For a moment Mr Segundus ponders whether the gales might simply carry him away, untethered and feather-light as he feels. He shivers and clutches his threadbare coat tighter about himself as a chill wind blows through him. It is rather unfair that Mr Segundus should have to deal with the cold on top of every thing else, but he is somewhat unsure as to whether it presents discomfort or relief. Mr Segundus usually finds himself glad to cling onto what normality is afforded him. But all the same...

"Cold?" asks Childermass - not laughing, not audibly, but Mr Segundus catches the aborted spasm in his face nonetheless.

"Oh! Quite so."

"Stables are just here." Childermass regards him with a wry grin. "Ought to be warmer."

Once they are inside, he watches Childermass greet and saddle Brewer, his horse. Although he is certain that no harm will (or even can) be done to him, Mr Segundus keeps a safe distance from the horse, being nervous around the large, ugly beast. He is unused to horses. Riding was never a favourite pastime of his, having been rather poorer than other gentlemen and having known it to be unsustainable for one of his uneasy standing.

Now, Childermass mounts his horse. He looks down from atop Brewer and bids Mr Segundus farewell. In turn, Mr Segundus wishes him luck and implores him to mind his health.
At this last Childermass laughs under his breath, assuring him that there is no cause for anxiety. He has, after all, made this journey many a time.

Mr Segundus calls out another goodbye as his acquaintance rides away. He wonders how long Childermass will be, then chides himself for worrying so. Clearly the man can take care of himself.

Taking a steadying breath, Mr Segundus steels himself for another week of solitude. He tells himself it will be easier this time - that he is growing used it. Naturally it is a lie, but he has nothing else to cling onto.

-

-J.C-

-

Some days later, Childermass returns to Hurtfew Abbey. Having negotiated successfully with the Duke, he has the volume of Sutton-Grove in his saddle bags. Although the man had regarded Childermass with suspicious eyes at first, the scent of money had cured any initial misgivings.

Money is something which Norrell has a great deal of. The preservation of his wealth is, in part, due to his own miserly habits, but Childermass' hand in swindling collectors out of their priceless books of magic has proved instrumental over the years.
If only he knew, Mr Segundus would mightily disapprove of the price which Childermass has paid this time. ⁶ But, he reasons, what Mr Segundus doesn't know cannot hurt him.

Childermass is tempted to seek out Mr Segundus but, first and foremost, he must deliver the book into his master's hands. Which proves a more trying task than anticipated. He solicits the housemaids' aid, but their information is about as useful as a legless horse. Dido informs him that she last saw Norrell reading in the library, Hannah is adamant that he has retired to his rooms, and Lucy claims that he is working in his study.

Armed with the knowledge that Norrell could be anywhere in Hurtfew, Childermass sighs and resolves, with all the enthusiasm of one sentenced to a hanging, to check the library first.
He is travel-weary; is it really necessary for him to search the entirety of Hurtfew? It seems so, for he does not find Norrell in the library, nor his rooms, nor the study.

What he does find, however, is a ghost.

Mr Segundus faces the far window of Norrell's study. He wears a strange expression - a little reflective, and a little wistful, and quietly melancholy. It occurs to Childermass that Mr Segundus must find his coming and going something of a lonely affair. Childermass himself is, of course, a solitary person by nature, but he doubts that his acquaintance feels quite the same.

Looking out as he is, Mr Segundus does not notice the other's approach, and he startles badly when Childermass greets him.
"Oh!" he exclaims. The odd look has dissolved as quickly as if it were never there, shrugged off like nothing more than an unwanted scarf. "You gave me a frightful start - I did not expect you to be back so soon, Mr Childermass."

It is perhaps true that Childermass had intended to give him a turn for his own amusement, but he apologizes - albeit with a certain degree of insincerity. Mr Segundus fixes him with a doubtful look, but does not complain further, seeming pleased enough at his return to let it go.

Childermass watches it, amused, then remembers Sutton-Grove tucked under his arm and shews it to Mr Segundus. The man's widening eyes are quick to light up with an excitable curiosity and he reaches for the book, which Childermass allows him to take.
This is a mistake. They swear in synchrony when it falls to the floor. (Or: Childermass swears. Mr Segundus cuts himself off after uttering the first half-syllable and appears suitably ashamed of such language.)

"Ah. Do forgive me!" says Mr Segundus - a rueful, disheartened cast to his face. "I- forgot."

Shaking his head, Childermass dismisses the apology. "Book's seen worse, I am sure."
He stoops to retrieve the dropt book. It is undamaged, a fact he is thankful of, for Childermass makes a point of avoiding Norrell's outbursts and minimal provocation is required to induce one. Of course, Norrell's vexation is a common enough occurrence, but its frequency does not make the affair any less tiring for Childermass. Nor the rest of them, for that matter.

Childermass is prepared to swear that Lucas has developed some kind of uncanny instinct for Norrell's temper. As of late, the footman has found some excuse to be on the other side of the house just moments before Norrell is moved to any of his ranting lectures. Had he the choice, Childermass would do the same, but the aforementioned lectures are primarily directed at Childermass himself - or at least half-directed; nobody is ever quite certain of Norrell's meaning. If they nod at various intervals and appear suitably grave, Norrell is simple enough to appease.

Well, his master is like to criticise Childermass' lateness - he harbours no doubts that this will be perceived as a slight to Norrell's person, but does not suppose it will warrant a speech.

"Mr Childermass," queries Mr Segundus, cutting into his reflections, "how was your journey?"

"Well enough. The Duke was willing to do business. The dry weather was a piece of luck; I'd been certain of rain at this time o' year. But how about yourself? How have you fared?"

"Oh! So-so." Evading the question, he turns conspiratorial. "You know, Lucas found himself a cat while you were gone."

"A cat?"

"Yes. Catherine - for Catherine of Winchester. The other servants”- a small smile spreads across his face -“are calling her Cat for short."

Lucas' idea of wit, no doubt. Childermass half-pities the poor creature. But the most curious fact of this whole situation is that Norrell would knowingly, willingly provide a cat refuge in Hurtfew.

"And Norrell allowed this?"

"Not as such." Mr Segundus hides his smile with one hand, remembering some private humour. "I heard them discussing it; they decided that Mr Norrell was sure to work himself up-"

"-over the threat of damage to his books?" suggests Childermass. "I should expect no less."

Mr Segundus laughs. His laugh, Childermass is finding, is a very timid thing - he turns red as beet if Childermass is ever to mention it. "Precisely. They have chosen to keep Cat a secret, although I do not know how long they will be able to conceal her for. Oh! I neglected to mention it - I am certain - quite convinced! - that she can see me too."

"So," he replies, "I share hallucinations with the cat?"

It does not take long for Childermass to register this as something of a misstep. Upon the asking of it, Mr Segundus' enthusiasm grows dampened. Like a springtime storm, his face clouds over, rendering him at once fearful and indignant, and, "Mr Childermass!" he protests. "Do not say such things. I am not a-"

"Peace, sir," interjects Childermass, holding up placating hands. "I did not mean it seriously. You are a very unlikely subject for me to imagine. Go on - it can see you?"

Mr Segundus, appeased for the moment, nods. "Indeed. She does not seem... opposed to my being here. Merely unsettled. Her eyes follow me - and she makes quite the racket when I enter the room!" Amusement flickers across his visage. "At this rate, I expect someone or other will find me out."

Childermass notes how, despite his momentary upset, Mr Segundus' eyes are alight with the joy of his discovery. But of course they are - is it not momentous for a man to be seen in a world that has forsaken him?
In any case, it is all the better for Mr Segundus if he has someone else to keep him company. Even if that someone is a cat.

"I imagine it should stir some excitement. Mr Norrell would not be best pleased."

"About the cat? Well, I suppose she might present some bother, but she is really quite tame! I do not suppose she would be much of an inconvenience at all."

Drily, Childermass raises an eyebrow. "About you, sir. He will think you have stolen all his spells."

"Why- How would I cast them when I cannot touch any thing?" splutters Mr Segundus, in his self-effacing way. "I believe it is a little past the time for spells! And besides, how would I even open the books?"

"Oh, you needn't worry about that. I dare say he will think something up. By the by," Childermass continues, "have you any idea where Mr Norrell is? Not a soul in this blasted house seems to know."

Mr Segundus informs him that Norrell is in the parlor. As he has nothing else to go on, and as his acquaintance is generally well-versed in the goings-on of Hurtfew Abbey, Childermass decides to trust Mr Segundus' notions as to his whereabouts.

When the book slips in his arms, Childermass shifts his grip on it. As they walk, he recalls the expression on Mr Segundus' face at the sight of the book, then his subsequent distress upon having dropt it.
"If you so wished," he says, finding himself in surprizing good humour, "I could help you to read - you only need ask. You ought to steal his spells," he suggests wryly, "seeing as he is so anxious to be thwarted."

"Oh! Really, now!" exclaims Mr Segundus, missing Childermass' sarcasm in its entirety. "Stealing spells? I am not terribly sure about that." He falls silent for a moment. "But... I should like to read - if it is not too much trouble, of course! I should not wish to inconvenience you, sir."

"It's no trouble."

They fall back into silence and, after some navigation around Norrell's labyrinth, finally come across its caster in the parlor.
The welcome he receives is hardly worth the trouble of seeking it out. Norrell, beady-eyed and irritable, is full of questions. Has he the book with him? What price did the Duke name? What price did Childermass pay? And where has he been?

Norrell is unimpressed at his taking seven days. Childermass reminds him, very patiently, that he has only been gone for six. At the edge of his vision, Mr Segundus hides a smile beneath his hand.

From this point onwards, he and Mr Segundus fall into a routine of sorts. When Childermass can spare the time - perhaps once or twice a week - he and the other man meet in the library, after the rest of Hurtfew's residents have gone to their beds.

During this time, he typically lights a pipe and busies himself with the household accounts. Mr Segundus likes to read with Childermass' aid in turning the pages. On occasion they use this period to talk, but oftentimes the air is only filled with the scratching of Childermass' nib on paper, the flick of a page turning, the spit of a guttering candle flame and the soft exclamations of Mr Segundus.

-

MARCH, 1807.

-J.S-

-

Mr Segundus feels rather downcast when Childermass delivers the news of their leaving soon. He thinks it the queerest thing that he should miss Hurtfew, for all its gloomy rooms and winding, labyrinthine nature.

"So soon?" he asks, abandoning his reading of Belasis' Instructions. Mr Segundus realizes as he speaks that this is a stupid question; Childermass has lived here for very nearly twenty years. "It is a shame."

Childermass nods.
"Aye, sir. 'Tis imperative that Mr Norrell take his place in London after what has been done in York. Today all of England whispers of Norrell's feats, but the English are fickle; they shall forget him soon enough if he does not assert himself."

"And so we must go?"

"And so we must go. In a day's time I will be away again," adds Childermass. "I am to go south this time."

"Where to?" Mr Segundus inquires.

"London. I am to find him a house."

"Are you riding?"

Childermass wonders aloud how else Mr Segundus thinks he will travel. Flying, perhaps?

"Of course I do not! I only meant, sir, that it is a very long way to travel."

"Apologies," concedes Childermass, in his usual manner of polite deference and complete insincerity.

Frowning, Mr Segundus resigns himself to the slight.
"Well," he asks, "how long do you suppose the journey will take?"

"If I were to ride hard, perhaps a week. I should think two more likely." Childermass' expression turns distinctly wry. "Mr Norrell seems to be under the impression that I shall be there and back by tea-time tomorrow. He will not be best pleased."

Mr Segundus has seen a great deal of Gilbert Norrell since taking up unofficial residence in Hurtfew Abbey. (He is rather a disappointment in comparison to Mr Segundus' initial expectations of a magician, but it does no good to complain of traits which a man cannot help.) From what he has observed, Mr Segundus is forced to draw the conclusion that Mr Norrell is excessively fond of books, complaining, and not much else.

In short: "Pleased? Is he ever pleased?"

Childermass laughs. "Oh, more often than you think! Honeyfoot's article pleased him greatly." ⁷

"Do you have the article to hand?" the ghost asks hopefully. "I have yet to read it."

"You haven't? That is most peculiar. Mr Norrell has not left it lying about?"

"I believe his copy is serving as a bookmark in Lanchester."

"Well," remarks Childermass, "that surprizes me less!" He crosses the room to rescue the article, taking care to preserve Mr Norrell's page as he does so.

Childermass lays the newspaper cutting before Mr Segundus and waits for him to finish reading.

It is a lively piece, describing the enchantments at York Cathedral in such extensive detail that Mr Segundus feels that he is there once again. Mr Honeyfoot, it is clear, feels a great deal of passion on the subject and this bleeds into his writing like ink into water. Not for the first time, Mr Segundus feels a certain distaste over the terms which dictate the York Society's sacrifice of magic. Mr Honeyfoot is a loss to the profession.

"Mr Honeyfoot certainly has no end of praise for Mr Norrell."

"What did you make of him?"

"I. . . " says Mr Segundus, and then realizes the words are tumbling together on his tongue and he does not know what to say.

Mr Norrell? Mr Segundus cannot quite decide how he feels about the magician. On the one hand, he is a practical magician, the very thing which Mr Segundus has wished for since he was a sickly child peering deep into wells for water-spirits, whispering to himself the words of the Yorkshire game ⁸ and asking his tutors why magic no longer danced in the rain and in the air and in the storms which hung heavy in the sky.

But on the other, Mr Segundus is not quite able to forgive the subtle destruction left in Mr Norrell's path. For what will those Yorkshire magicians do now that their magic - their very life! - has been taken from them? It may be all very well for Norrell to wish England's magic were his, but the realization of this dream is robbing good men of their livelihoods!

Even so, Mr Segundus is reluctant to voice these opinions to Childermass who, for all his complaints, speaks of the magician with a certain fondness and begrudging regard. Perhaps there is kindness in Mr Norrell somewhere, buried deep where Mr Segundus has yet to discover it, or perhaps it is simply that a familiar devil is one a man may grow fond of in time. In any case Mr Norrell has been a constant in Childermass' life for near on twenty years and Mr Segundus does not think it fair to criticise him.

"Honeyfoot, I meant," Childermass clarifies, sensing Mr Segundus' dilemma.

"Ah!" he exclaims, much relieved. "A good man. If I were able," remarks Mr Segundus, growing wistful, "I should have liked to make his acquaintance."

"Already tiring of me?"

"No-" begins Mr Segundus, but cuts off abruptly upon detecting the amused expression on the other's face.
It is naught but a spark of the eyes and a twitch to his mouth which betray Childermass' feelings. Oftentimes it is hard to spot when one is not looking for it, but Mr Segundus supposes a lifetime of veiled sarcasm will do that to a man. He sighs. "You are aware, Mr Childermass, that I really cannot tell when you are unserious?"

"I am sorry."

(He is not. If Mr Segundus has learnt one thing, it is not to trust Childermass' apologies.)

"You are not sorry at all, sir, but I forgive you in any case."

Childermass raises one sardonic eyebrow and comments no more on the subject. Mr Segundus turns back to Instructions and his attention is immediately held captive by a fascinating passage upon the practice of summoning fairies. It feels familiar for reasons which he would struggle to explain if pressed.

Chapter Text

APRIL, 1807.

-J.C-

-

When the pair meet in the library to-night, Mr Segundus does not read and Childermass does not go over the accounts. It is unspoken, but a conversation is in order. What is this conversation about? you might ask. Well, it concerns Christopher Drawlight and Henry Lascelles, who had dined with Norrell earlier in the day.

Drawlight had resorted to flattery of Norrell (something they will increasingly come to associate with the fawning, obsequious man) for the entirety of the evening, while Lascelles, all cool scepticism and snideness, had done his very best to trip the magician up with his questions. His false admiration is something of a blade edge - it takes precious little to cut oneself upon it and find that knife pressed up against one's throat. Norrell is happily oblivious to such mockery, though, which Childermass is intensely glad of. It would not do at all were these two extraordinarily useful men to depart from Norrell's circle. Or, worse, that Norrell should take that failure of this acquaintance to be indirectly Childermass' fault. Which it would be.

Now, in the library, Childermass regards Mr Segundus from his seat at the writing-desk.
"So," he says. "Drawlight and Lascelles. What do we make of them?"

Childermass folds his arms. When Mr Segundus is in a room, it is always colder. Not drastically. But colder. Childermass has not cared about the temperature - has not cared for a very long time - but some inexplicable urge to shield himself lingers yet. I stress also that he is not the sort to grow fearful of the unknown, and most certainly not of the diffident, unassuming ghost before him, but even so...

Mr Segundus is visibly dithering. Even now, after everything, he is afraid to pass judgement. It is most peculiar. Does he fear somehow falling in Childermass' opinion upon making his views known?

"You may speak your mind, sir. I am not such a hypocrite as to censure you."

"Well," Mr Segundus begins uncertainly, "I suppose they could be more... They are not the most agreeable of-" He shakes his head. "No,” he says firmly, “I know they will never hear of it, but I do not wish to be rude."

This is as much as Childermass can hope to get out of him. He can be certain that Mr Segundus had not been about to compliment their characters, however, and thus makes his agreement known.

"But sir," Mr Segundus protests with some perplexion, “I do not understand your meaning. Was it not you who brought about their meeting with Norrell?"

Childermass raises one eyebrow. "And does that mean I must enjoy their company? It is all necessary," he tells him. "Trust me."

Mr Segundus frowns, but nods in tentative acquiescence. "I suppose... You are sure of it?"

"Quite."

There is silence for a moment. Mr Segundus, the little crease between his brows steadily deepening, breaks it by professing exasperation. "Do forgive me - is there a reason you cannot not tell me why it is necessary?"

Childermass realizes now that he is clinging to old habits. It is not so much that he does not trust Mr Segundus in particular, only that Childermass is most used to holding counsel with himself and himself alone. It is safer in the long run, for there is no point in trusting more than one must. People inevitably disappoint - this is a lesson he has been taught time and time again, and it holds firm even now. But, he supposes, Mr Segundus has not done anything yet to suggest a duplicitous nature (his heart shewing quite clearly upon his sleeve) and does not have the ability not authority to halt his schemes. Mr Norrell would be vexed by the notion of such interference on Childermass' part, yes, but it is not as if Mr Segundus is able to inform him of it. So, perhaps, there can be no harm in taking the ghost into his confidence.

"I am sorry," blurts out Mr Segundus, misreading the lapse in conversation. "I ought not to have pushed the matter. You are under no obligation to tell me if you do not wish to."

Childermass waves his apology away. "No, no. I will tell you." And thus, judging the ghost a safe person to confide in, he informs Mr Segundus of his reasoning.

Christopher Drawlight and Henry Lascelles are important for their influence.
Mr Drawlight in particular - a careless, affected, nevertheless intelligent man - is always eager to elevate his own standing. And if this entails making the acquaintance of England's only magician and spreading (rather dubious) rumours as to his excellence, the relationship benefits both of their positions. He is, in a sense, a jackdaw donning the feathers of a peacock, in that he does not possess the same wealth nor status as the circles in which he moves, and is eager - desperate! - to conceal the fact.
He makes connexions (both numerous and varied) with any one possessing the least modicum of power. He acquaints himself with every scandal or source of gossip. He makes it his business to know the whispered secrets of every man and woman in London.

And so his introduction to Norrell is essential.

Lascelles, on the other hand - cold and cynical and vain - is considerably wealthier than Drawlight, but equally as ruthless.
Henry Lascelles is the one to watch. Drawlight is easily foiled and not overmuch concerned with any thing serious beyond the fashionable world, but Lascelles possesses a certain calculation to his cruelty which should not be overlooked lest it lash out upon the unwary and complacent. He, Childermass has decided, is some thing of a collector, in the sense that he ensnares all manner of colourful persons and pins them to his corkboard like preserved butterflies.

Drawlight and Lascelles will take it upon themselves - no doubt thinking themselves clever for coming up with the idea - to advise Norrell on how to come into society, how to conduct and to further himself, all the small social graces which the little man lacks. In short, a great many tiresome tasks which Childermass is only too ready to hand the responsibility of to more suited men. They, at least, will have enough sway over Norrell that they may teach these things overtly rather than through the veiled manipulation which Childermass has hitherto employed.

Of course, Childermass must ensure that the pair do not obtain too much sway! Nay, it would not do at all if Norrell came to rely entirely upon their guidance. For Childermass has his own goals - and many of them - and these cannot be achieved if Drawlight and Lascelles drape their perfumed shadows over Norrell's reasoning.¹

Once all is said, Mr Segundus seems taken aback by Childermass' unexpected willingness to share his thinking. He clears his throat and hastens to voice his agreement that ultimately, the situation is for the best. Childermass smiles his sideways smile.

Mr Segundus wears some unease yet on his countenance, but the frown-line in his face is lesser and he seems to have lost some tension with the knowledge that Childermass has the situation well in hand.²

They lapse once more into silence. After several moments, Mr Segundus coughs and asks somewhat awkwardly whether Childermass might take down Instructions so that he can read. He has been reading it throughout these past two months; it is a hefty volume and he is only a quarter-way through. Childermass complies. Whilst occasionally flicking over the page for Mr Segundus, his thoughts drift to plans for the near future.

He has seen about hiring a new housemaid. Marie is to be married in June and, as the man has wealth enough to support the lass, she has notified Norrell that she wishes to leave his service.

Lighting his pipe, Childermass watches the smoke a moment as it curls slowly into the air.

He put out an advertisement in the papers last Monday and has since received two applicants. The more likely of them, a Miss Brooks, comes with excellent references from her last household in Sheffield.

Childermass only hopes that she possesses more efficiency of manner than Marie. Whilst Norrell is prone to bury himself in literature and forget himself for long periods of time, God forbid a servant forget themselves for one instant! Norrell grows as demanding and impatient as a child when he wants for something. On occasion he has berated Childermass for not completing a task which he had not been asked to do in the first place. ³

Childermass is asked to turn the page again and obliges. He watches Mr Segundus, whose head is bowed over the old brown pages as if in prayer. His hair is dark and when he glances up and smiles quizzically at Childermass his eyes are dark also. They shine bright and preternatural and otherworldly in the moonlight and, for a moment, Childermass almost expects Segundus to disappear when he looks away. It is easy to forget, on occasion, that Mr Segundus is not wholly present. Not tonight.

-

OCTOBER, 1807.

-J.S-

-

Childermass, candle-stick in hand and a wild look in his eyes like a spooked horse, finds Mr Segundus in the parlour. The ghost would suggest he looks dishevelled but, then again, is this such a difference from the usual?

"Magic is being done," Childermass says in lieu of greeting, and this is something which Mr Segundus considers rather odd, for surely the practice of magic must not be such a great surprize to the servant of a magician! But this detail is besides the point, for Childermass is correct. Magic is quite definitely being done. It has set the back of Mr Segundus' neck prickling and he feels just a trifle faint. But it is nothing so bad as his acquaintance, whose fingers tremble violently as he sets the candle aside and informs Mr Segundus that Emma Wintertowne is dead.

"Oh, how dreadful!" exclaims Mr Segundus. What terrible timing when Miss Wintertowne is to be married only tomorrow! And so young, too - not twenty years to her name!

"Mr Norrell has set his sights upon bringing her back."

This should be comforting news, but it raises gooseflesh on Mr Segundus' skin. At least it explains why Childermass is so affected by the magic. Mr Segundus is not well versed with this kind of magic, not in the least, but he knows enough to be sure that it would be putting it lightly to call resurrection perilous.
"Bringing her back?" he repeats. "Is the magic not so terribly dangerous to execute?"

"It matters not now, sir. The magic is already being done; I can feel it."

"I too," says Mr Segundus. "It is like a stain upon the air. But oh! Oh dear! I dare not think of it - if something were to go just slightly wrong-!" He shakes his head, making a conscious effort to stifle his paroxysms of worry. "It would be catastrophic, sir!"

And catastrophic it would be. The magic of resurrection is wild and unpredictable - when bargaining with prices beyond human comprehension, one can never begin to predict what might occur. Indeed, one might even mistakenly offer up one life in exchange for another! But most of all Mr Segundus feels that, even with success achieved, being brought back to life must be a singularly fearful experience. For who would wish to be ripped so forcefully from their rest?

Mr Segundus wonders whether he wishes to be brought back himself. On the one hand, he is sick of such constant upheaval. It feels like the instant Mr Segundus finds his footing, the rug is pulled from beneath his feet and he finds himself a muddled tangle of limbs on the floor. He wishes, almost above all things, to return to the comfortable regularity of his life. The only constant to be found here is a magician's sarcastic, unpredictable man of business, and Mr Segundus even agonizes over this - is he being an imposition? Is his presence irritating, distracting? Is Childermass simply too polite to dismiss him?⁴

On the other, he knows that he would miss Childermass. For whilst they are not yet so very close, the man has wrung many a smile from Mr Segundus and shewn him a great kindness in permitting his intrusion. And besides, Childermass is forever busy; Mr Segundus does not know if they could sustain a friendship were he to be resurrected. This is not so solid a reason but, perhaps through fear of pain and confusion and further upheaval, perhaps through simple horror of defying nature (and indeed God!) - he does not know exactly why - the idea does not inspire any sort of hope in him.
This is not to say that he prefers death, for he most definitely does not! But something deeply instinctive warns him away from the subject.

Now, Mr Segundus is not so inclined to heed this nagging and altogether unhelpful voice, but the fact remains that for resurrection to occur, someone would need to find his body, an event which has not come to pass. Childermass has been checking the papers for him and, whilst Mrs Pleasance has reported him missing, nothing has been found. It is as if, Childermass says, he has simply vanished. Personally, Mr Segundus feels that he has had quite enough of vanishing but - having vanished - he does not receive much of a say in this matter.

He has tried to remember whatever had caused this state, but it is all very fuzzy and indistinct, and his head hurts to think of it.
To speak of headaches, Mr Segundus can feel one coming along presently. He wonders where the magic itself is being done - for it cannot be far from Hanover and yet equally, he does not believe that Miss Wintertowne's body has been transported across London.

"Where is Mr Norrell? Have they brought the lady here?"

"No," says Childermass, shaking his head. "He and the rest have gone to Harley-Street."

The magic is being done so far away and yet they still feel it here in Hanover Square? Mr Segundus' anxiety grows significantly - what kind of magic is this to have such strong effect? And why the change of heart when Mr Norrell has been so markedly opposed to peril before?

"I thought he did not hold with such things?"

"Ah! But consider this, sir: we speak of Lord Pole's bride-to-be! To save her would be to save a man of considerable power from ruin. Mr Norrell ought to garner much fame from this act. And, I dare say, a great deal of influence. I suspect," he concludes, "that you, too, might be persuaded to alter your principles if placed in such a situation."
Then, pausing, granting the other an appraising look, Childermass furrows his brow. "On second thought - nay, I suppose you would not."

Mr Segundus smiles in polite bafflement, unable to divine whether he has just been praised or slighted.

At this moment, a much excited Cat - presumably given run of the house in Mr Norrell's absence - dashes into the parlour. It seems to Mr Segundus that she can feel the magic too, for all her fur stands on end (and, being inclined to yowling, as most cats are, she is making something of a racket).

"Oh!" he cries out in surprize, doing his utmost not to feel upset when she runs straight through his legs. Mr Segundus tells himself not to be ridiculous, for she is a cat! He can hardly expect her to behave with tact! And furthermore!-

-Mr Segundus stops, and reminds himself to breathe.
Just because this has happened, it does not mean any thing has changed. He will still be able to touch her, and he determines to prove it. Stooping into a crouch (concentrating very hard) Mr Segundus strokes Cat's ginger fur. He manages it, an outcome which he has known and predicted all along, yet one which lifts his spirits irregardless as Cat grows calmer and pushes her head up into his hand.

"What's all this about?" asks Childermass, tipping his head to one side. Hair falls into his face like rainwater.

Smiling, Mr Segundus gives Cat one last scratch beneath the chin and straightens. "Oh! Nothing much," he says. "I was only making certain that I could still- do it." He has been fearing, ever since he had discovered this capacity to do so, that it is merely temporary and will soon be snatched away.

"Indeed. I did not know you could do it in the first place?"

"Yes, well." Mr Segundus smiles with pride - and feels his face turn red with some promptness. "Only with animals, you see. Never when I am distracted, of course, and never when-"

" -the wind changes direction from North to West," comments Childermass in mock-thoughtfulness, lifting an eyebrow, "nor upon the second Tuesday of the month, or-"

"-when I am worried, or unsettled, or-"

"-when Mars and Jupiter align in the night sky,-"

"-or when I am not expecting it, or when-"

"-Lucas flips a shilling and it lands tails-up?" After Childermass has laughed at Mr Segundus' indignation, humour turns to rare sincerity. "No, Mr Segundus, I jest. You have my congratulations."

Mr Segundus cannot help but smile again, reddening all the more for this praise.

It is a recent development. Perhaps he has been attempting it too often, but - well - whatever else is there to do? He has been able to touch the horses before, but has yet to make the acquaintance of Brewer in particular. Secretly, he still harbours an apprehension towards the great black beast, although he would rather eat his figurative hat than admit this to the horse's oft-mocking rider.

Mr Segundus has found that the act of actual, physical contact is very different to what it used to be. These days, it is akin to threading a needle. A needle with a very small eye and utterly frayed thread, that is. But yes, as long as he concentrates enough and pays the action due practice and patience, Mr Segundus is able to touch them. The act is taxing on his energy, but is is not worth the trouble?

He has wondered why it should only be animals, and decided that perhaps it is easier because they can already see him, whilst his fellow men cannot. Or at least Mr Segundus thinks that they must be able to see him, for why else should they feel compelled to watch empty space so warily?
Animals had always liked him, before, for reasons which Mr Segundus cannot divine. It is, it must be admitted, somewhat disheartening that now they should regard him with such blatant suspicion and distrust.

Well, Cat has warmed up to him. She had stopt hissing after only a day or two, a fact which Mr Segundus is for ever glad of. The creature still seems perpetually confused by his existence (a sentiment with which Mr Segundus cannot agree more) and takes a moment or so to fully register his presence. Mr Segundus, who does rather like her company, often makes his way to the servants' quarters in the busy daylight hours in order to sit with her. She is now quite content in his presence, no longer stalking off upon the instant that he appears.⁵

But now there comes a wave of magic, overwhelming in its intensity. He shivers, feeling exceedingly cold all of a sudden, like a frigid bucket of water has been overturned upon his head. Meanwhile, Childermass leans his weight on the mantelpiece, presumably in some botched attempt to appear less green than he feels.

The feeling withdraws, piecemeal, like the trickled strain of water through sand. Mr Segundus lets out a breath he had not known he was holding. "Is it . . ?"

Childermass nods with terrible finality. "It is done."

And just like this, Emma Wintertowne is restored to the living. At what cost?
Now they may breathe a sigh of relief that the ordeal is over, but Mr Segundus has a nagging feeling that every thing is only just beginning.

-

DECEMBER, 1807.

- J.S -

-

The kitchens can be an overwhelming place to find oneself in. They bring with them a great many sounds and smells and flurries of human activity. These are factors which do not add to make a very pleasing whole for Mr Segundus, who values peace and quiet above most things, but the kitchens are almost empty for once and he is enjoying the lack of noise. Or was, rather.

Mr Segundus - much bemused - is now watching with something fast approaching mirth as a stranger ransacks the pantry. The man, who Mr Segundus deems familiar yet cannot place, is currently devouring stolen pies and cheeses at an alarming rate, as might one who has not supped in a decade.

He is certain that he must know this man from somewhere, but supposes that wherever he knows him from, it must have been a very long time ago, for the name does not come to him no matter how hard he thinks.
A sudden flash of blue attracts his eye - an ink of sorts, shewing from beneath the thief's filth-encrusted sleeve. The offending marking is quickly covered over with a tug on the sleeve, as if its owner knows of his being watched and is anxious to thwart such observation.

When the man begins his third pie, Mr Segundus decides that he has had quite enough food to be getting on with and leaves to seek out Childermass.

Having caught a spare moment in the day, the man in question is reading a book of magic in his quarters. He slams it shut upon Mr Segundus' entry, glances up in faint guilt and surprize, and relaxes upon realizing who has caused the interruption.
"Mr Segundus," he says, setting it aside. Mr Segundus catches a glimpse of the battered cover. The Language of Birds. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh! Well. I thought you ought to know that there is a man in the kitchens. I believe he is stealing food."

"You are certain of his not being a servant?"

Having been forced by his condition into being an observer only, Mr Segundus now possesses encyclopaedic knowledge of Hanover's goings-on, and it is laughable that he should not recognize the servants by now. Accordingly, he frowns at Childermass' query. "I have been here for some time, you know! I should think that I would recognize him if so." He shakes his head. "Regardless, sir, I am quite certain that he is not meant to be eating his way through the pantry."

Childermass stands and says that they had best go down and check. Once in the kitchens, they find no intruder. What they do find is a great many crumbs and the marked absence of meat pies.

"I do not understand," says Mr Segundus. "He was here just a moment ago!"

"Is that so?" asks Childermass, sarcastically raising an eyebrow at him. "Why, it is almost as if he has left!"

Mr Segundus supposes then that Childermass must extract a great amount of joy from being as impossible as one can be.

So Childermass departs to seek out the thief or Mr Norrell, whoever he happens to find first.
In the corridor he turns left; Mr Segundus goes right.

As he nears the library he overhears an unfamiliar voice, and at this point he should really turn back and fetch Childermass, but there is something compelling - a siren call, if you will - in the conviction with which the man's speech is being delivered, and so Mr Segundus walks through the closed door (suppressing a shudder) and into the room.

The intruder and the man in the library are, as you might expect, one and the same. Mr Segundus watches at a safe distance as he prophesies with a cackling sort of madness and great intensity of belief. There is a crackling feeling in the atmosphere. Mr Segundus would hesitate to label it magic, but it brings to mind the restless tension of the air before a summer storm.

He shifts his attention to the speaker, who has spread his arms wide like a raven in flight.

". . . shall appear in England"

Mr Norrell looks as if he might object to this last. Mr Segundus listens more closely and does his best to ignore Mr Norrell's protestations.

"The first shall fear me;
the second shall long to behold me;

The first shall be governed by liars and the forgotten;
The second shall conspire at his own destruction;

The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache;
The second shall see his dearest possession in his enemy's hand;

The first shall pass his life alone; he shall be his own gaoler;
The second shall tread lonely roads, the storm above his head, seeking a dark tower upon a high hillside.

Of another the breath shall be taken;
Secrets he holds dear he shall clasp to his chest-"

Lucas and Davey, at last having responded to the bell pull, enter and attempt to drag this magician - or madman, Mr Segundus cannot tell; perhaps even both at once! - bodily from the room.

"Shadows of his creation," the man continues, cackling madly all the while, "shall come to light;
He shall unearth answers with the passing of spring.

I sit upon a black throne in the shadows but they shall not see me.
The rain shall make a door for me and I shall pass through it;
The stones shall make a throne for me and I shall sit upon it.

The nameless slave shall wear a silver crown;"-

Mr Segundus turns and looks to Mr Norrell, whose face has, over the course of the speech, taken on the perfect, brilliant whiteness of fresh chalk. He wonders whether or not the little man is to faint.
The last of the prophecy echoes towards them as their hysterical stranger is forcibly escorted down the corridor;
"The nameless slave-! Ha! The nameless slave," he crows in triumph, "shall be a king in a strange country!-"

-

After the man - Vinculus of Threadneedle street, it turns out, has been dealt with, Childermass, Lucas, Davey and several other servants are summoned to the library and sharply reprimanded. Mr Norrell demands reasons for their inaction.

Lucas, unable to flee as is usual, remains calm (a merit to anyone's temper) and handles Mr Norrell's fragile temper with great care. He explains that Vinculus had snuck in through the pantry and cut the bell cord, and that is why the rest of them did not come immediately to Mr Norrell's aid. This rather takes the wind out of the master's sails, but moments later Mr Norrell demands to be told of Vinculus' real identity.

Despite his efficacy at calming Mr Norrell's spirit Lucas shews much gladness when Childermass, more knowledgeable in this area than he, now deigns to take over in his stead. He reminds Mr Norrell that this is Vinculus' real identity (and mutters underneath his breath that the man is perhaps too real).

Vinculus is not a magician of the conventional sort. Rather, he is of the sort who sit behind ragged yellow curtains telling vague fortunes and conducting false audiences with spirits to earn their coin.
So no, sir, he does not think that Vinculus' prophecy is necessarily to be trusted; the man is nothing but a charlatan.

Childermass is lying through his teeth, of course; Mr Segundus detects that glint in his dark eyes that always comes about with the suggestion of magic, a keen interest which ignites like a dry forest catching flame.

Evidently much shaken, Mr Norrell is still seized by blind paranoia. He insists that, surely, Vinculus must present some great harm to him!
When Childermass informs Mr Norrell in response, very solemnly, of their loss of three meat pies and two cream cheeses,⁶ a laugh bubbles up in Mr Segundus' throat. Childermass' eyes flicker briefly and warmly in his direction.

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY, 1808.

-J.S-

-

"But Mr Childermass," he exclaims, "you will never fool him like this!"

"And how else would you have me go about it?" Childermass hisses back. "Now hush, sir! I daresay I shall be thought mad if I am to talk with you."

Mr Segundus remains silent for the rest of the walk. He does not think Childermass speaking to himself would be so very noticeable, for London is overcrowded and noisy at the best of times, but would rather not make himself a nuisance.

Vinculus' tent (for it is he they seek) comes within sight after several minutes. Its curtain is a jaundiced shade of yellow, encrusted to the height of a man's waist in filth. Mr Segundus frowns in his surprize and walks faster towards it. The beginnings of a remembrance are unfurling in his head like a slow-blooming bud. He has been to see Vinculus before - he is sure of it! Prior to his... his death, Mr Segundus had visited a great many of London's street-magicians, hoping to discover an answer as to why England had abandoned her magic, but this one in particular had been significant in that he had seemed to provide an answer - or at least cause to hope for one.

The booth itself is not particularly unique. Most magician's tents sport the same yellow curtains - all in varying degrees of cleanliness - but nonetheless it has triggered a memory. In the air, there is something, that not quite magical something which raises the hairs on Mr Segundus' neck. It is just as it was on his previous encounters with the street-magician.

Thinking to inform Childermass, he turns back. "I say, sir! I do believe I have been here before."

Childermass looks pointedly at the street sign, glances back at Mr Segundus and quirks an eyebrow.

"Oh," says Mr Segundus. "I did not mean that I have been to this street. I have been here many a time. No, I meant Vinculus' tent. As I recall," he says in a wondering tone, “he told me his prediction of the future..." Then, he huffs. "Oh, do not look at me like that, Mr Childermass!"

But, owing to his having a deeply contrary soul, Childermass continues to look at him like that.

"A charlatan's rambling it may be," says Mr Segundus, defensively, "but it has come half true already, and so I hope you will forgive me if I hold by it."

Childermass frowns. Mr Segundus sees that his interest has been piqued, for here the man forgets the self-imposed necessity for his own silence and asks, "Aye? How so?"

"Oh - you may as well talk to Vinculus first. It is a tale for later."

It is not a long story, but it is a particularly nasty, biting sort of frost which has settled over London today, and it is getting to Mr Segundus, who has felt the cold in excess since becoming a ghost. In his opinion, any story that prolongs the time spent out of doors is too long.

Turning the curtain aside, Vinculus emerges. He has heard Childermass and now stares up at the man in some suspicion.

"You are the magician?" demands Childermass.

Somewhat wary, Vinculus nods.

"Excellent. I have a commission for you."

Money changes hands. Mr Segundus listens to the clink of shillings being counted out. Then, Childermass launches into an explanation of his false predicament.

Of course, it soon becomes evident that whatever the length of Mr Segundus' tale may be, Childermass' ruse is five times longer. This is much to Mr Segundus' chagrin, for he would rather do just about anything to escape the February chill. He does not voice this grievance (he is like to be told to go back to Hanover if it bothers him so greatly) but it is his opinion that, had he not been dead already, he would without the slightest doubt have caught his death, and that Childermass and Vinculus' own survival is surely a miracle in itself.

Furthermore, beyond being over-long, Childermass' unlikely story also takes some stretch of the imagination to believe. Mr Segundus did doubt, when the plan was first explained to him, that Childermass could pass as a milliner, and his opinion does not seem as if it will change any time soon.

"Mr Childermass," he whispers, after Vinculus slips and falls against the former, "I do believe he just picked your pocket." ¹

As Vinculus rights himself, Childermass gives him the barest indication of a nod. Mr Segundus cannot help but feel that this fact was one which Childermass already knew. It had seemed rather a condescending nod, though he really has no reasons for this assumption other than a general distrust of the man's sincerity.

He occupies himself with looking about the outside of Vinculus' stall. It is all terribly familiar, but his memory of the visit is not as clear as he had thought. It is evasive, appearing to grow hazier with every attempt to dredge it up. Mr Segundus cannot figure as to why.
This is not the first time it has happened. It would seem that, as if they are the experiences of somebody else, there are certain memories which he simply cannot retrieve.

Which gives rise to the disconcerting question of whether or not John Segundus is somebody else. When that man died, did he become the ghost? Did he go to heaven (or elsewhere - it does not bear thinking about) and leave some imprint behind? Is Mr Segundus really the same person or might what he is now be a clever imitation?
He has no shortage of questions, all impossible to answer. But even if John Segundus is gone, that still leaves his spectre the sole owner of this wealth of memory and experience and learning. And by definition, does that not make them the same person?

But what makes one a person?
Is it the peculiar little habits - like tapping out rhythms on the table-top or picking at one's darning in moments of unease?
Is it one's beliefs, like a love for magic's wildness or (perhaps contradictory) a firm, stubborn idea of what is proper?
Is it the exteriors; the dark hair and dark eyes and unassuming manner?
Is it the scars - the raised silvery line where one fell as a child and caught his shin upon the rocks, or the faint birthmark just below one's cheekbone, even the pink patch of skin (now forever frozen mid-healing) where one has nicked his finger with a letter-opener?
Is it, then, in the memories, in the sickly childhood spent poring over old books, the quiet scratching of the pen beneath a tutor's watchful eye and the tick-tock-tick of a grandfather clock, the sight of sunlit dust pouring gold into white-sheeted rooms?

Is it the heart? The mind? The soul?

What is it? What makes one a person? Mr Segundus possesses all of these things, but still he is separate from humanity.
The problem is, of course, that he is unperceived, and so must look inwards, but can hardly provide an accurate assessment when it comes to his own insides. Other people may lack some senses - sight, hearing, taste, touch, smell. But why, when matters concern Mr Segundus it seems every one of them lacks all five!

But then again! If the answers to his questions are impossible to procure, he might make out solutions of his own. For Childermass sees him and hears him, does he not? And Mr Segundus does not know about smell and taste but knows that, on their first meeting, Childermass had, albeit just once, been able to touch him!
To John Childermass, he is real. That counts for something - a great deal in fact. He does not know what he would have done had they not chanced to meet. To someone he is real, and perhaps that simple fact is enough.

So, does this make him a person? John Segundus is inclined to believe that it does.

...It is strange that to occupy a space, being simply there, has become such a complex affair. Mr Segundus wonders, now, at the remarkable adaptive ability of the human condition. Two years ago, he would have been most utterly perplexed had you told him of this predicament.

He comes back to himself to find Childermass making a hash of things. For one so well versed in the art of absolute secrecy he is, perhaps, not fit for the stage.
Mr Segundus doubts he would take Childermass for a milliner even if he were a stranger. For starters, his ancient clothing is quite as mended and worn and out-of-fashion as Mr Segundus' own and, whilst such an image as his may be fitting for the character of a grave-robber, it is less expected for that of a well-to-do milliner. Furthermore, Mr Segundus has yet to see any man so plainly unenthused at the prospect of wedding a princess. Childermass could seem a little more anticipatory, could he not? (Although Mr Segundus acknowledges that to marry a princess sounds an awful prospect. Putting aside the guilt of feigning affection for the rest of either his or her days, he should not at all like to be the focus of so much attention.)

He doubts that Vinculus is fooled either - the street-magician is a sharp, canny man who does not bother to conceal the sharp distrust which he eyes Childermass with.
Mr Segundus shifts uncomfortably. If Childermass refers to his wares as fol-de-lols one more time, he does not have much faith in the ruse's continuation.

But he is not nervous for long, for Vinculus soon declines to humour the lie.
"You are no more a milliner," he begins accusingly, "than I am a . . . a . . . "

This development is much to Childermass' amusement, although Mr Segundus suspects (perhaps not being entirely fair) that this man will find anything amusing if it means he might find opportunity to mock you in it.
A wry smile has crept up one side of his face like the slow, shivered spread of winter frost. "A magician?" he proposes. "You seem more skilled in other arts. My pockets have grown rather lighter than they ought, you realize."

Vinculus grumbles something intelligible and shakes the stolen articles from his sleeve. A few coins settle in the icy mud and several sheets of crumpled paper blow about in the breeze before Vinculus snatches them up with a cry of triumph.

They are spells - firstly and secondly to make a man leave London, thirdly to discover what an enemy is doing presently. As they had departed Hanover-Square, Childermass had told Mr Segundus that he possessed some thing which he reckoned would be of interest to him, then shewed him the spells.

The first will drive a man half-crazed, causing him to see the ghosts of bridge suicides and graveyards full to the brim of spectres (Mr Segundus has a particular distaste for this one). The second deceives the victim into supposing his true love, life's calling and suchlike will be found within the countryside. In short, they are horrible, deplorable tricks and he had been ever so relieved when Childermass assured him that he did not intend to utilise them.

(Then Mr Segundus had shivered and exclaimed that he should not at all like to see ghosts, would Mr Childermass not agree? - to which Childermass gave Mr Segundus a very queer look and asked if he were forgetting something.)

The third spell is rather less disagreeable to Mr Segundus. It allows one to spy on another with the aid of a mirror. Of course, it is still a great invasion of privacy and offends Mr Segundus' sensibilities accordingly but this one - in comparison to the others - is relatively harmless.

(What Mr Segundus cannot make head or tails of is why Mr Norrell should task Childermass with casting the spells. The act denotes a belief in Childermass' ability, does it not? - and yet Mr Norrell still enjoys his status as the sole practical magician in England!)

Realizing that he has grown lost in thought, Mr Segundus refocusses his attention upon Childermass and Vinculus. The ragged pair appear to be reaching an agreement. Mr Segundus catches mention of an ale-house and considers that he has quite possibly never been more glad to escape the cold.

They start on their way, taking care not to slip on the icy ground. After a minute or so, Mr Segundus laughs softly, and remarks, "I won't say I told you so."

Amused, Childermass casts him a sidelong glance. "I do believe you just said it," he mutters.

"Eh?" interjects Vinculus. "Who're you talking to?"

"Myself."

In that peculiar, penetrating way of his, Vinculus leers at him. He hums suspiciously. Childermass, wincing at the strength of Vinculus' pungent breath, volunteers nothing more.

-

The Pineapple takes pride in its dark and shadowy history. The Pineapple itself is also rather dark and dingy, but in a manner which is less sinister and more inconvenient. A cheap tallow candle, brought by a serving-girl, illuminates the table. Its flickering amber light spills out onto the grain and throws their faces into sharp relief.

Mr Segundus has settled some feet away. Childermass and Vinculus are situated at a table for two but, on his way over, the former had covertly shifted the nearest chair to face them with a well-aimed kick.

For the moment the pair are drinking in silence. Or: Childermass is drinking spiced ale. Vinculus appears to debate whether to inhale or to savour his own. Currently, inhalation is triumphing. They turn to discussion before long - of the unlikely milliner and his princesses, of honesty (or lack thereof), of prophecies and the nebulous idea of a Book. Then, Childermass takes out his cards and shews them to Vinculus. Wishing also to take another look at them, Mr Segundus rises from his seat.

He is always glad to see the cards. Their brown, tattered edges speak to much care and affection and it is plain how very dear they are to Childermass. The man handles them as if they are - rather than drawings upon the backs of old playbills and laundry lists - made of gold.

Childermass is shuffling the cards when Mr Segundus comes over. He is half-way through the tale of his deal with the Whitby sailor.
" . . . his ship," he is concluding, "set sail before I was able to complete the drawings, and so half are done from memory."

Vinculus leans closer. His wild eyes glitter hard in the meagre light. "And? Which fortune did you tell 'im?"

Childermass cocks his head to one side. "The true one," he says, as if that were obvious from the very start. "That he would be drowned dead before the year was out."

The story is an unhappy one. Mr Segundus can never help but feel some measure of sympathy for the sailor - it would have been a great deal kinder for Childermass to have left the poor man in ignorance of such a watery fate. But Vinculus, possessing no such empathetic spirit, cackles darkly in response to Childermass' account.

Childermass now begins to lay out several cards for a fortune (presumably Vinculus'). As he places the seventh, Childermass accidentally brushes against Mr Segundus' hand where it is leant upon the table edge.
The both of them freeze. What a curious occurrence! In the shock of it, Childermass forgets Vinculus' presence and raises one questioning eyebrow at Mr Segundus - who looks down at him in equal incomprehension. Feeling a sort of dizzying gladness, he tastes the tang of excitement on his tongue, and laughs, overcome by a rush of relief unmatched in immensity.

Obligingly, Childermass stills his hand so that Mr Segundus might test this happening once more. Mr Segundus sags a little when, as usual, his own hand passes through the other's. But what matters, he decides, is that it has happened at all. Oh, it has happened!

Sharp-eyed and wary, Vinculus asks why Childermass has stopt dealing.

"Oh!" Childermass catches Mr Segundus' eye, an answering amusement dancing in the quirk of his lips. "Nothing you need concern yourself about."

-

Some days later, some way away, someone exchanges words with a madman from under a bush. He crosses the latter's palm with silver and receives several sheets of muddied, crumpled but nonetheless good quality paper as repayment. There are spells written on them too, in small, cramped writing.
Wondering what she will make of this new calling, he rides on to meet with his sweetheart.

Chapter Text

AUGUST, 1809.

-J.C-

-

In the late August of 1809, Childermass informs Mr Segundus that a second magician is making something of a name for himself about Bristol and Bath.

Mr Segundus, quite clearly as delighted as any man has ever been, has no end of questions but decides to limit himself to just one (though Childermass harbours doubts that this is possible for him). "Oh!" he exclaims. "What is his name, sir? Does Mr Norrell know? Will you inform Mr Norrell if not? How very excellent! - you mean to say he is also a practical magician?"

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "I do believe that was four questions."

Mr Segundus flushes red. Momentarily distracted, Childermass notes how the fiery sunset filters through Mr Segundus' person - like sun on stained glass, moon through dark water. Behind him it leaves what is not precisely a shadow, more a mottled patch of slightly dimmer, diluted light. The faint, perplexed suggestion of a person upon the rug. It is if the light is uncertain as to how it should act in his presence (and Childermass, equally ponderous, finds his eyes lingering upon it).

But Mr Segundus is still looking expectantly at Childermass, his keen-eyed glance now tinged with a hint of concern. "Are you well, sir?" he inquires - and this rather snaps Childermass out of his woolgathering.

"Quite," Childermass assures him, calling Mr Segundus' questions back to the forefront of his mind. "Firstly, his name is Jonathan Strange. For second and third, no. I shall let him find out in his own time. Rumour spreads fast as fire. And"- Childermass sighs, wearied -"he'll take it as an attack if I am to deliver the news."

Or anyone else, really. But he'd rather let Drawlight and Lascelles take the brunt of Norrell's anxiety.

Bringing the final query to mind, he continues. "Fourthly, yes. He is a practical magician - and," he says drily, "you'll be glad, I'm sure, to hear that he's also complaining mightily of Portishead's article on fairies."

"I still fail to see see how you can possibly agree with it," begins Mr Segundus, resuming the debate of this morning. "It really is a most abominable piece of writing."

"The fact that is abominable, sir, does not detract from the validity of its points! Now, magic is wild, it should not and cannot be controuled, I give you that, but dealings with fairies are simply too dangerous. As Chaston argued in chapter forty-six of-"

"-You sound like Mr Norrell-"

"-I resent that. As Chaston argued, whilst the faculty of magic is stronger in fairies than men, the faculty of reason is so reduced in fairies that it would be insanity to encourage the general public in this direction. You wish to place creatures of such incredible power and so very little reason at the whims of a man? I regret to say that the man will be very much at the whims of the fairy!"

"But that last is blatantly false! Pale had four fairy servants, did he not?"

"Five," Childermass corrects.

"What?"

"Master Fallowthought - five."

"You," comes the childish accusation, "are making things up."

"Am I?"

"Yes, all right, five servants then! (You only prove my point further, Mr Childermass.) They did his bidding and aided him in his magic, indeed Pale referred to them as his favourite treasures! That does not sound so very mad and unreasonable to me. More as if fairies were at the whims of a man - or if not at his whims, willing enough to serve him well. It does not seem half as terribly dangerous as you make it out to be, sir!"

"Ah, but you can be sure that Pale must have struck deals with them. Wouldn't have become his servants otherwise." Here Childermass lets out a short sharp burst of laughter. "You trust Englishmen to navigate bargains with the fae?"

Mr Segundus sniffs. "Pale was an Englishman - and Meraud, and Stokesey I dare say, and I hear they managed well enough! I am sure that with the proper precautions, a fair deal could be achieved for both parties."

"Fairer for the fairy, perhaps, than the man! Nay, I suspect even you would find yourself deceived by such a creature." (Privately, Childermass thinks it would not be very difficult to deceive Mr Segundus in this way. He is, although scientifically thorough, much too inclined to see the best in others.)

"You really are incorrigible, sir. I-"

And thus, the topic of Jonathan Strange quite forgotten, they proceed to pass the next four-and-thirty minutes arguing with great zeal as to the many and varied merits and deficits of involvement with fairies.

It is very enjoyable, up until when Hannah (having been sent to locate Childermass) comes out from where she has been lingering with some amusement in the doorway and asks who the deuce he is speaking to. At which point the affair becomes rather more humorous for Mr Segundus - although to his credit he does at least attempt to look sorry - and rather less so for Childermass.

"Why didn't you warn me?" he hisses under his breath, not happy to have made a fool of himself before Hannah.

"Oh," Mr Segundus exclaims, "but I did! Only you were so absorbed by Fenwick's arguments upon changelings that you did not seem to hear."

-

SEPTEMBER, 1809.

-J.C-

-

" . . . asked if Mr Strange would perform any for them. He was very modest about it, Mr Childermass, for he did not wish to do so before everyone, but was persuaded before long. And then, sir - then he did the magic!" Mr Segundus' wide eyes shine with the ecstatic wonder of a child. He is greatly animated; he gesticulates wildly and paces about as he talks.

Childermass listens to this embellished account of events with a slant sort of smile. "What magic?" he inquires.

"Ah! Yes, he exchanged the book with its reflection! I fear I have not the slightest inkling as to- Oh! I do hope you will forgive me, sir, I did not at all intend to hit you." The ghost furrows his brow, likely wondering whether having waved a hand through Childermass' shoulder counts as assault. "Well, no harm done I suppose. Look, you can see the book here. Come, Mr Childermass! No, no, it is this one. Try to pick it up - hah! - see, you cannot!"

As his laughter dissipates, he turns contemplative. "I am ever so curious as to what the spell is," Mr Segundus muses, "I dare say even Mr Norrell was taken aback! Mr Strange really does seem a most excellent magician, sir, to have improvised it upon the spot."

Much amused, Childermass continues to affect surprize and confusion as to Mr Strange's improvised spell. He had, of course, been present for the entire meeting; nothing would have induced him to miss it. As good an opportunity as ever to test out that shadow-spell he has been practicing as of late. It is of his own invention - more of an instinctive affair than one of candles and books and murmured rites. Mr Segundus does not yet appear to have realized its existence. Now this does surprize Childermass, for if anyone is likely to have sensed his magic it is Mr Segundus.

Perhaps Mr Segundus was distracted by Mr Strange. Throughout his long and detailed account, he has made a great number of exaggerations regarding Strange's talents and good qualities which are quite frankly not true. He appears quite as enamoured with Strange as the magic performed - although Childermass decides to dismiss the one particular suspicion that this thought invites.

Perhaps Mr Segundus is simply excited about the arrival of a new face to Hanover-Square. He does not see half as many as either of them should like. It is only politicians upon politicians who pay visits to Norrell - for the magician does not entertain much in the way of others aside from Drawlight and Lascelles - and Childermass seriously doubts that either of these sorts hold appeal for Mr Segundus. They are much too dishonest and conniving. (Rather similar to Childermass himself, mind, but Childermass supposes that the hand of circumstance will force all sorts into unlikely partnership.)

He does worry about him. This is not something that Childermass has ever and will ever be moved to admit to anyone, but it is only natural to feel some sort of concern when one's.. well, one's friend has his low moments so frequently. Mr Segundus would not dream of telling him this, but it's clear to see that the man is affected by the monotony of death and the isolation it brings. Company, real or no, is a positive.

Nay, it can only be a good thing that Mr Segundus harbours a liking for Strange. Childermass suspects they'll be seeing a lot more of the magician in future.

" . . . and then, of course, Mr Norrell-"

"-Offered to take him on as pupil?" supplies Childermass.

"Ye-es." Mr Segundus takes on a frown. "If I might ask, sir, how exactly did you know that?"

Childermass waits patiently for him to work it out.

"Oh-!" he exclaims, quite suddenly. "Mr Childermass! You mean to say you were present the entire time?" He deflates somewhat, a flush creeping across his cheeks. "My apologies, sir, I really ought to have guessed. Why did you let me ramble on so? - I must have been boring you terribly!"

Childermass shrugs. "No need to apologize, Mr Segundus. You seemed to be enjoying yourself and I had no wish to interrupt."

Mr Segundus takes a moment to absorb this, but seems rather brighter afterwards. Naturally afterwards is taken up by immediately pestering Childermass as to his own thoughts and opinions upon the magic, on Strange's character and whether or not Childermass thinks the spell was influenced by other magics, then finally how on earth Childermass had managed to remain undetected.

Childermass tells him that it is quite simple really, then directs Mr Segundus' attention to the bookshelf on the far end of the room and, shaking with silent laughter, conceals himself as a shadow whilst the other is not looking. The darkness takes him into its familiar, welcoming fold, softly whispering and lapping against him like a rising tide, just as it always has. (Since his earliest years, Childermass has been accustomed to staying just out of view (such is the lot of a child-thief). These days it suits him to be bolder, and yet the ability to hide more or less in plain sight retains its usefulness, and he has found to some satisfaction that the shadow-spell had, in a way, been a magic worked before it was even recognisably that.)

Mr Segundus gazes in some consternation at the patch where Childermass had stood just seconds previously. "Do come out," he says. "I have no hope of finding you if you have turned invisible, sir."

Which is true enough. Childermass emerges from the shadows in the corner, committing the gasp Mr Segundus makes to memory.

"A shadow! You must tell me - how do you do it? No, what does it feel like? How long can you sustain it for? Is it-"

"Patience, Mr Segundus!" he cries. "I can only answer so many questions at once."

-

OCTOBER, 1809.

-J.S-

-

Mr Segundus had wondered, when Strange first arrived, whether the new magician might see him. It sounded reasonable enough - for Childermass was also a magician, was he not? As there had to be some reason that Childermass could see him, Mr Segundus was inclined to believe that magic must play a role of sorts. Disregarding Mr Norrell, of course, but Mr Norrell was such a backwards sort of man that in truth Mr Segundus had not even considered him, as much as this was a decidedly unscientific way of going about it.

But much to his chagrin, Mr Segundus' theory had been thwarted - he remained by and large invisible. He had supposed that it was only to be expected. On the other hand, there are certain benefits to be found in remaining unseen. For example, Mr Segundus (who had been forced by circumstance to put aside his reservations towards eavesdropping some time ago) has found occupation in attending the magician's lessons. It is most instructive; he is learning things on all sorts of new and intriguing subjects. (The feeling of injustice does nag at him, however - just slightly. How is it that one must die to come across this private knowledge?)

Childermass is always curious to hear of these sessions. This suits Mr Segundus, who does not feel he would have been able to resist talking of them even if the ear lent him were quite unwilling. On occasion, when they go some distance from Hanover-Square, or Mr Norrell is out, they have attempted one or two of the spells taught to Strange - or which Strange has shared with Mr Norrell.

Mr Segundus does not have any success, as anyone might expect, for he has no reason to believe that he will be any more skilled in death than he had been in life. But Childermass, substantially more gifted than him, has managed to make them work several times. It is all very exciting - last week, he managed to send paper scraps flying about their heads like crumpled, snow-bright birds; this week he has used one to polish a coin in such a way that the gleaming silver glows hot whenever a lie is told in its presence. (The most memorable is an especially useless spell to sew on replacement buttons¹ which has caused poor Childermass rather a lot of exasperation.)

Mr Segundus is inordinately glad of all this change - and especially so of the topic of magic, one which Mr Segundus feels he might converse upon for days without once stopping for breath. Childermass knows rather more practical and theoretical magic than him, having been entered Mr Norrell's employ (and therefore his library) some twenty years prior to Mr Segundus' arrival, and it is rare that one of these outings passes by without some discussion or other upon the topic.

Mr Strange's arrival has brought a great deal more magic to Hanover-Square. Whereas before Mr Segundus might bear witness to perhaps one or two spells a month with Mr Norrell, Mr Strange is forever scrying in shining silver basins and hatching marbles into bright, flapping butterflies and summoning ink-pots from one side of the room to another.² Mr Segundus finds himself quite overcome by it; this is more the sort of magic which he had grown up reading of, thinking of, dreaming of. It is instinctive and informal, it lacks structure, sensibility and almost any semblance of logic. It is hazy and it is beautiful.

Mr Strange himself is also highly agreeable to Mr Segundus. He is a most affable sort of man, really admirable in every respect (even with his long nose and dsitinctly reddish hair). Magic seems to whirl about his person like golden dust, collecting in the dips and folds of his clothes and flowing from his fingertips with casual ease. It is clear that, whilst many magicians - Mr Norrell firmly amongst their number - require precise instructions, magic speaks to Mr Strange and he to it. He has a really rather remarkable affinity with magic, something the likes of which Mr Segundus has never seen before.

Childermass shuffles the cards of Marseilles at his writing-desk. He levels a wry look at Mr Segundus, smiling his sideways smile as the latter relates several of these thoughts upon Mr Strange. His gaze is speculative. Mr Segundus reddens - has he given too much of himself away? (He certainly hopes not!)
Now, Childermass begins laying out his cards again. His face has turned inscrutable. Mr Segundus' hopes are somewhat deflated when he sees the subjects of this spread, for the Page of Swords sits directly next to the Knight of Wands. ³

"Mr Childermass! I would much rather you did not."

"Did not what?" asks he, not looking up.

"Oh, you know very well what I mean," complains Mr Segundus.

Mask cracking, Childermass laughs under his breath. He sweeps the cards back into their deck with a dark grin. "As you wish, Mr Segundus. I shall not pry."

"Thank you, sir," he says, still feeling a trifle peevish.

"Most welcome, I assure you."

In return, Mr Segundus rolls his eyes. Then he frowns in perplexion, for he does not recall ever doing so before. Most impolite! But then he must have picked up the bad habit from someone else - and by someone else, he means John Childermass. The regrettable truth is that there really is no-one else who has such a poor influence upon him.

Mr Segundus thinks a moment. "On second thoughts, Mr Childermass," he says, quite suddenly, for he has found himself consumed by curiosity, "what do they say?"

Childermass glances up, his raised eyebrows betraying a flicker of surprize. "Give me but a moment," he says. "I shall lay them out presently." Childermass shuffles the cards and places nine face-down upon the desk. The first two are the Page of Swords and the Knight of Wands - but the meaning of these is obvious and so Childermass does not pass comment upon them.

He flips the next card - VI. l'Amoureux. Regretting his request immediately, Mr Segundus bites his tongue. This is why he had at first resisted the reading, but his curiosity has (as ever) triumphed over sense. The card can mean friendship, can it not? He does hope so.

For a long moment, Childermass inspects it closely. Mr Segundus watches nervously. "You look up to him," Childermass decides. "You desire to know him?"

Mr Segundus nods and lets out a held breath, hoping against hope that he has not frozen too obviously. Yes, of course! Childermass would not assume such objectionable thoughts of Mr Segundus; there really is no cause for concern. Upon looking down, he realizes that he has been worrying at his cuffs again and smooths down the frayed ends, praying again that his upset has not been noticed.

It has, of course. Childermass notices everything. But for the moment, Childermass says nothing. He turns over the next, the Seven of Cups, and then the fifth - Two of Cups (this upside-down). Seven of Cups, slightly water-damaged and dog-eared, depicts seven cups floating in mid-air. They are full to the very brims of riches. Two of Cups shows a couple raising their cups to each other in a toast, but Childermass does not discover positive interpretation in either.

He looks up at Mr Segundus - and there is rare sympathy in his face. "But these," says, "tell me that it is wishful thinking - you shall never meet him." He turns over the Three of Pentacles. "However, you shall aid him in his purpose."

"Oh! What purpose is that, sir?"

Childermass, checking the next card, shakes his head. "The cards do not say. I should assume it is to do with his Grace."

This seventh card is IV. L'Empereur - or the Raven King, rather, for the harsh, imperious face of the card still bears the marks of its brush with Vinculus. Childermass sighs a harried sigh. The King has shewn himself in a great many of his readings as of late; Mr Segundus has come to recognise this particular sigh as an indication that the Raven King has revealed his face for the hundredth time in a day.

(On this subject they are at odds; Childermass (loyal subject or no) seems irritated by John Uskglass' constant intrusions into his divination (seeing as, more often than not, they add nothing to his reading but a general sense of mystery). Mr Segundus, however, regards the phenomenon with some interest. Once upon a time, the card perhaps represented something different, but Mr Segundus does not know what it was. These days, L'Empereur stands only for Him.)

Next, Childermass turns over XVII. Le Toile - the Star. He says nothing and immediately turns over the ninth and final card, XIII. La Mort! Childermass takes a moment to interpret these two. Absently, he attempts to lessen the crease that splits Le Toile in halves by bending it slightly in the other direction.

"Oh dear," murmurs Mr Segundus. He does hope neither of them die.

Childermass shakes his head. "Stop fretting, Mr Segundus. 'Tis not all bad."

"I am not fretting!" frets Mr Segundus.

Childermass laughs, long and low. "Indeed," he says, as one might who humors a child. "Well, something will come to an end, perhaps something bad will happen to Strange - but La Mort is a cycle. These two," he says, tapping Le Toile and La Mort with a finger each, "tell me that with it there will come new hope. See? Not bad at all."

Not bad? Mr Segundus wonders briefly as to whether he and Childermass have just attended the same reading. But he does not question it, for between them Childermass happens to be the authority regarding matters of prognostication. He thanks Childermass, who only gazes at Mr Segundus curiously. He does this, sometimes, as if Mr Segundus is a riddle to be puzzled out.

"Mr Childermass?" the riddle inquires, being by all accounts rather perplexed himself. "What troubles you?"

Childermass considers him a moment longer. "Only wondering," he says, cryptic responses being part-and-parcel of any conversation with this man. "Nothing you need concern yourself over, Mr Segundus. I have made a promise not to pry, sir, and I intend to keep it. For the time being, at any rate."

-

DECEMBER, 1809.

-J.S-

-

It is a fine winter afternoon. The air is pervaded by an unforgiving chill, the cloudy sky clean and bright. Tendrils of frost are winding about the window-panes like crystals of frozen breath, smoke unfurls in curling grey ribbons of smog from the chimney-pots, and in the streets below hot-chestnut sellers cry themselves hoarse advertising their wares to passers-by. Mr Segundus puts a hand through the frigid glass of the window, marvelling at the cold's sudden, sharp bite - it snaps at his fingers like a wild and wounded animal.

The temperature in Mr Norrell's library, however, borders on stifling. A roaring blaze has been built up in the fireplace, sustained at intervals by a harried maid who rushes into the room, stokes the fire and feeds more wood to the hungry flames when the intensity of it begins to fade. Mr Norrell still shivers - precisely six times a minute, Mr Segundus has calculated - and keeps himself bundled up in as many layers as possible.

If Mr Segundus had previously thought himself more susceptible to the cold, he is now thoroughly disproven. He himself would shed layers if it he fancied it possible; indeed Mr Strange is already reduced to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, braving Mr Norrell's silent disapproval of this immodesty.

Fire licks with ravenous appetite at the charred logs in the hearth. Flames dance merrily in the corners of one's vision, reflected tenfold in the small pieces of mirror situated at odd corners and angles about Mr Norrell's library. This in turn makes the silver capitals stamped along the spines of his books shine with mirrored light, neat little letters gleaming so as to immediately catch one's eye.

Mr Norrell's books are all bound identically. Such is the fashion amongst gentlemen, yes, but those are new books. These books are centuries old! When Mr Segundus had first inquired about it, Childermass had rolled his eyes and remarked that anything other would offend the master's sensibilities.

(The magic must be controuled, it must be made uniform and plain and neat. It is not to have its old leather covers worn by age and use, softened and smoothed by the touch of many reverent hands. It must conform.)

Before Mr Strange's arrival, the books had filled the library shelves in regular, orderly rows. Now, stark and peculiar gaps of empty space peek out between volumes. Mr Norrell has had five (five!) entire shelves taken back to Hurtfew Abbey. The tomes deemed too dangerous for Mr Strange's consumption have been relocated - and plenty more besides. It has proved an irritation for Childermass and Mr Segundus, for the missing books are primarily composed of ones which they should have liked to read, but there is not much they can do about the situation short of smuggling them back down from Hurtfew Abbey.

Heat settles heavily upon Mr Segundus' brow. It is fast becoming oppressive as warmth builds up within the room. He really has not the wherewithal to suffer through it.

Today, Mr Norrell is expounding upon the cataloguing methods utilised by Sutton-Grove. As he has been for these past three hours. Mr Segundus fancies that this is in actual fact a deliberate move calculated to drive Mr Strange to insanity; the poor man looks ready to collapse into his page of haphazardly scrawled notes.

Silently wishing him luck, Mr Segundus makes to depart. There is a large, gilt-framed mirror situated above the mantelpiece, directly opposite to him. As he rises, Mr Segundus happens to glance into it.

And whose eye does he meet there? None other than Jonathan Strange.

Both of them freeze - Mr Strange's mouth hangs slightly agape. He visibly struggles, as if is attempting to recall a lost memory.

"Mr Strange?" tries Mr Segundus. His hope is a cautious, doubtful thing; give it wings and it will continue to tread upon the ground for fear of falling.

". . . naturally, this was-" Mr Norrell's droning cuts off abruptly. "Mr Strange? Mr Strange!" he repeats, his reedy voice growing anxious.

Quickly, Mr Strange looks about him in some confusion for the caller of his name. "Hm? Sir?"

"What is distracting you, Mr Strange?"

"Why, it is Mr- Mr- Oh!" he exclaims in frustration, gesturing towards the mirror. "Bother. Why don't I remember? I could have sworn I knew-"

Curious as anything, Mr Segundus comes closer again. Mr Strange does not see him this time.

"Knew? Knew whom?" Mr Norrell prompts anxiously. "Sir?"

Mr Strange shakes his head. "D'you know, sir, for a moment I'd the queerest notion that I saw another person. But really, I fancy it must have been a shadow - yes," he reassures himself, "a shadow or some other illusion, I do not know."

("You are not alone in that respect," Mr Segundus wearily confirms. "Nobody does.")

"Someone on the street, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Mr Strange says, thoughtful. "Perhaps."

Ten minutes later, Mr Norrell excuses himself. After waiting several moments - presumably to see whether Mr Norrell will reappear - Mr Strange rises from his seat and approaches the mirror. He addresses it with a bow and inquires very politely as to whether the gentleman of earlier might care to reveal himself.

Mr Segundus responds to him (for perhaps Childermass' cards were wrong), and deliberately moves before the mirrors in hopes of his reflection being detected, but after a few seconds of this Mr Strange only takes on an expression of mild disappointment. He sits back down and returns to puzzling over his notes, odd reflections forgotten.

Mr Segundus, resigning himself again to invisibility, comes closer and peers over Mr Strange's shoulder. The majority of his 'notes' appear to have been taken down in shorthand. Shorthand which Mr Strange is now attempting to decipher via means of alphabetical frequency and various symbols drawn in meandering columns down the margins of his page. A third of the text has been translated by this point - it is a to-do list for next Thursday, of all things. Spirits somewhat lightened, Mr Segundus laughs under his breath and makes his exit.

-

After the incident with Mr Strange, Mr Segundus had waited about five and twenty minutes or so for Childermass to appear about Hanover-Square. He does that, John Childermass. He is, Mr Segundus fancies, endowed with some sort of innate talent for it, for when one wants of him he always materialises sooner or later. Mr Norrell's household seems to have that effect on people.

Mr Segundus had proposed a walk, for he desired to clear his head and talk - about anything, to own the truth, but he had felt altogether desperate to talk to someone! - and Childermass had been good enough to agree.

It is not particularly late, only five or six perhaps, but then again night is thrust upon them very early at this time of year. Small flecks of snow are beginning to fall, these white, feathery pinpricks breaking up the vast blue-black darkness outside.

They pass by a tavern. Its sign swings idly in the faint, cold breeze. Warmth and light spill out over the threshold as a man bids goodnight to his companions and departs. Mr Segundus loses himself for a moment in the quiet sounds of muffled laughter, chatter and cheers drifting out from within, imagining that it is a world he still belongs to. In this moment, he feels quite like the small brown moths which used to beat against his window in Lady Peckett's Yard, desperate to reach the orange brightness of his candle flame.

As they wander about London, Mr Segundus has been recounting the order of events to Childermass. As of yet, he remains unsure what to make of it.

It is disheartening, yes, that he cannot seem to sustain this state of being real. Every time he accidentally brushes against someone, or someone has caught far-off snatches of his voice or heard the light tread of his footsteps, Mr Segundus cannot help but feel frustration that it is not more. He should like to be something of greater import than a figment of someone's imagination. Is that too presumptuous?

But as with most things, it is not all bad. There is always some silver lining to be found. Mr Segundus decides in this instance it is the unspoken suggestion that, perhaps, it will not always be like this.

If he cups this fragile coal of hope in his hands and blows upon it, the extinguished flames might someday raise themselves to a blaze. And it is all Mr Segundus has, so really he may as well try.

Childermass is watching him from the corner of his eye. There is concern there, but Mr Segundus has no need of it.

Mr Segundus sighs and says; "Sir, I will not have you look at me like that. I am not dying, I can assure you."

Childermass chuckles quietly, looks away. Too late, Mr Segundus sees that he has tripped up with his wording, but the man does not comment upon it - merely says, "As you wish."

As they have walked, Childermass has been leading them down back-streets and alleyways, through a veritable labyrinth which Mr Segundus had not dared navigate during life. However, Childermass seems to know these unlit paths as well as anything. He walks the underbelly of London with a confidence that belies experience.

They may talk properly now. Most have not ventured here, and where it is so pitch-dark Mr Segundus seriously doubts anyone will have the strength of vision to confirm that Childermass is unaccompanied and talking to himself.

The snow still falls, and falls, and falls. It is growing heavier now and Mr Segundus can see it collecting about the brim of Childermass' battered hat, melting into his long and ragged hair. He wonders if it will lay. It has not rained this week, and besides, it is most certainly cold enough. He does hope for a white morning - London really is very beautiful when blanketed in that frozen, ethereal quiet brought about by the arrival of fresh snow.

Their breath freezes as they speak. They are not talking about anything of particular consequence - only small happenings, like the book of magic which Childermass means to track down in Exeter, and Cat's latest exploits, and what on earth caused that tremendous ruckus this morning? It helps - is helping - to take Mr Segundus' mind from his disappointment.

Mr Segundus soon pays the price of not looking where he is going, for he trips over something or other in the darkness-! He catches himself just in time. Without a word, Childermass alters their course so that several minutes later they re-emerge into blessedly lamplit main streets.

Mr Segundus smiles in relief as they do. "Thank you, Mr Childermass."

Childermass does not say anything, for there are people about them now. But he shakes his head - as if to say that he does not require thanking.

Quiet descends. Childermass' footsteps ring out against the cobbles, which through the meltwater in their dips shew bright moons in their stone surfaces. They walk on for several minutes, but by this point they have walked some distance and Childermass suggests they make their way back.

They turn, but then Mr Segundus' attention is drawn by a conversation a little ways off. He wonders why this one in particular should be of significance; there are conversations occurring all about them but this one is clear as day. The speakers have strange, lilting, sing-song accents. Mr Segundus struggles to place them.

"Hark! Here he comes! Go, tell him!"

There comes a pause, then something unintelligible.

"Coward, you! I shall tell him myself, then!"

Mr Segundus hears a harsh male whisper next, akin to the hiss of rain on hot dry paving stones. It retorts; "No you will not!"

"Come now, darling. 'Tis hardly fair if he doesn't know!"

"The terms state that-"

"Oh, stuff and nonsense! That does not apply to the rest of it!"

"It is my property, sister! Why should he be permitted to take it off of me?"

Mr Segundus looks to Childermass, who makes no indication of he hearing this exchange. But then again, he never knows whether Childermass is listening in any case. It is not something the man does obviously or attentively; he is quite firmly entangled in his secrecy.

"He is reclaiming what he was promised. Besides, he might as well take a stab at it."

The other makes no reply.

"Very well," she continues. "Three years and six months, then- No, do not look at me like that! I refuse to wait longer."

"Why three?"

"Because it is half of seven, silly!"

"Well, quite," says the brother, exasperated, "but why not seven?"

"Seven! Surely you do not mean to make him wait for seven! No, half will do quite nicely."

He and Childermass round the corner, and the talking suddenly comes to a stop. Mr Segundus peers round, but sees no sign of the bickering siblings. He does see a man and a woman - a finely-clothed, handsome pair - commiserating about Napoleon Buonaparte and the price of bread.

Perhaps they seem a little queer, a little unclear about the edges? Something unnerving lurks behind their eyes. But it is no matter. He is only making details up to further his fantasy, surely.

He bids the strangers a good evening with a brief nod, only to remember that they cannot see him. Oh, well. It never does to be impolite.

Childermass is waiting for him with a wry sort of smile upon his face. "Quite done, are you?" he asks.

"Yes. Quite," says Mr Segundus.

And off the Johns go, picking their way home through the sleet that collects between the traffic-smoothed cobbles, glistening like silver in the dim amber light of the street-lamps.

Little white snowflakes continue to wheel and meander through the sky, softly falling, and falling, and falling.

Chapter Text

JANUARY, 1810.

-J.C.-

-

"I told you it would rain in Exeter, did I not?"

Childermass sighs. "You tell me this every time," he observes, sotto voce. "It never renders the rain any more likely to fall."

"Ah," his friend points out triumphantly, "but sir, I am not the one who has caught a chill!"

"You do not catch chills. Besides, I am not ill."

"Very well, Mr Childermass. When you catch your death one of these days-"

Childermass produces a short laugh at this last, but his breath snags unexpectedly and he dissolves into coughing on its tail-end. Alarmed, Mr Segundus asks if he is quite well. Childermass waves him off. Passers-by grant him a wide berth, but whether it is due to the illness or the talking to himself he cannot make certain.
(He has, in time, grown less inclined to care if he is seen in conversation with Mr Segundus. London is a loud place, after all, and filled with all the madmen who chuse to settle there, so a little more insanity is hardly all that noticeable. Besides that, Mr Segundus grows melancholy when dismissed into silence, and this is a prospect which Childermass is growing increasingly inclined to avoid.)

The fit passes. "-Poor choice of words," he manages.

Mr Segundus seems confused a moment. When he realizes Childermass' meaning, he sighs (rather pointedly). "Mayhaps," he concedes. "And yet my point still stands. Have you your gloves?"

Childermass pulls gloved hands from the deep pockets of his coat. "I do listen, on occasion."

"Oh!" he says, looking genuinely surprized. "Excellent. And your scarf?"

"No."

Mr Segundus tuts. "Very well. If you must insist upon being a child-"

"-Aye, of course I have the accursed scarf."

"Really, now! There is no need for such language - no need at all!"

"Not that there was ever a chance you'd allow me to forget it," he says under his breath, ignoring the man's remonstrance.

Mr Segundus looks hopeful. "And you will wear it?"

"I would not depend upon it."

"Oh. I should have guessed as much, I suppose." But then, quite suddenly, a thought casts shadow across Mr Segundus' face. "Oh," he repeats, his eyes widening. "I am not being a nuisance, I hope? You must understand, I do not mean to, I merely-"

"-Don't want me to get sicker, I know. 'Tis quite all right." It does not cease to wrongfoot Childermass that someone should feel - of all things - concern for him. To be worried about and fussed over is a foreign thing; he cannot think of few instances of this care which do not originate from Mr Segundus. He is not used to being considered as anything more than a lackey, or a shadow, or somebody's fellow-servant, and it throws him off-balance to find these small kindnesses directed his way. He does not know quite what to do with them. He does not know how to be considered as a friend.
He schools his face into something softer. "You do not make a nuisance of yourself, sir. Believe you me," he mutters, thinking now of Lascelles, "I would make you well aware if you did."

Mr Segundus smiles back at him. "Oh," he says. "Good."

"Here we are," says Childermass as they round the corner. "Now," he murmurs drily, "you might quiet yourself. I should appear at least moderately sane for the shopkeeper."

Their destination is a tall, grey-bricked building. The shopkeeper is also tall and grey, and quite as old as the bricks besides. He stands hunched into himself behind the counter, coat collars turned up against the chill air, evidently victim also to the biting January cold.

He glances up when the tinkling bell on the door announces Childermass' presence. His eyes are the most alert part of him - once he has shaken off the exhausted look about his person. Childermass had not expected to see this man again.

"John Childermass," addresses the shopkeeper, adjusting his wire-rimmed pince-nez in order to see him better. His smile is thin, cold and pinched, but he is not so austere as his appearance suggests. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr Finnigan," greets Childermass with a nod of acknowledgement. "I was labouring under the impression that you had retired."

"Ach, well. You know how it is with Robert. My, if Eleanor could see us now . . . "

"He still refuses to take up the business?"

"Aye," sniffs Arthur Finnigan. "Still, it does no good to complain! 'Tis my own failure, not his."

"I could settle it with him," offers Childermass, who owes favours aplenty to this man, "if you gave the word."

He has an inkling that, one of these days, Mr Finnigan will call in every favour at once. It would be rather more convenient to repay him sooner rather than later.

Mr Finnigan laughs - a hacking sound like paper being torn - and shakes his head.
"I have elected to let it rest, John. Your help will not be necessary. Nay, let him keep an old man from his retirement if he so wishes! I would rather the business remained a family one, but I dare say I would not object too much were young Wakefield to manage it in his stead.
But I gather that you have not come here for me!" The stern shopkeeper looks down his glasses at Childermass, his untidy grey eyebrows raised expectantly. "What is it you are here for? I've no books for you."

"I think you will find that you do, Mr Finnigan."

Mr Segundus has vanished into the back rooms. For a moment Childermass wonders how he is to notify Mr Segundus of when it is time to leave, but in his thinking almost misses it when Mr Finnigan says, "Alas - I think, John, that you will find that I do not."

"What? I have it on good authority," says Childermass, indignant, "that Goubert's Gatekeeper of Apollo arrived at your establishment this morning."

He raises his own eyebrow at Mr Finnigan, who continues to look down upon Childermass. (Childermass would not consider himself a short man by any means, but Mr Finnegan nevertheless stands a half head taller. As the years have aged him, he has taken on a stoop, and yet still Childermass must tilt his head up to converse with the man or otherwise be faced with just his neck.)

"Master Whittaker," states the elderly man in disapproving tones, "possesses a regrettable tendency to exaggerate. I would not trust a word he says."

"Master Whittaker knows better than to lie to me. You opened two hours ago - you mean to say you have sold it already?"

This is usually something which happens to other people. Childermass huffs a dark, impatient laugh at the irony of it.

"I have not said anything of the sort, John! Your conclusions are based upon the flimsiest of evidence."

"But you have sold it?"

"Aye," he admits grudgingly.

"To whom?"

Mr Finnigan looks disgruntled. He wags his finger at Childermass. "Ah! You know very well, sir," he rebukes, "that I am not at liberty to tell you."

Childermass makes to respond, but the dry, ticklish feeling rising up in his throat has other intentions. He holds up one hand to signal 'wait' and turns away to get the ordeal over with.

"Not ill, are you?" asks Mr Finnigan, taking a wary step backwards as Childermass finishes coughing.

"Nay-" The words stick. Childermass clears his throat. "Nay," he lies through his teeth, "not ill."

"I beg your pardon?" whispers Mr Segundus, incredulous. "I have never heard you sneeze so much in my life."

Childermass startles. He had not noticed the ghost's reappearance at his side.

Mr Finnigan frowns at this decidedly odd behaviour. "Very well. If you are certain on that point-"

"-Which I am."

"Then I believe you. But you must convey my regrets to your master, I fear," expresses Mr Finnigan, crinkling crow's-feet evident now in the corners of his rheumy eyes, "for I cannot help you. I quite refuse to be involved. Now," he declares briskly, "I must leave to organise the stock. I will be away for approximately fifteen minutes, John, and I trust you will not pry into the accounts while I am gone."

"Much appreciated."

So, casting another thin-lipped smile in Childermass' direction, Arthur Finnigan shuffles away.

Mr Segundus frowns.
"Why does he help you?" he inquires. "It cannot be for Mr Norrell's sake, can it?"

"Mr Finnigan," explains Childermass, already flicking through the records for this January, "has known me since I came into the service of Mr Norrell some twenty years ago. I believe we came to the understanding that it was easier not to stand in my master's way any more than was necessary. Besides, I suspect he rather enjoys accumulating favours." He runs his index finger down the columns, searching for the book. "Ah!" he exclaims in satisfaction. "Here. David Hawkins, York."

-

FEBRUARY, 1810.

-J.C-

-

Initially, Mr Hawkins refuses the idea of bending to Norrell's will. Several pointed reminders as to his strained financial situation and the sheer amount which Norrell is prepared to pay for this book, however, go a fair way towards persuading him.

Several guineas lighter and one volume heavier, John Childermass begins to make his way towards the Black Swan. And yet even as he does so, Childermass' eye alights upon a sign. It is innocuous enough, small and unimposing. It hangs over a little alleyway, tucked away and hidden amidst larger buildings in the vicinity. It bears the name of Lady Peckett's Yard.

Childermass pauses. He cocks his head to one side in contemplation. He has never had cause to enter himself, but Mr Segundus had once (however briefly) called this place home. Perhaps he still does; perhaps it is a place that his ghost has been longing to return to since the very beginning of it all.
Childermass hopes not. Seems a rather desperate sort of existence.

He turns back.

His room at the Black Swan is, happily, clean and bright. The bedframe still creaks in a vaguely threatening manner when Childermass tests it with his hand, but he supposes a man cannot have everything to his liking.

Childermass safely stows away the book of magic in his saddlebags. He paces the little room for some moments, coming to a decision. Whether it is a fool's errand or not he cannot yet be certain.

There is a basin and ewer upon the nightstand - presumably placed there for his toilet. Childermass splashes lukewarm water on his face. He toys momentarily with the idea of taking a comb to his hair, but does not have one to hand in any case. In the end he decides to simply tie it back again as he does when riding, smoothing it down with the water. It makes for less time spent attacking his tangles. Less trouble too.

'And why bother at all?' you might ask. Well, Mr Segundus' landlady is used to hosting gentlemen. She is like to be wary if Childermass appears looking as he usually does, for he is hardly the picture of respectability nor affability and looking as he does will not aid his case.

In the fulfilment of his duties, it is on occasion worth appearing rougher than the likes of Mr Norrell, for it encourages people to submit much more easily than they would faced with his master (in all his unimpressive glory). Norrell might have established his own reputable methods of silencing magicians - theoretical or otherwise - but in truth his career is founded on intimidation, veiled threats and material obtained through dubious means. This is Childermass' role in things, much as Lascelles and Drawlight would have Norrell forget it, and one that the former is much accustomed to.

But somehow, Childermass doubts that such an approach will be effective against Mrs Pleasance. She is not a false magician to be denounced, nor is she an unfortunate whom Childermass has come to relieve of magical books. Persuasion will suffice.

When has made himself presentable if not respectable, Childermass begins the short walk back to Lady Peckett's Yard. He concocts his story on the way.

Perhaps something less far-fetched than the milliner. A friend - but Mr Segundus has been dead for years. A friend would know this. A friend who has been on the continent, then. A soldier, perhaps? He shakes his head. No, not a soldier.

But the idea strikes him - a sailor! A sailor he has been; as a sailor he can act.
One who has, he decides, been sent home for a weak heart, or somesuch invisible ailment. And has come back to find Mr Segundus, for the man does not respond to his letters- no, Mrs Pleasance will have received all the letters sent to this address. He has come to see whether Mr Segundus might be in.

Childermass reaches his destination. He walks a way into the alley, finds a little courtyard and then a wide staircase leading up to the house. When he knocks upon the door, an amiable, kindly woman answers him.

"Mrs Pleasance?" inquires Childermass.

"Yes!" Waiting for Childermass to state his business, the landlady gazes at him expectantly. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," she prompts.

"John Childermass, madam. I was wondering," he begins, "if Mr Segundus might be in? He's an acquaintance of mine. I understand he is a tenant of yours - or perhaps was, I suppose; I'll admit I've been away quite some time."

Mrs Pleasance looks pained but unsuspicious, and so Childermass carries on with the tale of the sailor, affecting ignorance as to her unhappiness. There is a fine balance to be achieved in lying; evasion will arouse scepticism and yet excessive explanation indicates nothing but a lie. He must tread carefully between the two.

Mrs Pleasance holds up a hand to quiet him. Some of Childermass' apprehension must show upon his face - she must misread it as anxiousness for Mr Segundus because sympathy becomes evident in the lines about her eyes. "I do apologize," she says gently. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, my dear, but I haven't the faintest as to where he is."

Childermass persists. "You mean to say that he is out? That is quite all right - shall I wait for him? I am amenable to doing just that. When does he usually return by?"

"No-" Mrs Pleasance breaks off. "No," she says, "I mean to say that he has disappeared."

"What! Disappeared!" exclaims Childermass, miming appropriate surprize and horror. "You are certain? For how long?" He shakes his head. "Mrs Pleasance, if you could tell me anything - anything at all - about what happened, I'd be greatly obliged."

Mrs Pleasance nods solemnly. "I shall tell you what little I know - God knows, though, if it'll be of any use!
"Now, dear, enough of this standing around. Why don't you come in?" She smiles agreeably. "I cannot promise much," she says, "but I can at least promise a cup of tea."

Once she has ushered Childermass inside, they take seats at a round, wooden table. A maid brings in the tea, peeking at him curiously from under her white cap.

"He was a dear," Mrs Pleasance says fondly. "Well-behaved, never made any trouble that I knew of. A scholar, I remember. You knew him; I'm sure you'll be familiar with the type - always with his nose in a book, papers every which where. I'd say I don't miss the mess, only Violet upstairs has been untidier by far."

Childermass smiles a wry smile. Mr Segundus is still buried in books, still endlessly polite, still entirely loath to pose inconvenience. Not much has changed, all in all.

"There was something . . . "

"Yes?" he asks quickly.

"There was something he wanted to know, or to do - oh, what was it? On my heart, it was important! He mentioned it to me once"- she smiles -"most excited, I tell you, like a child. He had found something out." But then the corners of her mouth turn downwards in another frown. "I am most dreadfully sorry," she apologizes. "I cannot for the life of me remember what it was."

Well, it's been a number of years. It is no great wonder that she should have forgotten. Childermass really should have pursued this investigation earlier - he has left it rather too late. But then, for much of the past few years Childermass has been swept off his feet with work. It is only nowadays that he has the time to even consider such a thing.

Childermass sips experimentally at his tea (too much milk). He recalls a question, one asked of him three years ago in these very streets, on a particular night in autumn when all was deathly silent aside from the sound of footsteps on pavement and a noise of despair from within a doorway.

"Why is magic no longer done in England?" he murmurs.

"I beg your pardon, dear?"

"It is nothing. Talking to myself, is all. Do go on, Mrs Pleasance."

All while they have been talking, the floors above have been voicing a steady stream of creaky complaints. He looks up, wondering as to the source of all that noise.

Noting his curiosity, the landlady makes to explain. "That'll be her now," she says. "My tenant, that is - the lass is up at all hours pacing about. Drives me fair insane, but at least she quiets down at night. Now," she tells him, smiling widely and setting her teacup in its saucer with a neat clink of china, "Mr Pleasance - God rest his soul! - he used to pace so in the night - had trouble sleeping, you know, with his arm. Oftentimes I'd wake for the sheer noise of it! Of course when we came here and started taking in lodgers, that all had to-"

"-Madam," prompts Childermass. "Mr Segundus?"

"Oh! Yes, I do apologize. I have a tendency to go on so; Mr Pleasance always said it. Now, let me think upon it."

There comes a pause. Childermass waits.

"Oh," she murmurs, "but it has been such a long time! On the night he disappeared, I think... Yes, I do believe I could hear talking (that was the last time I heard him) which I thought rather queer, seeing as I only had one lodger and most definitely did not let his visitor in. Beth might've done that, I suppose, only I am sure I would still have noticed! - for the door is ever so loud, and," she says, half to herself, "the second step squeaks tremendously . . . "

"Did you hear what they were saying?"

Mrs Pleasance opens her mouth to speak, only to shut it with a frown. "Oh! I can't quite... No, I cannot recall it."

Childermass groans. "Come," he says desperately, "you must know something!"

"I am so sorry that I cannot be of more help, my dear, but I really do not." Her face is open and honest and unhappy. She is telling the truth. "I dare say something has gripped me today; I don't believe I've ever been so forgetful in my life!"

Childermass nods and thanks her for her help, and finishes his too-weak tea as Mrs Pleasance's chatter progresses quite naturally into trivial gossip regarding other, less important matters, and when she begins to address him as 'lamb' he knows it is time to make his escape. Mrs Pleasance cheerily bids him goodbye with an invitation to visit again, should he wish.

-

As he leaves, the creaking from the room above begins to hurry down the stairs. Childermass walks on, ignoring it, but he is no sooner out of Peckett's Yard than the tenant calls him back from the entrance to the alley.

"You!" she cries. "Mr..."

"Childermass," he supplies. He turns back to face her.

"Evans. Violet," she returns, a little out of breath and red in the face from her dash down to the street.

Nonplussed, Childermass regards the girl. Her shawl is lopsided, slipping off of one shoulder. Her air is harried and desperate.

"It's Segundus you're looking for, yes? Mrs Pleasance says so."

"That is correct."

"When I took his old rooms, I found this." She holds out a slip of creased, thrice-folded paper between two fingers. "Couldn't make head nor tails of it, but perhaps it'll be of use to you."

Childermass approaches and takes it from Violet Evans' hand. He opens it delicately. A note. It reads, in careful, rounded letters, 'Remember! - he has something of yours.'
Cryptic. Unhelpful. Perhaps unrelated. Regardless, he tucks it away in his coat.

"And- There's something else."

He looks up expectantly. "Yes?"

The girl hesitates, scrutinizing Childermass. He has the feeling of being assessed.

"Yes?" he repeats, growing impatient.

Miss Evans shakes her head. "Ah, never mind it. You'll think I'm mad."

Christ's sakes. Childermass, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, tells her to spit it out.

Miss Evans swallows. "All right. There's something... odd," she hedges. "About the rooms. I'm on edge, all of the time. Feels like- Like-"

She falters, looks at the house behind her and then back again to Childermass. Her grey eyes are deadly serious. Miss Evans says in harsh, hushed tones; "Don't think me mad, Mr Childermass. But it feels like what magic must."

Childermass raises his eyebrows in surprize. Magic, is it? He came seeking answers, but perhaps he is to leave harbouring even more questions than before.

"You know him, don't you? Knew him. What's- What did he do to the place? What d'you suppose it is?"

"I suppose," suggests Childermass, measuring out the weight of his words, "that magic it must be."

-

-J.S-

-

The candle has gone out again. It does that, when Mr Segundus is around. Childermass denies it, says it is not his fault - this February has been too cold by far, but at heart they both know it is him.

Pinching the extinguished wick between two fingers, Childermass murmurs something under his breath. He takes away his hand, then blows gently upon the wick. The flame springs back to life with a faint crackling noise. Feeling rather like a thrilled child, Mr Segundus laughs a little for delight.

The revived light illuminates this small patch of the library. Two are sitting together about a little square table. Both are dark - but one is solidly, comfortingly human, the other insubstantial and ghostly.

"You are in high spirits," observes Childermass.

Mr Segundus is always in spirits. That is rather the point of being a ghost. But, he tells himself rather sternly, he will not upset himself with thinking of it.

"It is not just me, Mr Childermass." He raises an eyebrow. "I assume you were able to persuade Mr Hawkins?"

"Persuasion's one word for it," mutters Childermass, but he shoots his sideways smile back at Mr Segundus all the same.

"It is the polite word."

"You and your politeness." He shakes his head. "Aye, my persuasion did not take very long."

"Whereabouts did you stay?"

"The Black Swan." He makes a so-so notion with his hand. "T'was a pleasant enough place, the meal not so much."

"Oh!" exclaims Mr Segundus. "Peckett's Yard is but a little ways off from there. Did you pass it?"
He does not know what makes him ask this. But he wishes for news of home, even if that home is not his anymore.

"I did more than pass it, Mr Segundus."

Bemused, he watches Childermass. Childermass watches him back. "How do you mean, sir?"

"I mean," Childermass discloses, "that I paid your Mrs Pleasance a visit whilst I was there."

Mr Segundus' eyes widen in surprize. He leans in. "You did? How is she? Quite well, I hope?"

Childermass nods with a grin. "Aye. She misses you. Told me all about what a delightful tenant you were."

Mr Segundus considers this. It is good to know it - that someone has noticed and continues to care about his absence. He does wonder, sometimes, whether there is anyone left to do so. He had left the majority of his friends when he came to York, and he does not know that any of them would investigate his disappearance after nothing more significant than an unexplained end to his correspondence.
"Did you tell her about..." He hesitates, gesturing wordlessly about himself. "Well, about..."

"No," says Childermass. "No, I did not. Did you want me to?"

Does he want Childermass to? It is a difficult question to answer. On the one hand, yes, Mr Segundus should like nothing more than for another person to know that he is still here.
On the other hand, this means breaking the news to dear Mrs Pleasance that her lodger is not missing, but dead. He does not think he has the heart for such an endeavour. Childermass might, he supposes, for he can be blunt when it suits him, but Mr Segundus doubts that such a revelation poses any benefit to Childermass.

So he prevaricates. "Why did you not?"

"Why indeed?" intones Childermass. "I apologize if you wished it. I did not want to cause upset, nor be dismissed as mad. I had questions of my own to put to her."

"Questions?"

Childermass hesitates - a rare occurrence indeed! "About your death."

Mr Segundus flinches.
"The next time," he objects, "could you perhaps be prevailed upon to ask me beforehand?"

He is not so sure about Childermass conducting this investigation without any sort of warning.
Is this an overreaction? No, he decides, it is perfectly reasonable! For it is Mr Segundus' condition, is it not? This is a decision which should not have been made without him.

"My apologies," comes the flippant response.

Mr Segundus does not meet Childermass' eyes.
"I do hope you were good to Mrs Pleasance," he says anxiously. "You did not scare her, did you?"

"Mr Segundus," says Childermass, now realizing that he is serious. "John. Look at me." He leans closer. "Come now, sir, you must know it was never my intention to cause hurt. T'was not a premeditated move, I assure you."
Childermass shifts in his seat, clearly discountenanced even as he works to conceal the fact, and pauses. "Aye," he concedes - at last. "I shall ask you first."

"Did you scare her, Mr Childermass?" repeats Mr Segundus.

"Not in the least."

Mr Segundus sighs. He lets the matter drop. "Very well. Did she tell you anything useful?"

"She did not know anything of note. The lodger after you, however - she gave me this." Childermass takes out an old piece of paper and unfolds it for Mr Segundus. "This is your handwriting?"

Mr Segundus takes it from him. "Oh!" he cries. His voice wavers and he finds it necessary to take a moment or two to collect himself. "I had nearly forgotten what it looked like," he confesses. "Yes, that is mine... although I do not recall writing it."

Mr Segundus looks up, meeting Childermass' eyes again. He wonders if he imagines the manner in which his friend's shoulders immediately relax. "What was her name?"

"Who?"

"The lodger."

"Evans," recalls Childermass. "Violet Evans. What about it?"

"Just curiosity. If you ever do go back, then thank her for me, will you? I know very well that you did not do so this time."

"You don't know that."

"Of course I do."

Childermass looks wry. "Am I to understand that I have grown predictable?"

Segundus waves a dismissive hand. "Oh! Not at all, Mr Childermass. You simply happen to be my friend."

Of course there is nothing remotely 'simple' about happening to befriend John Childermass. He is, it must be acknowledged, quite impossible. But when one has navigated around the habits of such impossibility for so long, it becomes second nature to interpret his hidden meanings, his veiled humour and to adapt to his foibles. And he is, all in all, a good man and one whom Mr Segundus is utterly glad to call a friend.

But now Childermass is observing him. His brow is furrowed in thought. Long, greasy hair falls into his face but Childermass, absorbed as he is, does not move to tuck it away. His quick, dark eyes spark with a realization.

"Yes?"

"You," Childermass says carefully, eyes flickering downwards, "are holding that note."

"Am I?" Mr Segundus glances down at his hand. The paper is, indeed, held within it. "Oh!" A grin spreads unbidden across his face. "Yes, I suppose so."

A mere second later, the paper falls through his hand and flutters to a halt upon the table surface. There is a tiny indent where Mr Segundus' thumbnail has pressed too hard against it. He attempts to pick it up again - but the movement is in vain; his fingers pass through the paper without the merest resistance. He purses his lips.
"What do you suppose causes it?"

Childermass looks back up at him. "I expect," he says, "that you think too hard about it. It is always an accident when it happens, is it not?"

"I... Yes - you must be correct in that respect. And yet I can hardly stop thinking! I fear that would be quite impossible."

"Quite so," laughs Childermass, and the sound of it is endlessly dear to him. "By Bird and Book, John Segundus, I've never known anyone to think half so much as you."

"I thank you," says Mr Segundus, hiding his own silent laughter behind his hand. "I think."

But, before long, he startles quite abruptly and lets out a little gasp - Childermass has placed his own hand atop Mr Segundus' free one!

"Point proven," Childermass tells him, nodding at their hands. "Accidental. Or as such."

"Not on your end, sir!"

"My end is irrelevant. I am not the one holding my hand above the table - it is you who does the work."

Mr Segundus should like to object. There are very, very few instances in which he feels Childermass' end would be irrelevant. He might argue, in what he believes is perfect truth, that Childermass' end is the most relevant of the both of theirs - not least in this situation.
But Mr Segundus is merely being obstinate. He does not object.

Their hands simply rest there upon the table. Neither makes to withdraw his own. The moment should have concluded by now - so why does Childermass' hand not fall through?

Mr Segundus melts a little into the touch, letting his tension dissolve like sugar into tea. It is queer, he reflects, how something so simple might have come to mean so much. He counts the years in his head, and it has been too long by far since he last felt anything like human contact, or at least for longer than it takes to register that he experiences it. Childermass' fingers, calloused with riding and writing and scattered across with old, fading scars, are warm against his skin, and he tries as best he can to memorise the feel of them, desperation driving him to preserve this.

He blinks away a gathering heat behind his eyes. It all feels like a little too much. But, rather emphatically, he does not want it to come to an end.

But all things do, and - as is inevitable - he is thinking of it too much, and so it does. Their hands remain there, though, even if not truly touching, and discussion gradually turns to other matters, ranging from Strange, who by casting a spell intended for light plunged Hanover square into utter darkness last week, to the latest edition of The Friends of English Magic, and to the bright daffodils blooming white and yellow and orange in Hyde Park, until Mr Segundus stifles a yawn during his recounting and Childermass says they had better put up for the night.

He takes up the candle, sending strange shadows flying like birds across the room as the flame flickers wildly, asks if he might walk Mr Segundus to his room. Mr Segundus nods, just as he does every other time this offer is made. He is hardly capable of taking a candle himself; the aid is wholly necessary. Childermass always asks, though, for reasons which Mr Segundus cannot divine but does not object to.

(Something about the repetition and reliability of this little ritual is comforting. And it may be a small thing, but it is one of the few he has control over. And perhaps this is why Childermass asks it.)

Mr Segundus subconsciously traces the lengths of his fingers, feeling the faint ghost of another's hand upon his.
Friends like John Childermass, he reflects, are few and far between.

Chapter Text

AUGUST, 1811.

-J.S.-

-

"Cat," reprimands Mr Segundus, moving his hand out of reach of the aforementioned animal sitting in his lap. "Cat! That is hardly very polite, is it?

Cat chirps belligerently, stands, and continues to nip at his fingers.

"Why let her do it, then? Nobody's fault but your own." Childermass opens his mouth to say something else, but is forestalled by Cat attempting to bite Mr Segundus again.

Mr Segundus disguises his laughter as a cough and makes his expression solemn. "I shall have to have words with Lucas, Catherine," he says sternly. "This is hardly the sort of behaviour I expect in one of your pedigree."

Childermass looks askance at Mr Segundus. "Pedigree."

Mr Segundus looks right back at him. "I am not being sincere. You of all people should be able to tell!"
He redirects his attention to the disobedient housecat for a moment. "I used to have one, you know," he relates, and glances up at Childermass again with a fond smile. "A cat. Her name was Myrtle."

"This was before...?"

"Oh! Long before. I was but a child."
Mr Segundus begins, albeit warily, to pet Cat again. She produces a low, rumbling purr and butts her head into his hand.
"Really, now?" he asks her, exasperated. "Why, I am doing much the same as I was when you bit me earlier!"

Childermass shoots him another of his looks. It is one of those subtle glances of veiled amusement which he typically reserves for Mr Norrell, but which Mr Segundus himself is becoming intimately familiar with as of late.

Maybe, rather than the less palatable idea that he has been equated to Mr Norrell in Childermass' view, it is an attempt on Childermass' part to spare his feelings - these looks seem harmless, by and large, just intended to mask his mirth.
If so, it is in vain. Mr Segundus is not so naïve that he cannot tell when a joke is at his expense. But he will, nevertheless, allow Childermass his fun.

Mr Segundus is sat upon the floor with Cat, leaning back against the wall. It is a warm, breezy night, or so Childermass has informed him, but Mr Segundus feels only cold. Anyhow, it does not matter so very much. He had, most fortunately, had the good grace to die in a jacket.

Childermass, on the other hand, has abandoned his own. He sits in his shirtsleeves at the writing desk, composing letters (no doubt calling in several favours, judging by the look of satisfaction on his face). He does not look up as he enquires, "This is what you do when I am gone?

Naturally. Who else is he to talk to? He resolves not to say this, though. It would be entirely unfair upon Childermass, who hardly has a say over his own comings and goings, and who Mr Segundus is loath to tie down for selfish ends.
In the end, he produces a rueful noise somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. "Amongst other things, yes."

"Other things? Such as what?"

Oh, dear. He has set Childermass off now.
Mr Segundus, somewhat hopelessly, evades the question. "Never mind it."

He hears the pen cease its quiet scratching as Childermass stops writing and raises his eyebrows expectantly. "Do not brush me off, Mr Segundus. What do you do?"

"This and that." Mr Segundus makes a so-so motion with his hand, wishing Childermass would not pursue the matter so. Childermass continues looking at him with that penetrating air of expectation, however, so Mr Segundus sighs and keeps on. "I socialize with the cat." he says. "I keep an eye on matters here. I wander; I"- he laughs quietly -"haunt."

The word tastes bitter on his tongue. Mr Segundus does try so very hard not to let it get to him, not to reduce himself to a phantom rather than a person - but there is no denying that a ghost is what he is, and that to haunt is all he is capable of, and that this is unlikely to change anytime soon.
It's a curious thing, to grieve oneself. He is so prone to forgetting his death that it makes it all the worse when he is reminded of it, like catching a sprain at an odd angle or knocking a bruise one did not know was there. It is especially cruel, he thinks, that he does not even know what became of him all those years ago - merely what came after. If a man is to die, surely he at least deserves to know why?

Resisting the well-worn impulse to begin picking at his cuffs, Mr Segundus looks away. "I have it on good authority that I am a poor liar, sir," he admits with no small amount of reluctance and a little feigned humour, a forced light-heartedness which he cannot seem to feel in sincerity. "I will not pretend there is much else."

Childermass looks briefly stricken. But this flicker of distress is soon hidden away, replaced in mere moments by his usual front of solemn inscrutability. He replaces the pen on the desk top and folds his arms, attention now wholly focused upon Mr Segundus.
"You should not have to pretend, John. I'm sure I can find something for you to occupy yourself with."

"You-" He clears his throat. "You would?"

"Aye."

"I- Oh- Only if it is no bother, sir! I would be just as well without - although that is not to say I would not be grateful for it, Mr Childermass, merely that I- (Oh, but you are not even listening!)"

Childermass does not respond; in fact he glances away and falls silent for several minutes. Assuming that he has gone back to his work, Mr Segundus watches him idly.

Childermass' little candle is squat and gives off a faint, guttering light, molten wax dripping from the sides. It is very nearly burnt down.
Soon they will be plunged into darkness, and there will be silence for a moment, and then Childermass will sigh with the most irritation that anyone has ever managed to infuse into a sigh. And Mr Segundus will stifle a laugh and direct him to the candelebra so he might light another.

Courtesy indicates that he should warn Childermass before it goes out rather than after, but Mr Segundus likes these moments of muttered oaths and blind stumbling and distraction in the dark for reasons he himself would be hard pressed to explain. Perhaps it is to see Childermass as fallible as the rest of us.
It is hard to see that side of him sometimes. When Childermass makes it his business to lurk in dark corners and produce sarcastic remarks and betray nothing more of himself than the facade which he wishes to present, it is difficult to imagine that there might also be a man underneath all that.

It is Mr Segundus' privilege to see more than most of him, but it is far easier to peer past a man's veneer when he is cursing like a sailor in the dark. People, as a rule, are freer with their actions when they cannot be seen.

He startles when Childermass begins to speak after all.
The first thing he suggests is more a request than anything else. "You said you keep an eye on matters here. Keep doing that. If you catch wind of Lascelles and Drawlight attempting anything particularly underhanded, you come to me - aye?"

"Aye-" He reddens. "Yes, I mean."
Mr Segundus would have done this regardless, and has done so previously on several occasions. But he will not complain about the implication here that such tip-offs are in fact welcome. Childermass always seems so irritated when told these things that Mr Segundus can never make quite certain whether it is he or Mr Norrell's friends that the man is annoyed at.

"That is well."
Childermass drums his fingers upon the wooden surface of the desk. He looks at Mr Segundus assessingly. "I suppose you'd rather not read over Norrell's shoulder or you'd be doing it already. But it would be simple enough, you know. He's a fast reader. You could still keep up."
He tilts his head to one side. "There are, of course, theatres, music-halls and such. I take it you have not neglected that course?"

Mr Segundus has not - and yet he does not attend them so very often. Something tells him to ration such things out, lest they lose their novelty and grow monotonous.

Childermass nods at this explanation. "That sounds wise. And now - I know it was an accident, I am aware"- Childermass pre-emptively holds his hands aloft in a placating manner (and Mr Segundus casts a wary gaze to the flickering candle which threatens to extinguish itself at the suddenness of this movement) -"but I saw how you knocked that glass last week." ¹

Unsure whether he is mortified, pensive or simply perplexed (and perhaps all at once), Mr Segundus says; "As I have told you, sir, I really am sorry. I did not know I could move it in the first place!” He shakes his head. “Somehow, it is harder not to be forceful. It takes less out of me to do so."

Destruction, he muses, has always been easier than creation. This is true of both life and death. And as such, it should not come as a surprize that ghosts have come to be known for such actions. Perhaps it is not ill will or malevolence - these banging doors, shattered plates and vases knocked over.
Perhaps all it is - all it has ever been - is a crowd of invisible people doing their best to be seen.

This is why he has not tried it again. He quite fervently does not wish to cause Childermass undue trouble, but lacks sufficient controul over his solidity to ensure that no problems will arise.

"Well, break things if you must. Just avoid Pale." Childermass indicates the porcelain bust directly to his right with a jerk of his head. "His Majesty won't be best pleased if you damage him."

Mr Segundus blinks. "I apologise, Mr Childermass. I am not entirely sure of your meaning. You wish me to break things?"

Childermass laughs at the expression of horror on his face, and then some more at his subsequent frown. "I mean to suggest you practice moving them. If anything breaks, then so be it. I am hardly going to criticise you for doing what you can."

"But if I should damage something of value-"

The other man fixes him with a raised eyebrow and a look of intense scepticism. Mr Segundus admits that this is not a very likely outcome.

-

The next night, as they replace Stokesey upon the shelf and ready themselves to leave the library, Childermass lets Mr Segundus know that he has found something else for him to do - or, if he is disinclined to follow it through, something to consider.

Mr Segundus feels an immediate sense of foreboding. "'Disinclined to follow it through?' You are being very cryptic."

As he speaks, the other man is still setting the stationery to rights. Childermass looks up and shakes his head so as to indicate that he has not heard. "What?"

"I said," Mr Segundus repeats patiently, "what is it that makes you think I will not wish to help?"

"Because," says Childermass, smiling his slant smile as he shuts his memorandum book with a snap, "it will offend you. I require someone to observe the Lady Pole. I have heard whispers of her madness and I cannot help but wonder, sir, if it is truly so."

Mr Segundus furrows his brow. He is a little offended but, more than anything else, he is confused. "I would not have thought that her health concerned you."

"I make it my business to be concerned with a great many things. Otherwise," says Childermass, a smirk still tugging at one corner of his mouth, "we'd never get anything done around here, would we? Now," he says, nodding to the door, "shall we?"

As they walk down the corridor, they keep up a whispered debate. As regards the unfortunate matter of Lady Pole, Childermass' cards have led him to suspect that all is not as it seems.

"You think there is a connexion with her resurrection?"

"I know there is a connexion."

Mr Segundus allows his steps to fall in line with Childermass' larger, brisker strides, pretending for a moment that the sound of footsteps is his own.

He feels an ache of empathy for the Lady Pole. He does hope that the rumours are unfounded. To be restored to life and yet have one's reason stripped away... Perhaps to be raised from death is more than the mortal soul can bear.

Deep down, he knows that the rumours may well be based in some measure of truth. He resents this, but the fact of the matter is that one of her standing does not simply withdraw from society without reason. At one time he had heard of nothing but the extraordinary vitality - that of not one, but five people! - which she had come to possess, and the joy with which she took to her second life, but suddenly-

Nothing. Lady Pole disappeared and society, with its notoriously short memory, forgot her. The exception being those who deal in whispered rumours and snide observations - of which a great many have been made. It is not right that one so young, one with her whole life ahead of her, should be the subject of such vicious gossip and hearsay.

(He would not lend his ear to it if he could help it - but, alas, at one point it had been all that Mr Drawlight would discuss for several months. It went on until all of them were dreadfully weary of such theories and Mr Norrell complained in a high, reedy voice that he did not consider such talk at all fit for polite conversation!)

"Do you suppose it is Mr Norrell's doing?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Childermass shakes his head. "You know very well that he will not tell me if I ask. He flinches from all mention of her as it is."

"But if it were," Mr Segundus ventures, "you would expose Mr Norrell?"

Childermass gives him a very odd look. "Most certainly not."

Mr Segundus stops and stares at him in disbelief. Initially Childermass does not realize he has stopt and goes several paces down the hallway before halting and turning back to look at Mr Segundus, a clear question conveyed in his raised eyebrows.

Mr Segundus purses his lips. Again, he attempts to unearth Childermass' intentions. "What do you propose to do?"

"Help," says Childermass, starting up walking again and signalling that the other man should follow, "within reason. I daresay I could suppress any number of rumours - keep her from the madhouse for such a time as I can."

But Childermass must sense that Mr Segundus is still confused. "I am a servant, sir! I can hardly denounce my master."

"Well, quite!" exclaims Mr Segundus, walking faster to catch him up. "But if you were to do so anonymously?"

"Then I would be required to repair the damage I myself had wrought upon his reputation. There are better ways to waste my own time."

"Still! - I fail to see why you concern yourself with the issue. It is dreadful, yes," Mr Segundus hastens to append, "but I do not see why it matters to you. It is not your..." He trails off, aimlessly gesturing at the air as he searches for the words. "Not your usual area."

This is not to say, of course, that Childermass is without sympathy nor that he is incapable of charitable acts. Having been on the receiving end of both, Mr Segundus would not go so far as to state that the man is actually indifferent as to the sorry state of Lady Pole. He will say, however, that Childermass is conducting this whole affair the same as he does his business - aloof, unflappable, detached.

And Childermass does not often ask these things of him, not if he can help it. He knows how Mr Segundus dislikes the thought of prying. Childermass has his own spies to set to these tasks (although perhaps they are no use here, being unable to enter Walter Pole's household, which must surely be secure if Lady Pole is as affected as they say). In any case, he would not solicit Mr Segundus' aid if it were idle curiosity alone driving this inquiry. So, really, Mr Segundus has perfect cause to wonder why Childermass should be so interested in the madness of Emma Pole.

"My area," Childermass says firmly, "is anything which could conceivably pose a threat to Mr Norrell. Lady Pole, as I see it, falls within that category."

Mr Segundus frowns at him. "Nothing has been heard of her for years."

"Regardless, sir, my cards do not lie. I am loath to let the matter rest."

Here Mr Segundus begins to object, but Childermass hushes him sharply. "Not here," he hisses under his breath, looking to Mr Norrell's nearby bedroom door, "he'll hear you."

"I am inclined to doubt that."

Childermass looks at Mr Segundus in confusion, then comprehension, and rolls his eyes in false exasperation (and, dare he say it - fondness?). "Get going, then," he whispers. "You may be in the clear, sir, but I am not."

As they pass through the servants' quarters, they must be quieter still (although there is no way to circumvent the issue of the stair, for near every step of it creaks no matter where one might tread). They move onwards to Childermass' room. It is a few metres further along the corridor, half-obscured in shadow. The door is set a little ways in from the wall, blocking it from the immediate line of vision. Mr Segundus walks through, regrets it, and waits for Childermass on the other side. (It is unpleasant to walk through things. Not physically so, one must understand, but emotionally. Being a small, stinging reminder of his unfortunate condition, Mr Segundus is loath to do so, and for the most part does so only when necessary, but on occasion forgets himself and is faced with yet another minute departure from ordinary life.)

Childermass' room is spartan. It is not lived-in in the least, but neither was his room in Hurtfew Abbey, and perhaps then this is the result of an active refusal to put down roots. His possessions are few enough to fit into a single portmanteau.

Like some sort of sad joke, a little threadbare rug lies limp and dejected upon the floor. It gets stuck in the door as it opens and Childermass kicks it out of the way. He draws up the chair for Mr Segundus, then sets himself on the bed. Childermass crosses his arms; Mr Segundus folds his hands neatly in his lap.

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "I believe you were saying something?"

"I was saying," Mr Segundus continues, leaning forward, "that I will not countenance anything of the sort. It is not our business to determine what is falsehood and what is not."

"You will not?" asks Childermass. Looking relatively unconcerned, he too leans closer.
"Even when the fate of a young woman hangs in the balance? Why, if it comes to that, I expect your morals can very well stretch to it."

Mr Segundus realizes (with a sinking feeling of resignation) that he has walked into a trap. "You are deliberately exaggerating the situation, Mr Childermass; it is not nearly so dire as you make it out to be. Neither I nor the Lady would care for such an investigation to occur."

"You assume so. Do you know?"

"You," Mr Segundus wearily accuses, "are exasperating."

Childermass smiles crookedly at the compliment. "You are too kind. Well, Mr Segundus? Will you or won't you? It cannot hurt to make certain of her madness."

Mr Segundus sighs. His hands fidget restlessly in his lap.

"Consider how Lady Pole must feel," persists Childermass, sensing weakness and pressing further. "She is alone in the world; not one soul has full confidence in her sanity. Now, sir, if nobody were willing to believe you, if nobody would listen to what you had to say-"

"-There really is no need to draw comparisons, sir. You need not act as if you are doing this for her," says Mr Segundus. "You intend only to further Mr Norrell's cause!"

Childermass looks at him in thoughtful silence for several seconds. Then, to Mr Segundus' utter bewilderment, he laughs (briefly, lest he disturb those sleeping nearby). "I believe we are talking at cross-purposes, Mr Segundus."

"Oh?"
(And now Mr Segundus is most definitely lost.)

"Aye. You," says Childermass, "are under the misapprehension that I ask this of you for Mr Norrell's sake."

It certainly seems so to Mr Segundus. If it is not for Mr Norrell's benefit, what then is the use of protecting his reputation?

Childermass continues. "Indirectly it may benefit him, but to serve him is to serve English Magic. I cannot decry one without condemning the other." He shakes his head. "You will find, I think, that in this instance the Lady takes precedence over Mr Norrell. If my only purpose here were to aid him, I would be more focused upon silencing her than listening."

Mr Segundus, reading between these lines, extracts the implication that Childermass is following his own agenda in this matter. It is not wholly for Mr Norrell's cause, but neither is it the Lady's. And so it must be Childermass who takes an interest. Well, he is less opposed to that! All the same...

"So the cause is your own?" he inquires. "I would still much rather do this for her."

"Nobody would do it solely for her, sir. There is far too much to lose. But Mr Segundus, I am of the opinion that a good deed done in bad faith is still good."

Mr Segundus bites his tongue. Childermass watches him expectantly. He has a smug look about him. Mr Segundus should like to banish it from his face, but knows just as well as Childermass that the victor of this dispute was decided before it even began.

"Mr Segundus?"

He capitulates (just as they knew he would). "Once," he says, holding up a single finger for emphasis. "I will not do so again."

"Once," agrees Childermass with a brisk, businesslike nod. Mr Segundus has the foreboding feeling that the word 'once' means a rather different thing to Childermass than it does him. "'Tis appreciated, sir."
When Childermass then smiles his sideways smile, Mr Segundus forgets for a time that he is meant to be irritated with him.

"It is a wonder," he says - and not entirely in jest, "that you have not made me entirely grey."

Childermass fixes him with a wry look. "Give it two years, sir, and then we shall see."

"Two years? I should very well hope not!"
They lapse into silence. Watching his friend jot down a couple notes in his memorandum book, Mr Segundus yawns and supposes it must be rather late. Perhaps he should go - but Childermass has made no motion to dismiss him. He is glad for it.

"How did you hear of it?" he inquires, breaking the silence. "I had not known she was thought mad. Only... only that she was alone."

Childermass pauses, his silence punctuated by the petulant creak of the bedframe as he leans back, affecting nonchalance. "I lend my ear to the discourse around resurrection."

Mr Segundus gets the sense that Childermass is reluctant to divulge this information. In any case, he is certainly trying to conceal the fact.
Oh, but this is intriguing. He had not known that Childermass took any interest in the topic.
Is it for his sake? Perhaps it would have been more logical when they first met, but these days his body cannot be in any state for reanimation. But Childermass is no fool - he will know this. Mr Segundus smiles, nonetheless, at this little puzzle.

-

As arranged, when Mr Norrell next pays a visit to Harley-Street, Mr Segundus goes with him in the carriage. It is not such a long walk that the carriage ride is necessary, but then the latter is intended less to spare himself the exercise and moreso to grant him less time in which he might think better of what he has determined to do.

When Mr Norrell, bundled up in his many furs and mufflers, has alighted the carriage and is shewn in by Walter Pole's butler, Mr Segundus enters himself. He means at first to seek out the Lady Pole, but one glance at the butler's face arrests him in his tracks. There is a rose at his mouth and a strange, suffocating magic besides. It causes Mr Segundus to come over quite faint for a moment, so he stands very still until the darkness at the edges of his eyes recedes. The blossom is red and white, fine and delicate as the brushstrokes of a painting - though it is difficult to ascertain detail, for Mr Segundus' gaze slides naturally off of it. He wishes quite ardently to ask what it means, and indeed is half of the way through doing so before he recalls that the man cannot hear him.

But, appealing as it sounds, the purpose of this visit is not to observe the butler. Mr Segundus tears his gaze away and walks on, hoping to locate Emma Pole. For a while he finds himself lost, stumbling across Mr Norrell and Walter Pole twice and walking into the same study several times. In a fit of self-deprecatory humour he asks directions of the little tawny mouse which he discovers crouching by the skirting-board, but the dear creature merely looks alarmed at his approach and scampers away. Mr Segundus smiles to himself and carries on searching.

Eventually, he finds her. She is surrounded by a great many paintings. All are beautiful, all a little eerie.
The Lady is unaccompanied. Perhaps the madness drives them away. Perhaps she prefers her solitude. Or perhaps, though they do not recognize it as such, it is the magic which surrounds her ladyship, or the rose at her mouth, or the suffocating apathy settled upon her like a thick layer of dust.
Mr Segundus' misgivings about this venture melt away upon the instant he lays eyes upon Lady Pole.

He casts about and sights an armchair, which he gladly sits in, for he has felt curiously fatigued and breathless ever since his arrival. It is the queerest thing. He takes his exercise regularly, much as he needs it not - and does not eat, so thatt could hardly affect his health; he would not describe himself as unfit, and yet today it seems he can hardly make fifteen paces without tiring.

It may be that this is an effect of the magic. Mr Segundus would not know; he has not been in proximity to an enchantment of such strength before - although, he thinks, that is not entirely true.

Reaching back into his memories, he remembers when Lady Pole was revived, how he and Childermass were weakened from all that distance away, how he should have felt elation at her resurrection and yet experienced only the uneasy stirrings of premonition. How could he possibly have stood by and done nothing? They should have overseen Mr Norrell's magic; they should have guessed at his methods; they should have known, should have stopt-

Oh, but this is futile! Hindsight is the deadliest sort of poison; Mr Segundus will not help anyone like this. But he hopes, desperately, that Lady Pole does not feel it with such strength as him. How can she bear it?

He cannot quite bring himself to look directly at her. Whether this is magic or guilt he does not know. For a time he hopes to divert his attention by glancing at the paintings, but now the colours have become loud and nauseating. Mr Segundus swallows down the taste of bile in his throat, forcing himself to breathe. Only a moment of rest and he will be perfectly all right again.

(His propensity for headaches and faintness and all manner of inconvenient ailments has only become more pronounced since death. Childermass thinks that, with no physical body to shield him from the magic, it renders him all the more susceptible. But it is never so very bad as this, is it?)

He waits. Lady Pole says nothing. Lady Pole does nothing. For much of the time that Mr Segundus observes her she only sits staring blankly at the mirror opposite - in which nothing can be seen but for the wall, the door and two paintings. She looks tired. As one looks after too many sleepless nights, when the weariness has worn one down to the bone and settles deep beneath the skin.

"Oh dear," he murmurs.

There is a book in her lap - a slim, blue volume of poetry. It is closed, and remains so, but she keeps her place with her left hand. Mr Segundus notices with a jolt that she lacks a little finger. It does not look as it might had she been born without, or lost it in her youth, but rather as if it had been perfectly sliced away, neatly covered over with unmarked skin. Once, a woman (presumably her maid) comes in and enquires as to whether her Ladyship has want of anything, but Emma Pole only shakes her head and sends her away.

Distantly, he can hear Mr Norrell's carriage departing for home. But it seems far away, more a dream than anything else, as if the real world in its entirety were contained within this very room, surrounding this very woman. It is a sense which has grown ever stronger since his arrival. The outside world is an unreal haze. He feels that the air is a door and, upon opening it (God only knows how), he might reveal to himself the place beyond the shadowlands - somewhere bright and loud, and full of dancing. The echo of it is just tangible; it lingers ever so cloying and sweet on his tongue.
Peculiar.

In due time, supper is brought in (why not in the dining room? Why does she not eat with her husband?) and she pushes it around on her plate, utterly disinterested, as if she has been presented instead with a tureen of sawdust.

Lady Pole grows more and more agitated as the evening draws in, her movements becoming less reserved and weary, now more fidgety, frantic. Thrice she attempts to read, but each time throws the volume down with impatience. She taps her fingers restlessly against the side of her skirts.

Finally, Walter Pole comes in and pleads for her to go up to bed. She does not struggle physically but babbles desperate, nonsensical stories as he leads her up to her bedchamber with a firm hand upon her back.
Mr Segundus remains in the room with the paintings - for, of all the wrongful acts that he can bring himself to accept, watching a young woman in her sleep is not one of them.

Now that the Lady has departed, he distracts himself by inspecting the pictures nearby in closer detail. They are not nearly so overwhelming when untainted by magic. But the overall effect of them is nevertheless rather funereal - they may depict weddings and parties and other such festivities, but the black gondolas which slip through the canals beside them are of such a dark and eerie nature that he cannot help but hold them as ill omen. He represses a shiver.

Perhaps twenty minutes later (although it could be ten, or thirty - time is not so relevant to him these days), he comes over most incredibly faint. He can hear the mournful sound of bells tolling in the distance. He intends to get up and investigate, but has not the energy, and is so dizzy besides that he has no faith in his ability to stand. He is also gaining a headache, which bemoans the very thought of such sudden movement.

As he sits he finds himself falling asleep - quite against his intention! At first he is merely a little drowsy, and attributes it to natural causes, but soon it seems something far more complicated than just tiredness. Mr Segundus tries in vain to stay awake, and yet never have his eyelids have felt heavier, his limbs so utterly disinclined to move. He feels as though he is falling through gaps in a net . . . Or like something hungry has caught him up without realizing it, something ravenous that cares not what it does - only that it takes.

But then the outcry of his nerves is abruptly stilled - or muffled, rather, as if someone has draped it over with thick fabrics. In its absence, the urge to give into his weariness becomes overwhelming.
Mr Segundus decides to rest his eyes for a moment. Just a moment, nothing more. He will be the better for it.

Chapter Text

His older brother was named Simon Segundus - and Mr Segundus teazed him for the alliteration only moderately. Of course he could only do this when they were young, for afterwards, when Simon cut his hair and ran away, he went by Miller instead.

They wrote each other only once every so often and bickered relentlessly as children - still, such was their way. But now Simon Miller is not a starry-eyed youth in striking red uniform, as Mr Segundus last knew him (although Simon had seemed so much older then), and Mr Segundus himself is not a theoretical magician in a faded waistcoat.

No, now they are John and Simon again, and Simon has thrown down his embroidery (a half-finished depiction of a dancing couple), come to teaze him for sneaking off after dinner to play with the cat.

'I thought you were dead,' he thinks.

But what he says is; "Simon." Choked up with surprize, he stumbles over the name without thinking. "How're you here?"

"Have you hit your head? I walked, same as you." He looks at John as though he is very simple, then frowns. "Why d'you look so miserable?" It comes with the imperious tone of a challenge, but makes John smile a little.

"I have done wrong, I think. I do not know how to fix it. No," he says, pre-empting expectant looks, "you mayn't know."
Simon doesn't need to, and John is feeling the childish urge to hold something over him (being rather small, after all).

"Swear I won't tell," says Simon. Then, frowning, he bats John's hand away from his jacket sleeve. "Let your cuffs alone, you'll dirty them."

John looks down and finds ink soiling his fingers - it is a bright crimson red. He stops fidgeting and watches a drop well up and fall from the tip of his fingernail, a dark stain slowly blooming where it lands upon his sleeve. He can smell roses.

One moment they are conversing in the parlour, the next they are peering out of fogged window-panes at the first snowfall of the year.

John finds himself a little taller and a little older, and someone (quite possibly him) has depicted a misshapen raven in the condensation and someone (quite possibly Simon) has traced the outline of the hedges and the hills and the little brick houses in the distance.
For miles around, the fields are full of red and white roses; snowflakes nestle within the soft cradle of their petals.

John reaches out and plucks one, not minding as the thorns prick his arm, for even as scratches rise angry on his skin he does not feel them. The snow feels warm, soft, velvety, yet the quivering blooms are freezing and wet and melt within his hands.

"Can't be that bad," Simon whispers, while the droning pastor expounds upon the methods of Martin Pale and the long-nosed, red-haired man in the pew in front of them takes notes in a messy, lopsided scrawl.

"But it is," John hisses back. The church bells toll mournfully and he represses a shiver. "You know it is."

"Isn't."

In his childhood bedroom they sit upon a quilt made, inexplicably, of books, and when John opens one a pressed rose flutters out from between the pages. Simon turns to him and; "John," he says, "follow me. I'll take you where you need to go."

So John nods, and then they are standing before a door which he does not recall ever existing in this room. It seems perfectly natural for it to be there, though, and so he takes the key (tied about his neck by a length of twine) and fits it into the lock.

Inside the door is a dark tunnel - rather like a rabbit hole, only it does not lead down but forwards, and is large enough for John to walk without stooping. He finds now that he has reached his adult height, and the things which once loomed over him seem laughably small.

John turns back. Now Simon is as he remembers - that easy grin, those laughing brown eyes, looking for all the world like a bird released from a cage.

John sighs. "I missed you," he murmurs.

Simon smiles back. "I'm still here."

-

In the most utter sense of the word, John Segundus is lost. He has not the slightest earthly notion of how he could have come to this place - let alone where he is or where he is going!
Oh, but he wishes Childermass were here. Childermass always knows what to do.
Mr Segundus is aware that this is nonsense. Childermass would not know how to help - and who would? But Childermass is very good at acting as if he already has everything under control. It is a comfort to imagine that someone else might take his current predicament in hand.

Nevertheless Childermass is not here, and so he walks on. There is nothing to be gained from staying still. A little voice in his head tells him that it would be safer to remain where he is. But, as always, his curiosity is the stronger voice by far.

Briefly, Mr Segundus glances back over his shoulder. He cannot quite articulate why he should feel so strongly that there is safety at his back, but he knows that this is true. The familiar warmth of it does not encourage him to stay, however; it quietly urges him on, and for this reason he has elected to trust it. Enchantments draw one in; Mr Segundus has never known one to nudge a person away.

His foot catches upon a root then and he trips. Mr Segundus wonders if he can imitate Childermass' spell for light but - as expected - he remains firmly in the dark. Mr Segundus continues to move on, arms outstretched before him, ever careful to mind where he treads. He can hear things scittering in the walls.

Then Mr Segundus espies a slice of cold, eerie light illuminating the earthen sides of the tunnel. It seeps out from a door left ajar.

A light at the end of the tunnel! How apt.
Mr Segundus does not fancy himself ready to move on just yet. In truth, he does not know if he will ever be ready to cut that last tie to the living. Mr Segundus may have preferred life, but his death is hardly so intolerable that he would wish to be rid of it. He has been inestimably lucky in finding John Childermass - there are worse fates to be sure.

There seems no way forwards other than through this doorway. The way back, regretfully, is so dark and shadowed that in the absence of any other brightness Mr Segundus would much rather take his chances with the light.
With a certain degree of caution he peers through the open crack in the door. He sees a ballroom and, within it, a great many strange and unnatural people. Mr Segundus breathes a sigh of relief - this is no afterlife!

He steps inside, squeezing his eyes shut as he crosses the threshold, dreading something terrible happening, but nothing does. He merely finds himself stood amongst these odd people, bathed in gloomy light and harsh, discordant music (the sound of it scratching at his very insides).

There is so much finery that he feels very out-of-place in his shabby, well-patched clothes - but anyhow, he is invisible, so it matters little. (And for once he is glad of it, for he has not been invited to this ball - and even gladder when he sees the relentless nature of the dancing, which he would be most definitely unable to keep up with were he asked to participate.) He searches the crowd for some semblance of normality. It is such a whirl of colour and distraction (one lady wears a wig of beetles!) that it takes him some time to locate someone who looks reasonably normal. But to his shock, those faces belong to Lady Pole and her butler! He only sees them in brief flashes and glimpses - they are constantly being swept away, pulled back and forth like the tides - and so makes to move toward them.

A man, or he supposes as much, forestalls him by approaching and Mr Segundus comes to a cautious halt. He has perfect, pinkish shells over his eyes (perchance for eyes? Surely not. Mr Segundus is being fanciful - or so he hopes). His sandy hair glitters with finely ground glass. He extends his hand with a flourish and dips into a bow.
"Well met," he greets. His voice is lilting and sing-song. "Would you care to dance, good sir?"

Mr Segundus looks behind himself. He finds nobody there.
"Me? Oh! I..."

A dream? That would explain a great deal. One does not commonly find himself wandering down tunnels with no memory of entering them. He should have known.
And yet... Can it be a dream?
In his dreams, he is always alive. But if he is indeed in a dream, it should not come as a surprize - here it does. Mr Segundus had been utterly convinced of his invisibility mere moments ago. Can it, then, be reality? Oh, surely not! No. It has to be a dream.

Regardless of this, he would care to dance, and feels he might dance for nights on end, if only out of longing for touch. He has a hunch that he might be not only visible, here, but physical too. It is merely that something here is very wrong, though he cannot pin down what exactly it is, which stops him from accepting. He hesitates and common sense takes dominance over the desire to dance with another.
"Yes, good evening," he haltingly returns. "I- I fear that I shall have to turn your offer down. I really am terribly sorry, sir, but"- he scrambles for an excuse -"I do not think it would be quite proper!"

"Oh, but you must!" The stranger shakes his head, disbelief shewing clear upon his face. "You are aware, Christian, that not one of us would care?"

'Oh!' he thinks. 'These are fairies!'

Then; 'Oh. These are fairies.'

Whatever are Walter Pole's household doing here? This cannot be good.

Mr Segundus, his resolve now firm, continues to deny the stranger, who takes on an expression of amusement and mild annoyance.

"As you wish," he says, then steps back, watching the ball with Mr Segundus and delivering commentary upon the dancers.

". . . and over there - with the lady in sapphire - the Duke of Here-And-There. Or Hither-And-Thither, as he has bade us call it . . . yes, the Sovereign of Neither-Here-Nor-There made war on him a hundred years ago... They agreed on a name-change after just four-and-twenty years, I believe. Pity. Such dreadful bores, they are - don't understand what constitutes a proper fight. Now, that dark one, the Princess of Nowhere, does she not look radiant? There's one who knows how to wage a war! Why, her enemies' armies have been marching to her domain for seven hundred years! Naturally they shall never find it, being as it is Nowhere, but the effort really is commendable, I mean . . ."

He has a most disarming smile. Mr Segundus feels very much at ease beside him. Only it must be a glamour, for at any time when he is more than a metre or so away Mr Segundus suddenly notices all the little eccentricities which betray him as inhuman - forgetting them all when the stranger draws closer again.

In time, the ebb and flow of the dance brings Lady Pole to their side of the ballroom. The stranger bids Segundus farewell and snatches her up from her previous partner, pulling her into a fast-paced dance.

As the pair tread a measure, the Lady spots Segundus. She looks him up and down in mingling confusion and horror. She opens her mouth as if to speak. But any sound is drowned out by the mournful music - scraping, discordant violins and tolling bells all reaching a wailing crescendo. Mr Segundus lingers uncertainly where he is - she motions desperately for him to go when he attempts to approach her. Just a moment later she has been lost to the crowd, but the fear in her eyes lingers on within his memory.

So he stumbles back through the door, feeling a dreadful coward all the while. He looks in again at the fairy ball, hoping to signal in some way that they might go with him, but Emma Pole has been swept to the other side of the ballroom by her partner and the butler is being puppeteered by a fairy gentleman with hair like thistle-down. Mr Segundus leaves the door rather wider open than he found it. It is wishful thinking on his part - perhaps they, too, will be able to escape through it.

He realizes that he is shaking. He walks a little farther in the tunnel, but there is still no light to be found aside from the source that he has left behind. He tries Childermass' spell thrice. It works just as well now as it did earlier.

There does not seem an end to the tunnel. Mr Segundus grows colder the more he walks, but perseveres till he is shivering and desperately rubbing the heat back into his arms. Still, he tries to go further still, but when he does he finds himself overtaken by a belated sense of exhaustion. Only then does Mr Segundus give up on trying to find a way out. So he sits, waiting, clasping his knees to his chest and feeling his eyes slide closed.

Slowly - ever so slowly - he falls asleep.

-

Groggily, he comes to in the uncomfortable armchair in Harley-Street. His arms and legs feel leaden. Dawn seems imminent, judging by the birdsong. Foggy and piecemeal, the night's events are coming back to him.

Wincing as his knees crack, Mr Segundus vacates the chair. He rushes upstairs, the remnants of his headache complaining at the sudden movement, to find the Lady still asleep. She does not writhe or cry out, as one might in a nightmare, but lies perfectly still. (Like a corpse, his imagination unhelpfully supplies.) He wonders if it truly was nothing but a bad dream.

He waits a little longer, just for his peace of mind, and sees Lady Pole blinking awake. Staring in silence at the ceiling, the Lady grips the counterpane. Her knuckles are white.

"Lady Pole?" he tries cautiously, but whatever strange magic may or may not have been worked within his sleep does not apply to the waking world. She does not hear.

He can taste salt in his mouth. Peculiar. He hasn't tasted anything in such a long time that for a moment he cannot bring to mind what it is he is tasting. His mind flickers to seaside air, back to the sandy-haired stranger.
Not a dream, then.

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER, 1811

-J.C-

-

John Childermass and John Segundus are discussing. They have been discussing for the past two hours and have ascertained four points so far.
One: that Lady Pole and her butler (a fellow named Black) are under a fairy enchantment.
Two: they are also under a muffling spell.
Three: this is, most definitely, Norrell's fault.
Four: Mr Segundus is going to throw something ("Do not test me, Mr Childermass, I shall find a way.") if Childermass asks him to repeat his account again.

"Most threatening. But I have a request for you, sir."

Mr Segundus stops contemplating the nearest pebble with such murderous intent. He looks askance at Childermass. "Yes?"

Childermass pauses. "I daresay you will dislike it."

Mr Segundus shoots him a long-suffering look (the effect somewhat dampened by the wind blowing hair into his face as he turns).
"Over my dead body," he mutters.

Childermass looks him up and down in dark amusement, earning an eyebrow raise for his troubles.

"What now, Mr Childermass?"

"Is that a yes?"

"You are ridiculous. You know very well what it is," retorts Mr Segundus. If he means to sound disapproving, then he is doing a poor job of it, for contrary to his words a furtive smile creeps onto his face. "Can you truly not write it down?"

"That," Childermass says dryly, "would be easier if I had a pen, or ink - or indeed paper."

His partner sighs. "I must profess, Mr Childermass, that I fail to see the point of us talking all this way away. It seems to me that we would be far more efficient were I not obliged to repeat myself every half hour."

"I am aware," Childermass affirms. He tilts his head to one side. "But walls have ears, you know."

"Walls have Mr Drawlight, you mean." Pensive, Mr Segundus hesitates. "But he depends on Norrell too, does he not? Surely he cannot do any harm."

"Precisely the issue." It is not the spreading of rumours which Childermass is wary of. Norrell's reputation is iron-cast; no harm can be done to it by the likes of Drawlight. And so if Drawlight catches wind of this, it is Childermass' neck on the line instead. Servants who scheme against their masters are never in favour.

"Oh?" says Mr Segundus, perplexed, and then, "Oh - I see."

"Excellent," Childermass says briskly. "Now, if you would explain the tunnel to me again?"

Mr Segundus dutifully relates the tale again, pausing every so often to interject questions and clarifications and brief snippets of his own theories. When he has finished talking, Mr Segundus looks expectantly at Childermass. But Childermass is thinking and says nothing.

A breeze rustles through the sycamore overhead, sending seeds whirling and scittering to the ground. A parliament of magpies squabbles loudly in the nearest square.

A slight chill permeates the air. Autumn has crept up on the world as stealthily as ever; one only quite realizes the loss of summer when the leaves are already wet mush underfoot and the dusty dry earth has turned to mud. Childermass looks up, noting steel-grey sky and darkening clouds.

Then, letting out a small cry, Segundus claps his hands together. "The book!" he exclaims. "The one with the spell he used to resurrect her - it will be in the library, yes? If we could only find it then perhaps a counter-spell might be worked out from there."

Childermass shakes his head.
"Doubt it. Seems more likely to me that it's sequestered in Hurtfew where it can be forgot. But I am not opposed to trying if it is what you wish to do."

(It does not, in actuality, suit him to have Lady Pole disenchanted. If she lets slip that Norrell is responsible (which she will) then it will drive the master's reputation into the ground. There will be one less magician in England - and who is Childermass to attach himself to then?
It is of course entirely possible that they will find Lady Pole silenced by her husband, but then again Childermass is disinclined to gamble.
In any case, he had best not get ahead of himself. Norrell has no doubt buried his means of resurrection so deeply as to be impossible to ascertain - it is unlikely enough that they will discover a method of helping her as it is.
And yet a search cannot be entirely futile, can it? If, someday, her disenchantment becomes a necessity, Childermass will be glad to know how it is done.)

Mr Segundus nods, but his attention seems diverted. "Mr Strange took forty books to the Peninsula. What if the spell should be contained within one of those?"

Childermass shrugs. "You think Norrell would have allowed him to take, let alone read, anything of the sort?"

Mr Segundus opens his mouth to make reply, but at this moment a gig drives past them. Mr Segundus ducks out of the way at the last second. He calls out an unheard apology to the driver; the magpies continue to chatter loudly in the distance.

"Perhaps I could watch her again," offers Mr Segundus. "The Lady Pole. If I can talk to her during the dream, she may be able to supply us with one or two clues."

"I wouldn't if I were you."

"Whyever not?" There is no trace of guile in his face.

Childermass wonders at this insanity. "Because the place is full of fairies."

"Well, yes, that does pose something of an obstacle."

"Which, I am sure, can be easily overcome, being as you are quite immune to magics and enchantments of all kinds."

"Quite so," Mr Segundus cheerily continues, either missing Childermass' sarcasm or deliberately ignoring it for the sake of intransigence (Childermass leans toward the latter). "But I will not have you worry, sir. I went largely unnoticed the last time."

"And if you should be noticed by more this time? What then? You need not be reckless."
Especially not for the sake of a woman whom one has never met. Mr Segundus walks the line between goodwill and foolishness like a tightrope walker on his fourth ale of the day.

"I am not being reckless," Mr Segundus says peevishly.
Fifth ale.

"I am sure." Sceptical, Childermass folds his arms. "This is idiocy," he points out. "And you've no protection."

Mr Segundus' eyes light up. "Oh, but I do!" He dips into his breast pocket and takes out a cross of dull, grey metal (the approximate length of his little finger). "Iron, I believe."

A pause.
"Cold iron?" asks Childermass, holding out his hand so that he might inspect it more closely.

"No... Yes," hedges Mr Segundus, indecisive. Then; "Yes," he hazards again, frowning and screwing his eyes shut a moment as he attempts to remember. "I think so. I hope so. I can see no other use for such an object than as a ward; I suppose it follows that I would have used it as such."

"You cannot recall its purpose?"

"I- No, but I feel I shall recall it in a minute. Do bear with me, sir."
With his free hand Mr Segundus reaches into his neckline and draws out a chain. Affixed to it is a smaller cross, this one of silver, which he shews briefly to Childermass before tucking it beneath his shirt again. "You see, I do doubt that I was in need of another, and certainly not one of iron."

Then, he places the iron cross in Childermass hand. It falls. Mr Segundus apologizes, ducking his head as he picks it up again and replacing it in his pocket. He coughs a little awkwardly, perhaps to mask how his ears have turned bright pink with the embarrassment of having forgot his mortality (for such is the sorry state of modern manners).

Childermass wonders if the ward still retains any effectiveness, being insubstantial as it is. Is it not meaningless in Faerie? After all, is walking into Faerie with an iron cross not the magical equivalent of wading into the ocean with an umbrella and expecting to remain dry?
"You'd do well to keep it safe," he remarks. "Have you remembered why you have it, yet?"

Mr Segundus is silent for a little while. "I have not. I shall recall it in a minute," he repeats obstinately, "just allow me a moment to think."

Well - and I am sorry to say it - although several moments come to pass, the particular moment that Mr Segundus is seeking does not. He remains none the wiser.
"No," he says, shaking his head, "I really cannot bring it to mind."

Childermass has an inkling as to why.

Does the nature of one's death matter less when one is already late? Well, Childermass wouldn't know. But he does know that it is very rarely favourable for fairies to be involved in anything much.

And this - the interference of fairies, that is - he has become certain of. No matter how often he dismisses it as nonsense, the suspicion that a fairy might be tangled up in this is one which has persisted ever since his questioning of Mrs Pleasance.
Stranger things have come to pass than the collective amnesia which surrounds the John Segundus of 1806. The action of procuring a ward, however, is not such a thing as one does without reason. To acquire protection from the fae is not the product of a mere whim.

A chill wind whips through the sky. It plays havoc with Childermass' hair until he puts it up in a queue - and even then keeps up its mischief with the neglected stray hairs, and the shorter lock at the front which had last month acquired a tangle so fierce as to need cutting out.
From the corner of his eye Childermass catches a shiver from Mr Segundus, the subtle drawing of his jacket further about himself. He wishes suddenly and irrationally that he could give the man his own. He'd wager it's warmer by far than Mr Segundus' threadbare garments.

"We're going back," he decides, startling Mr Segundus in the process.

Upon recovering; "Why so?" he asks, looking curiously at Childermass. "We cannot talk properly there. About Lady Pole, I mean," he appends.

"We might write up your experience yet. You were complaining about it not five minutes ago, weren't you?"

"I was not complaining!" he complains. Childermass smiles a slow, incredulous smile.
"Well, all right," the ghost admits. "Perhaps a little."

"Anyway"- Childermass cast his eyes heavenward -"it looks like rain. We'll be caught in it if we don't get on."

Mr Segundus gives him a sideways glance as if to say and when have you ever cared about the weather?

And Childermass shoots him a look of his own: and when have you not?

-

-J.S-

-

So this is how John Segundus comes to find himself in a tunnel. He wanders - slow, aimless, meandering, at first, then speeds his pace and walks with more purpose as he remembers what he is about. And more urgently still when he realizes that the light at the end of it has gone.

"Hullo?" he calls, timid and agitated, into the darkness. It is much too loud for this silence. "Is anybody there?" His voice - high-pitched, strung up and cracking with anxiety - rings out foreign to him. The sound of his words seems stolen, snatched away from within his throat. He'd swear that these starving walls greedily drink up the question no sooner than it has left his mouth. The silence is only broken when something - a many-legged something - scuttles rapidly away from him.

"I know that you can hear me," he murmurs, the uncertainty of his voice running contrary to his words. "Please, sir or madam, I would much rather the seeing went both ways. I do not much enjoy being... watched."

Silence.
When Mr Segundus attempts to address the presence again, he finds that a fanciful tale pours forth from his mouth instead. He bites his tongue and swallows it down as panic rises within him.

But he does not give up. That is his rule. It is a good rule; such determined persistence is what has kept him going all his life (and his death besides). And it is one which he repeats to himself, over and over, as he goes further in.

He walks on. Sometimes the tunnel is hot and damp and humid - sometimes frost-ridden, bitter cold. And sometimes, making for an exceedingly unpleasant experience, it is all of these at once. All the while, he feels the prickly sensation of eyes on his back. His heart races.

After some time his hands find a smooth wooden surface - the way through? Feeling along and fumbling blindly in the dark, Mr Segundus manages to locate the doorjamb and attempts to discover a handle or doorknob or something from here. But it is in vain. The door is entirely flat, possessing nothing with which it may be opened, and even as Mr Segundus digs fingers into the crack between door and frame, trying to coax it open, it holds fast.
Perhaps it cannot be pulled. So he pushes it. Nothing.
He knocks. Nothing.

Insects (or the like) buzz and slither and scitter in the walls.
Mr Segundus swallows hard and backs away, hands held aloft. If he didn't know better, he'd think them angry.

He feels unwelcome.
But that dilutes the severity of it, crams it into three short syllables, fails to capture the enormity of the anxiety rising within him. And yet there is no other word which quite encapsulates the feeling.
He cannot bear it any longer; he turns on his heel and runs.

When Mr Segundus cannot run any more, he walks. When he cannot walk any more, he reluctantly comes to a halt. Knees buckling, he leans back against the earthen wall. Recovering, breath less inclined to gasp for air but never quite steadying - shallow and panicked and affrighted like a hare caught in a trap - Mr Segundus sinks to the ground, sliding down the wall to sit.
He draws his knees towards himself, tightly wrapping arms about them and burying his head in the hollow of his lap, chin pressed into his chest. It occurs to him that he is shielding his person. (But from what? He has not had a single definite encounter with this watcher. Do they even exist? A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat; he muffles it in his jacket sleeve.)

He wants to tear his very skin away. It feels like it has been replaced with rubber and stretched to its very limit. It is tight and constrictive. It doesn't fit the way it should. Mr Segundus lets out a small noise of frustration.
He hugs his limbs closer, making himself as small as he feasibly can. The blood rushes in his ears. He reminds himself to breathe.

But the darkness which Mr Segundus' position creates is soothing. It is, of course, no lighter or darker than that which surrounds him, but this has a different quality, a softer texture. It is not exposed. It does not watch him; it does not contain that which it should not; it does not whisper barbs against his skin. In short, it is his own.
Mr Segundus removes his jacket and drapes it over his head - conscious that he must look ridiculous but too exhausted to care - creating a barrier between him and the outside. It cannot be denied that it helps. Hiding him from unwelcome eyes, it reinforces further his small pocket of darkness and safety.

He can hear nothing now but his breathing. The rhythm calms him. The sense of constriction gradually lessens, trickling away as he grows more easy in his own body.
And slowly, steadily, inchmeal, he slips by small increments into sleep.

-

Childermass wakes in the dead of night. This in itself is not so unusual; he is not given to restfulness, to the unbroken repose which comes so easily to others. He has lived too disturbed a life to allow for that kind of peace. But the circumstances of his waking are rather more unusual - that is, the aborted whisper of his name, the quick, shallow breathing of someone taken by panic.

Never a deep sleeper, Childermass is fully awake in moments, but does not stir so as to maintain the image of unconsciousness. He searches in the darkness for his nocturnal intruder - not that he can see much at all. It is too dark by far.
On reflex his eye flicks to the door, assessing his exit, but no, this'll not be necessary. He knows who this is.
"Mr Segundus," he whispers sharply. "What's wrong?"

A harsh intake of breath. "Oh!" Mr Segundus cries, far too loud in his surprize. Then he lowers his voice to a whisper and breathes; "Oh!" again. "Forgive me, sir! I did not mean to wake... Well," he amends, half to himself, "I suppose I did, but-"

"-Calm down," interrupts Childermass. "I don't mind it." Mr Segundus is acting queer. He is never without some undercurrent of anxiety, aye, but it is rare indeed that he becomes incomprehensible because of it. "Sit. I will be with you in a moment."

Childermass rises and goes to the window. He twitches the curtains open. It is still dark out, but the moon is full and bright. He draws the curtain farther aside until its light can pour into the room and render the outline of his friend more clearly visible.
Childermass comes back. He sits next to Segundus, who has perched himself upon the very edge of the bed as if he fears the middle will swallow him up. "Now," he says lowly, "tell me what the matter is."

Segundus will not look at him. "What if I cannot?" he whispers.

"Then you must try."

Segundus gives a jerky nod of assent. "I must, mustn't I? It... It is not easy to explain, not by any means." He forces laughter. "You will think me very silly, I am sure."

"That depends entirely upon what you are about to tell me," says Childermass, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Segundus turns toward him and sighs in such a pointed manner as to ask 'why must you be so oblique,' to which Childermass merely grants a slant smile.

At first, Segundus only manages to choke out a few words at a time, producing a slow, unsteadied trickle of vowels and consonants, but Childermass awaits the opening of the floodgates. And when they do - and oh, but they do - it all comes out in a rushing deluge. Segundus' words tangle together and blur at the edges; his speech is full of exclamations bitten off and statements hastily retracted, struggling visibly to verbalize the enormity of his distress.

Childermass cannot make head of tail of it (which is saying something when one has served Norrell for five-and-twenty years). He shakes his head. "I cannot well understand you, John. Speak plainly."

Segundus' voice is small. "I do not know if I can," he says, ducking his head.

"You may not, but I do, and I say that you can. Tell me again - slowly, now."

Halting, stilted, full of peculiar silences, Segundus tells him of his dream - of feeling one's way through utter darkness, feeling so intensely unwanted that it paralyses one, of silence punctuated by one's own ragged breathing and the scuttling about of unfamiliar creatures. He talks of being watched - so fiercely it makes the skin crawl - and fairy tales twisting one's words, flooding lungs and throat and spilling out from unwilling lips. Segundus is gripping the sides of his arms and the thought occurs to Childermass - not for the first time - that the man is folding himself up, filling the smallest space he physically can.

Childermass is well aware that whichever words he can muster now will be useless at best. Deception and advice is his domain - not this, never this. Neither his sympathy nor his kindness were ever much in excess; he is more inclined to indifference than to offer either aid or congratulations - he is, in short, not a man built for comfort.

He is the wrong sort of person, he knows, to befriend the newly dead. And yet here Childermass is, a half-decade on, consoling a man who only breathes when he remembers to - whose heart nevertheless beats, struggling on for reasons neither of them have ever quite determined. John Segundus is remarkable in that he is persistent, in that he carries on, in that (despite his claims otherwise) he refuses to let death determine the role that he plays in life.

Childermass does away with his reservations (what use is withholding something like this?) and places a hand upon Segundus' shoulder. He is developing a knack for predicting when they might touch - not always correct, but correct often enough. Segundus starts, not having expected the contact and being all over tension as he is, but when Childermass makes to withdraw the former makes a wordless little noise of protest.

A pause. Childermass studies the shadowed, restless silhouette beside him, attempting to make out his features in the night. Darkness robs them of specificity and definition. Yet - even in darkness, are there any others he would rather see? Childermass wishes to ascertain for himself that Faerie has not left its mark on him - that John Segundus is still entirely himself, that this distress is purely mental upset and not magical.
Reason dictates that he cast a spell for brightness. Norrell will not feel the magic. A light sleeper he may be, but this magic is lighter. Only (and he curses himself for a sentimental fool) it does not seem right to introduce magic to this fragile atmosphere, not when it has moved Segundus to such anxieties.

"Nothing's wrong with you, aye?" Childermass enquires, shaking his head to punctuate the point. "No enchantments, no curses? You are well?"

Segundus confirms that he is quite well, thank you, and expresses that he is sorry again to have put Childermass to trouble. "Only I did not know what to do,” he admits. “I didn’t know where to go. So I did the first thing that I could think of and came to you. I hope… Oh, I do hope you don’t mind,” he says desperately.

Shaken, then, but not hurt. Segundus had better be correct; fairy magic is a tricksy thing.

"And I shall tell you again that I do not mind it. Dispense with the apologies, would you?"

Segundus says mildly that he is wary of making promises he cannot keep.
There is a slight rustling as he shifts and takes Childermass' hand from his shoulder, gently enfolding it in his own smaller, cooler one. When it rests upon the mattress between them, Segundus does not release his hand but simply continues to hold it, running his thumb over Childermass' knuckles in an absent-minded sort of way.

A brief silence settles. Then there is an intake of breath. "I did not think-" Segundus begins, but cuts himself off.

Childermass shoots him a inquisitive look. "Go on."

"I did not think, somehow," he reflects, a self-deprecating flair to his words, "that it could go so wrong. I did not think - I should have, I know - of the risk to myself. Quite frankly, I did not quite believe there was one."
(It must be difficult to see the hazards one is facing when he has grown used to them not applying. After all, how does one harm the already dead?)

"You are no prophet. I do not see how you expect to have foreseen this." Childermass pauses as a question occurs to him and tilts his head to one side. "Do you wish to cease looking into it?"

Segundus sounds affronted. "No! No, most certainly not! It is not my place to- to simply drop her when it does not suit me!"

"I do not mean offence, sir. In truth, I had rather suspected you might say that."

"Then why ask?"

A brief silence. Childermass had thought it was obvious. "It is what you would have done. Do not deny it," he says when Segundus grows restless again, "you would have given me an out at the mere mention of trouble."

Segundus does not say anything, but Childermass sees him give the barest of nods. A moment later, he abruptly blurts out, "Childermass? Might we talk of something else?"

"You wish me to distract you?"

"Yes," Segundus says gratefully, "yes, that is precisely it. I... cannot say I care to discuss this much further."

Childermass nods. In addition to comfort, he is not one built for excessive talk, but this he can put aside for Segundus' sake. He talks of what went on in Segundus' brief absence (he attempts not to take on the tone of his reports to Norrell, but falls back upon the same patterns of recounting all the same) - more commissions from the Ministers (Norrell too vexed by the lack of his forty books to answer them), Drawlight and Lascelles growing too comfortable in the second magician's absence, another letter of Strange's diverted from his wife (here Segundus interjects to ask after Mr Strange's health), etcetera - but when the topic drifts towards rumours of the magic worked in the peninsula, as it has been wont to do for the past few months, Segundus - in contrast to the bright-eyed enthusiasm he so often displays when conversation turns to the subject - shakes his head with insistence.

"No," he murmurs, "something other than magic, if you please. I cannot stomach it to-night."

Childermass switches topic without a word. A little later, when Segundus seems calmer, Childermass comes to a stop and enquires as to whether the former intends to stay up all night.

Segundus thinks on this a moment. "I certainly do," he says. "I do not think I can sleep again this night, but I will leave you if you wish it."

By Bird and Book, does this man never put himself first? "But you'd rather not?" he prompts.

"No," Segundus admits, sounding relieved. "I would rather not be alone."

"Then I won't begrudge you that."

In a motion which was, perhaps, only to be expected given how weary he has sounded tonight, Segundus rests his head on Childermass' shoulder. Though he does not object, Childermass is much taken by surprize - he is not accustomed to touch. Never has been. Regardless of this, he disentangles their hands after a pause and puts an arm round Segundus.

They keep vigil until the dawn chases away the darkness and the birds of the square burst into chorus, filling the damp autumn air with song.
Segundus closes his eyes to better listen to their chattering and Childermass notes the dark, exhausted circles around them with a frown.
"You should rest. You look dead on your feet."

Segundus huffs a laugh. "No different to usual," he murmurs, opening one eye to peep at Childermass with a tired grin.

Childermass rolls his eyes. "Comedian." He regards Segundus for a moment, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I shall not be far. Find me when you wake."

The man is practically asleep already. It does not take much more urging to persuade him - he is out like a light within minutes.
With a wry smile, Childermass rises and goes about dressing. Unlike some people, he has work to do.

Before he leaves the room, Childermass pauses.
He is prepared to swear that the mattress is dipping ever so slightly beneath Segundus' weight, that the pillowcase wrinkles where his head rests against it.

-

OCTOBER, 1811.

-J.C-

-

"--one?"

Childermass looks up. "Come again?"

Segundus indicates a slim volume on the highest shelf, rocking up onto his toes to point at it. "How about this one?" he repeats.

Childermass uses a spare leaf of paper to mark his place in the tome he has been flicking through. He goes over to find Segundus' book - Ashford, 'a Treatyse on the Nayture of Dreammes,'¹ - and takes it back to the desk with him.

"I do not know; would you consider them dreams? In any case, I thought it might have something useful in it. You'll tell me if it does?"

"That I will."

They are in the slow process of looking into Lady Pole's condition.
Segundus is browsing the bookshelves, searching for anything that strikes him as relevant. Childermass then takes the volume down, flicks through and makes notes of relevant chapters and details which strike him as relevant.

So far, the focus has been on healing spells, disenchantment and anything pertaining to sleep and its subsequent dreams. Sutton Grove's catalogues have yet to be looked through; neither of them can quite stomach the prospect of the hours poring over those dusty tomes.

Childermass suspects that they have only a slim chance of discovering anything of import, but they keep on nonetheless.

Just then, carrying a fat, teetering stack of books and papers high enough to obscure half her face, Dido walks by. She knocks on the half-open library door. As she does so, the topmost book begins to slip and she scrambles to catch it.

"Come in," calls Childermass, hiding his sheet of notes. "Only me."

"Good, saves me the trouble of finding you." Dido comes over and drops the heavy pile upon the desk with no small amount of relief. She straightens up and stretches her back with a sigh.
"These're for you, Mr Childermass. He wants this lot filed away and shelved."

She gazes upon the other books on magic which Childermass and Segundus have left scattered upon the desk. "Scheming, are we?" asks Dido. "What's the to"- she yawns, hiding her mouth with her sleeve -"What's the to-do about this time?"

Childermass gives her a crooked smile and informs her that he is inventing a spell to make it rain cats and dogs through modification of another enchantment, which has the effect of causing pigs to sprout wings.

"I am sure." The maid narrows her eyes. "You're clearing this away, mind."

"Does the enchantment exist, I wonder?" muses Segundus. "Coote, perhaps...?"

"Greene," answers Childermass. "Volucrum." Segundus smiles.

"What was that?" asks Dido.

To his left, Segundus freezes. "Sorry," he whispers.

"Talking to myself, Dido. Don't mind it."

"If you say so."

A knock at the door.
"Come in!" they call in unison.

It's Lucas. "The master wants you, sir," he says, "in his study."

Childermass begins to tidy the mess which he and Segundus have made of the desk. "Tell him I shall be up presently." He'd better go and see what Norrell wants. Does no good to keep him waiting.

Lucas nods distractedly but lingers yet. He glances between them and the various piles of books upon the desk. "What's all this?"

"He's inventing a spell to make it rain cats and dogs."

Lucas snorts. "In England?" he asks, pausing as he turns to leave. "I dare say nobody would notice the difference."

"I do not know about that," Childermass mutters under his breath. "T'would make a fine mess of the roads, for one thing."

"Goodness!" scolds his ghost, much scandalized.

-

"Sir?"

Norrell sniffs. He is pointedly not looking up at Childermass. "I asked for you twenty minutes ago. Where have you been?"

"Lucas only informed me now. What time was it when you asked for me?"

"Three!"

"It is barely gone three!" Segundus whispers, outraged, in his ear.

Childermass takes out his pocket watch. (A parting gift from his mother, pressed into his hands through the bars of a gaol cell and named as his father's. It is old, well-battered, the glass disrupted by a hairline crack, but nevertheless bright and well-polished.)

Segundus is correct, of course; the time is four minutes past three. He breaks this news to Norrell, who complains stubbornly that his own watch must not have been wound correctly. Childermass enquires as to whether he may check it, to which Norrell shows him the watch, and Childermass confirms that the time upon it corresponds with his own (albeit several seconds faster).

"Perhaps you have lost track of the time," Childermass suggests.

"Yes, yes," says Norrell, blinking his beady eyes. "Perhaps you are correct." He goes back to reading.

Childermass waits. Shifts his weight onto one leg. Raises his eyes heavenward.
Norrell coughs dryly. He turns the page. Childermass and Segundus exchange looks.

After a moment more has passed, Childermass clears his throat. "Mr Norrell. What did you call me here for?"

Norrell has worked himself up, again. On this occasion he has convinced himself that there is a mouse in the study.
"I can hear it, Childermass," he insists. "Listen - there it is now!"

Listening to the sound of nothing, Childermass raises a dubious eyebrow. "I do not hear anything."

"Then you are not listening!"

Perhaps, suggests Childermass, Mr Norrell should consider finding himself a mouser.

"No, no! A cat? I cannot be in the presence of cats, Childermass! You know very well that I cannot."

Segundus turns his face away and laughs. At least someone finds this amusing.
Childermass sighs inwardly and prepares to inspect the skirting for Norrell's imaginary mouse-holes. Again. His amusement done with, Segundus takes pity on him and joins the search.

Perhaps this mouse is a mere stratagem employed to manoeuvre Childermass into Norrell's study. His master certainly seems much more vocally concerned about the matter of Drawlight's choices of company this past week than the issue of the mouse.

"They asked me to perform tricks, Childermass"- (this said with utter disdain) -"as if I were a common threepenny sorcerer! There is a reason those charlatans were ousted - the damage they have done to my cause is near irreparable. To restore the practice to its former esteem, it is essential that we have true magicians, not liars and equivocators. And yet there is such a lack of respectable folk to fill that role, is there not?" He trails off in a resoundingly unimpressive manner.

Childermass agrees.

"Yes, on the matter, you are to pass on my suggestions to Lord Portishead for this month's edition of The Friends. I expect a piece on the wickedness of street-magicians and the many misconceptions they encourage would not go amiss. Such unmodern ideas, I tell you..."

Childermass nods assent. "Very good, Mr Norrell. I will make sure of it."

Norrell goes back to his reading. Then several minutes later, having thought of something else to say, he bursts out (although, as always, still manages to make all his outbursts into dry, droning things), "They are not proper in the least, Childermass - not in the least! If they are not left in the past as is proper, we will soon see endorsement of prophecies and thievery and- and- his books, and all sorts of wrong ideas. We must correct their perceptions," he finishes decisively.

"Yes, sir. Quite right."

Norrell tenses suddenly. “I hear it!"

"The mouse?"

”What else, Childermass? Quick, look over there!”²

Chapter Text

EARLY JANUARY, 1812.

-J.S-

-

Hyde Park is cloaked by a thick, sleepy veil of mist and a glittering sheen of frost, making the world seem nothing but a vast, bright expanse of white interspersed by flecks of green - pine-needles, holly, spruce - and the cyclamen and pansies peeping timorously out of silvered grass, and the ladies who pass by in their mufflers and furs, their gentlemen alongside, and the trees, reaching out barren branches to the sky, and, amidst it all, the small, dark ghost of John Segundus, who sits wishing that the day did not have to be so very still.

Mr Segundus is an expert in silence. He will be the first to tell anyone that the winter months are undoubtedly quieter, much as if the world is holding its breath. For noises, dear reader, are as eager to escape the cold, return home and warm themselves by the hearth as the rest of us. They are so bundled up in coats and scarves and collars turned up against the wind that I dare say it is no wonder if we find them a little muffled. This is the sort of silence which has descended here - bit-by-bit, little-by-little, like a flock of birds collecting on the green, and which Mr Segundus listens to, intent, as if he might just catch the faint susurrus of news upon its wings.

One week ago, Childermass had sat him down on this very bench, a lichen-spotted thing tucked away in the midst of several bare-armed silver-birches, leaf-skeletons scattered over its seat, and explained that he was going away in search of the King's Book and did not know when he would return. Mr Segundus had swallowed down his disappointment and allowed interest to take precedence - where would Childermass go to make his enquires? Who would he meet? Would he seek out Vinculus? Or his wives? What had put him onto this? Did he suppose he would find it?

Childermass had humoured him and his questions. He answered that he did not know whether or not he would find the King's Book. He had been put onto this by a story from Nan Purvis, the first wife, who had mentioned to him the hanging of Vinculus' father Clegg. Since Vinculus had been evading him (with skill that spoke loudly of extensive experience), he would not be aiming to question the street-magician himself. As to where Childermass would conduct this questioning - well, Yorkshire, he imagined. It was the logical place to start.

Childermass had warned him again that he might be away for some time. Mr Segundus nodded, disappointed but by no means surprized. The trips which Childermass undertakes on his business for Norrell are not always brief. It is not uncommon for him to be absent for stretches of a fortnight or longer. So, as little as he likes them, Mr Segundus is well used to these periods of no company.
He manages, as ever.

And so Childermass had departed, sending Norrell into a nervous fit and Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight into ecstatics, leaving the servants rather busier than the norm and Mr Segundus facing the need to occupy himself again in his friend's absence.
Which is not to say that he begrudges him this - God forbid! He would not dream of obstructing Childermass for his own selfish reasons. It is only that Mr Segundus rather misses him.
(Well, he tells himself, there is nothing to be done for it. There is no point to his being miserable.)

It is a source of frequent amazement and exasperation to Mr Segundus that, after all this time, after all this, no matter how much he changes, he is still quite as prone to being maudlin as he ever was. But this time, at least, he refuses to let it be so. There must be something with which he can occupy himself.

One thing does come to mind - that he should make an effort to have less reliance on Childermass, if he can manage it. This dependence is not fair on either of them. Well, it is doubtful that Childermass thinks very much of helping him with the little things that he cannot do. However, Mr Segundus does think of these small favours, and it does not feel fair in the least that so much trouble should be gone to for his sake. It is, it must be said, rather uncomfortable to be in the position which Mr Segundus is in. One cannot help but feel that he owes something or other to his benefactor, and it is a source of persistent guilt that he cannot give anything back.

And so, to put the crux of this distress into simpler terms for those lucky few of us who do not inhabit the thorny tangle of anxieties otherwise known as John Segundus' mind, his issue is not the fact that Childermass helps, but that he should have to.

And he can find this autonomy, can he not? For Mr Segundus has been trying all this time to discover some sense of solidity, and particularly so since the summer of last year. It may be true that he can count on two hands the times he has managed to touch anything of his own accord. But the point is that if he has done something once then he can do so again.
It will take some time. But what is the point of this ghostly state if not to grant him more of just that? Yes, he has all the time in the world.

Mr Segundus does not decide this for the sole purpose of lightening Childermass' burden, of course. For it is much to his own benefit that he might achieve some independence of his own - he has freedom, yes, and yet his happiness seems tied to another. This other may be exceedingly dear to him, but is such bondage truly what Mr Segundus wants? He is inclined to think not. It would be much more agreeable, he thinks, not to need Childermass.
For Mr Segundus has never known a better friend in the world. He has no wish to tie them together by necessity, only natural liking. He fancies they have more than enough of the latter between them.

And, moreover, Mr Segundus finds a source of great gladness in those sparing moments that he manages to touch someone or something. Perhaps it is the joy of knowing that he has his independence yet, that as feeble as it may be there is still control held within his hands. Perhaps he is fanciful, but oftentimes it feels as if there is a membrane of sorts between him and the world. To break this is a rare thing, and it has only ever stirred hope in him, for what is progress but an indicator of change?

Hope is a funny thing. Mr Segundus never ceases to hope, and even when premonition advises him otherwise he clings diligently onto that burning brightness of spirit until it has been well and truly extinguished.

But this particular brand of hope is set apart from the rest.
For it does not extinguish, per se. No - with each small victory Mr Segundus finds that it glows brighter yet, that it is not diminished for his failures. It is the sort of hope which is born when somebody has taken so many falls that they cannot fall any farther, when the only way forwards is up and yet hope persists above all things. It is a reckless hope, one which dares to dream of the impossible - purely because a man cannot lose anything by way of wanting for it.
It is this sort of hope which is most frequently realized.

In time Mr Segundus is broken from his reflection by a flurry of clean, cold white. It has begun to snow. For a long time he sits, eyes fluttering closed, letting the world wash over him like a music-hall concerto, breathing air which tastes of winter and thrusting icy-numb hands into pockets.
Mr Segundus will go soon - for as much as cool weather helps him to think, he feels this is crossing the line into freezing and to remain here risks not only him catching a chill (to which he is, unfortunately, most prone), but also his eyelashes turning to icicles.
But not yet - he has time.

At some point Mr Segundus realises that he is smiling and smiles the wider for it.

-

LATE JANUARY, 1812.

-

"I'm telling you, Dido - something shifted it! It wasn't there a moment ago."

"Aye, shifted it by two inches." Dido snorts. "Do you go 'round with a measuring tape when the rest of us aren't looking?"

"It wasn't there," Lucas insists. "Trust me, it wasn't!"

In this he is correct. The little bust of Martin Pale on Mr Childermass' writing-desk has indeed been moved by an inch or two, despite Dido mocking his vehemence upon the fact.

"Should we tell the master?" asks Lucas, still staring at it. He stands frozen like a birdwatcher whose quarry has spotted him.

"And what's he going to do about it?"

He considers this and shakes his head in agreement. "You're right. Don't think he'd believe us anyway."

Lucas strides over to the table, meaning to inspect the dust-patterns as proof (tho' since Dido had only dusted it twenty minutes ago, I do not know what he expects to find). For a split-second he is touched by a bone-deep sense of cold and a slight buzzing sensation like pins-and-needles. Then, come the very next moment, the sensation has hastily withdrawn from the spot. He shivers with a thrill of excitement.

Bemused and rather distinctly unimpressed, Dido asks what Lucas is doing. He is not a madman and nor is he a blind one, so why does he feel about in the empty air like so? Tho' she is beginning to revise her assessment of the former quality.
Lucas tells her in no uncertain terms to hush, for the ghost may be in the room with them yet. So, playing along for the sake of entertainment if nothing else, Dido obliges.

Lucas begins by greeting the ghost. He introduces himself as Lucas White and the quarrelsome lady beside him as Dido Finch, and informs the ghost that he would be very pleased indeed to meet it.
Could it possibly be persuaded to give them a sign of some sort? It need not be so very large - anything noticeable enough would do.

Dido idly remarks that she will eat her cap if there is truly a ghost in the house. Lucas sharply hushes her to listen.
Little does he know that the ghost, having removed himself very soon after the unpleasant experience of Lucas walking into him, has borne witness to absolutely none of this.

Had Mr Segundus known what was occurring in his absence, I dare say it would have afforded him some amusement, but the end result - Lucas' disappointment, that is - would have remained the same.

Mr Segundus is none too eager for rumours to spread of a ghost in Hanover-Square, for he possesses no wish to dodge the subsequent and inevitable attempts on Mr Norrell's behalf to be rid of him (especially since he cannot be certain of their failure). Perhaps in earlier days he would have jumped at the chance to reveal himself despite this, but these days he feels the need for others' company less severely. He is very much accustomed to his own, lonely as it may be.

Furthermore, he does not wish to encourage the rumours. There is something horribly disheartening about the thought of his very existence being used to frighten the servants.

So Lucas and Dido wait for some time, but the venture proves to no avail. Dido teazes him steadily for a week; Lucas turns red each time and makes her swear to keep it from the rest of Mr Norrell's staff; and so the whole affair is gradually forgot.

-

EARLY FEBRUARY, 1812.

-J.C-

-

Halting the scratch of pen across paper, Childermass takes a short draught of ale. At present he is in the tap-room of an inn in Richmond, composing a third letter to Norrell. It is dry stuff, business and nothing else, but he has written so many missives of the sort that the process is a swift one now. Aware that, as ever, multiple pairs of eyes will inspect this letter, he takes a certain perverse pleasure in frustrating them all with the omission of any return date nor a substantial explanation for his absence (though he will doubtless be made to pay for this neglect upon his return).

In truth, he thinks, signing off the letter with a flourish, he does not yet know when he will be done with this particular trail. For the records of the Quarter sessions in York have directed him to Richmond, and the tale of Clegg's theft points to Sheffield, and what is to say that he will not find another lead upon investigating there? This is proving more complicated than he had anticipated.

At first glance the matter seems cut-and-dry enough. It is clear that Clegg stole the King’s Book and passed it on to Vinculus - 'It is my inheritance,' he had said.

But then again, when Clegg was hanged for the theft of it, Vinculus had shewn nothing but glee. This same man describes the Book as 'the greatest glory and the greatest burden,' which causes Childermass to wonder two things in particular.

Firstly, why does Vinculus resent his father to this extent? Other things may serve to eat at a relationship (or in this case the lack thereof), but from Nan Purvis' testimony Childermass is of the opinion that this hatred revolves around the theft of the Book - which is odd, for Vinculus benefits entirely from this crime. Childermass has seen nothing thus far to suggest that Vinculus has qualms about stealing (or that he is even aware of what a qualm is, for that matter).

Secondly, what makes it such a burden? Surely not fear of having it confiscated - he brags openly and brazenly about his possession of the thing. And surely not the contents, for if Findhelm never read it then it is unlikely he could. And if Findhelm could not, then Vinculus - whom Childermass doubts is at all literate - certainly cannot know what it contains.

Which begs the question: how can Vinculus recite its prophecy?

But with a curse, Childermass realizes now that several drops of ink have fallen from the tip of his pen and onto his letter.

For the present he sits waiting for the ink to dry and finishing his spiced ale. His silence is punctuated by the tapping of an impatient finger upon the surface of the table. It is slightly sticky, peppered all over with dents and divots. There are thin, ragged lines scored along the edges by penknives in idle hands. He sits back.

It is raining outside - lashing against the window in waves, leaving wet and muddied footprints across the floors. People are coming in, hair plastered to their foreheads, hats soaked with moisture, and asking a little sheepishly to hire the umbrella. The girl at the bar only shakes her head; it is long gone. The air is perpetuated by a cold, damp fog which clings like a ghost. Not a ghost; that is a wrong comparison. Like- Well. Perhaps ghost is the best word for it, if not the most accurate.

To his frustration, it does not take a great deal of prompting for Childermass to fall to thinking of large, bright eyes and quick energetic hands, of fussing tinged with fondness, of a certain birdlike excitement that is uniquely his.
There are times, that is to say, when he walks Segundus to his room at night. And it is then, just before Childermass closes the door, that he doesn't know quite what to do.

There are times when he finds his gaze lingering just a little too long, his thoughts rather too involved. It is hardly his fault - it was not Childermass’ idea that Segundus’ mouth should curve just so into small, delighted smiles, concealed beneath white hand and fraying jacket sleeve - smiles which can (with the right persuasion) be broken into laughing grins. But (these being the herald of naught but bad news) Childermass banishes the recollection of such moments as one does a particularly irritating fly.

As is his misfortune, it is in the very nature of flies to return incessantly until one either gives up or squashes them. It cannot be helped that he is missing Segundus; it is as indisputable a fact as the turning of the Earth on its axis. Whether it is the fault of his friend or a natural change in himself, Childermass finds that he now notices the hundreds of curious, little, unimportant things which he has previously never paid the slightest mind.

Yesterday he had stopt, eye catching on the striped, blue-black feather of a jay, and half-expected Segundus to point it out - only to become chagrined by the silence.

Childermass had shaken his head to no-one in particular and pocketed the feather. Hands shoved back in his pockets, cursing himself, he’d continued walking.

He knows he cannot allow this to develop any further. It is not his wont to grow dependent on other people, for it is inevitable that they leave or disappoint at some point or another. This is proven. Childermass knows this. And yet he evidently does not know it not well enough, for some thing in his heart is voicing the protestation that John Segundus is somehow different.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Childermass groans. Perhaps it is a good thing that he governs himself by head rather than heart.

-

LATE FEBRUARY, 1812.

-J.C.-

-

Childermass comes directly from the stables. He cares not one whit for the disapproval this move will garner. Norrell has put up with worse than the sight of his cold, damp coat and muddied stockings.
But what of Lascelles and Drawlight, you ask? Why, I think their delicate sensibilities (though they will no doubt affect great distaste) can surely stomach a little muck. It would be hypocrisy to shew unfeigned disgust, for do they not deal in ruination, scandal and poorer men's blood? But then again, they are exceedingly well-practiced in the art of hypocrisy. I assure you, my dear readers, that an art it is - they make it so! If you were to witness them for but a week (or even an hour) then I have the utmost faith that you would conclude the same.

But it is hardly as if Childermass seeks their approval or even their disinterest. They have made it blindingly clear by now that Childermass is unwelcome to intrude upon their company, that the influence he exerts over Norrell is very much unwanted. And, as there is very little he can do to raise or lower their opinion of him (it being as low as can be), he sees no benefit in ingratiating himself to them.

He does not make this move out of impatience to return to Norrell. Childermass has been gone three weeks; an hour will make no difference one way or another to his master. No, Childermass has motivations of his own - entirely selfish, naturally - and reporting to Norrell as soon as possible grants him the freedom to pursue them.

Upon Hannah's advice, he finds them in the drawing-room five minutes later. His welcome is warm.
"Well?" demands Norrell. "Where in the world have you been?"
Childermass' mouth twitches into a wry, slant smile as he takes a seat upon the sopha. He should not do so, not really, but this ranks relatively low on the list of his recent offences.

Childermass relates to him the tale of Clegg's theft, unravelling the phases of his investigation one at a time, teasing these fragments of knowledge in such a way as to hold Norrell rapt. He garners even Mr Lascelles' reluctant attention, though the impossible man is averse to the very idea of being agreed with and so he interrupts and criticises and makes his incessant clever comments in any case. Childermass has had such frequent experience of storytelling in this post that he wonders some at Norrell's distaste for novels, for they must take about half as long to get through as the number of explanations and reports and accounts which Childermass gives in your average fortnight.

Mr Drawlight fawns, Lascelles snipes, Norrell frets. In short, the place is precisely as Childermass left it. Though he should not rise to such bait, Childermass cannot resist casting a self-satisfied look or several at Lascelles whenever Norrell takes his side. And he should hope so; he has not faithfully advised Norrell these past twenty-two years only to have his work undone in five. Henry Lascelles, he thinks, should know his place.

As Childermass leaves, he startles at the sight of Segundus waiting just beyond the open door. He hadn't expected to be found first. Perhaps Hannah has spread the news about the servants and Segundus has discovered him through that quarter? Well, it suits him. Less time spent hunting.

With a sneer, Lascelles enquires as to what has spooked him. A ghost, perhaps?
Childermass throws him a cool look and strides away. He beckons by way of a subtle jerk of the head for Segundus to come with.

Five more minutes finds them in Childermass' room - the library being too close to the drawing-room and it being too early for them to converse privately. Childermass has a thousand and one things to do before he can retire for the evening, but he can certainly spare five-and-twenty minutes for Segundus. Closing the door behind them, Childermass turns to find Segundus fretting at the loose threads of his sleeves.
Is this guilt for having given him a start? If so, it is unnecessary.
"You can stop that," he says, before the other can start apologizing. "It's fine."

With this small mishap now smoothed over, Childermass finds that Segundus grows uncommonly optimistic, that the smile does not slip once from his friend's face. After a long trip such as this, it is not unusual for Childermass to return to a slightly downcast - albeit gladdened - welcome, but on this occasion Segundus positively glows. Childermass finds himself quite taken with the development.

"You are back!" Segundus exclaims. "I had expected you would be longer."

Childermass sketches a bow. "So I am," he says. "I trust you have been well?"

"Very well, my dear sir." Segundus' eyes twinkle. His laugh-lines are quite pronounced. "I've something to shew you."

The last time Childermass knew him this thrilled, Norrell had just taken on Mr Strange as his apprentice.
"Let's hear it, then. What have you found?"

So Segundus asks him to wait and begins to cast about. When Childermass enquires as to what he seeks, the man asks for something round, preferably light-weight if Childermass can manage it.
After a second or two of thinking, Childermass takes a rather elderly and unpleasant orange out of the bowl on his side-table. He shews it to Segundus, who huffs a quiet laugh.
"I suppose," he says, "that it will do the trick as well as anything else. Would you put it on the table for me? Or on the floor? In truth it does not particularly matter where you put it - only make it some-where flat, if you please."

Mystified, Childermass complies, setting the fruit down upon the table as requested. As much as he would like to be, he is not immune to tiredness. So, since he has ridden a fair way today in order to reach London before the morrow, he draws up a chair and sits for Segundus' demonstration.

Segundus' hand absently twists the loose button on his waistcoat (Childermass has been wondering for three years as to when the thing will snap off), but his face is alert and full of nervous excitement. "I am going to try something, Childermass. I do so hope it works, for it certainly did so yesterday."

Childermass gestures for him to try it. He now has both a fairly confident idea of what Segundus is about to attempt and a fairly confident idea of his subsequent success. Segundus has more ability than he gives himself credit for, that much is certain. It is his belief that self-doubt plays a rather large role in Segundus' difficulties, but in equal measure Childermass suspects that a Segundus who did not second-guess himself would be a different man altogether.
There is not much helping it. But what he can do is encourage Segundus to have some faith, and he does so now.

So Segundus attempts to move the clementine. It does not work at first, nor on second attempt, but on the third he sees success, pushing it off the table and sending it rolling on the floor. He turns back - glowing with triumph - to verify that Childermass has seen.

Now, it may be true that Childermass has been a trifle preoccupied with the soft wave of Segundus' greying hair, the way it curls just slightly at the nape of his neck, and the stripe of fair skin which his high collar does not quite manage to conceal. But do not for one moment imagine him so distracted as to miss Segundus' feat, nor so addled by fondness as to forget what he is about. He nods in acknowledgement, his smile infused with some warmth, and congratulates the man as his accomplishment deserves.

"Thank you, sir!" Segundus is grinning ear-to-ear, a high flush in his cheeks. "It is not much, I know, but - well!"

Not much? He ought not to be able to do this anyway.
"You undersell yourself." As ever. "How did you work it out?"

Segundus looks thoughtful. He purses his lips.
"I would not say I worked any-thing out. Not as such. It is merely," he says, taking a seat on the edge of Childermass' bed and leaning forward eagerly, "a particular few feelings which bring it on - when I feel close to another, when I forget that I am dead and, on occasion, simply trying very, very hard is enough. I find practice helps. It does with most things, I suppose, so (. . .)"

Segundus is a scholar through and through; Childermass does not have to imagine very hard to picture him happily testing these hypotheses one by one. As further theories are related, Childermass cannot help but be swept up in his friend's elation. There is a glint of pride and self-satisfaction in Segundus' smiling eyes which Childermass could grow very used indeed to seeing there.

Segundus prattles on. "It is easier now than it ever was in years past, but I am not quite sure why that is..." He trails off, contemplative. "I wonder. . . "

"You are happier, are you not? That may be what it is."

"Perhaps," murmurs Segundus, looking only partly convinced. His head is tilted to one side like a finch; his eyes are thoughtful as he regards Childermass.

"What?"

"Oh! Nothing." Bright spots of pink have settled in Segundus' cheeks. He waves a dismissive hand as he speaks.

But Childermass finds his attention drawn to this motion far more than his words. For Segundus' hand is just slightly translucent. If Childermass squints, he thinks he can see through Segundus to the far wall. It occurs to him now that Segundus is drawn and tired-looking, that his grin has taken on a wan quality since his feat with the orange. It must have taken a great deal out of him.

Childermass points out the transparency. Segundus is often exhausted by interaction with the living world and it never causes him any harm. But this - to his knowledge - has not happened before, and he feels he has a duty to point this out earlier in case it grows into a more acute issue later on.

"Oh. Yes," Segundus says distractedly, turning his hand this way and that to inspect the occurrence more closely, "that happens." He looks up at Childermass. "Do not permit it to trouble you, sir. It will only be gone in a minute or so."

Childermass still looks him steadily in the eye. "Don't push yourself too hard, Segundus."

Eyes wide, surprize writ all over the lines of his face, Segundus exclaims that there is no need to worry about him. A blatant falsity, but Segundus knows his limits and he is not by nature a reckless man. ...Not often, anyway.
"Besides," comes his next excuse, "I take less time to recover in each instance. It is only a side-effect of me putting too much energy into it."

"As I understand it, that falls under the definition of pushing oneself too hard."

Segundus, now comfortingly opaque once again, bites his lip as if he would rather deny it. "Perhaps. I shall be careful, I promise. But enough of me!" he exclaims, clapping his hands together. "I want to hear about your trip - what have you found out?

So Childermass recounts his story again - this time to a more obliging, warmly receptive audience. Segundus hangs onto his every word, asking curious questions in all the right places. He does have a marked tendency to interrupt with soft utterances and excited exclamations, but Childermass is accustomed to it and finds he does not mind so much as he should.

Segundus shares ideas and suggests theories on top of Childermass' own. He asks, thought-lines etched into his forehead, whether Childermass would do him the favour of explaining the King's Letters to him. He does not recall reading of such a concept.
Segundus is exceedingly impressed with the idea of Uskglass' book, for he had taken it for myth all his life. He wonders what is written within it - if the man to whom Clegg was taking it was going to translate the contents?

They quite happily continue on in this way for some time. It occurs to Childermass - as it usually does upon return from his lengthier trips and periods away - that he has missed this. He had spent thirty-seven years with naught but himself for counsel; give him a fraction of that time with a partner and he is immediately disconcerted by the lack of one. It is good to be able to discuss what bears no relevance to any-one else but Segundus and Norrell, to talk his conundrums and stratagems out, to let down his guard and to do so without hesitance.

After what feels like a very brief period indeed, Childermass checks his watch. He finds he has been here for nine-and-thirty minutes. He excuses himself and tells his friend that he will return later, but has some business to attend to before the household goes to bed. Segundus urges Childermass not to stay up just for him - he seems tired enough as it is. After a little consideration Childermass discovers the truth of this statement. He bids Segundus a good night and rises to leave.
But something stops him at the door. It makes him look back and say, "Segundus?"

"Yes?"

"Well done."

Childermass wonders that he's known Segundus for so long - what, six years now? - and never noticed how his laughter lines crease just so when he smiles. He has registered them - just as one might register a blade of grass or a tile upon a roof - but it is Childermass' opinion that he has never noticed.
(Or perhaps, having admired the occurrence rather too often this evening, that is naught but self-justification.)

He sighs, smiles back at Segundus, and leaves.

Chapter Text

JUNE, 1813.

-J.C-

-

Picture a parlour, if you will - picture a fashionable parlour done up in tasteful ocean-blue paper, its curtains of neat, printed calico and a plush rug spread across the floorboards with nary a wrinkle nor stain to be detected upon it. Near the centre of the room is an elegant sopha, facing an armchair of the same style. Picture a couple and their infant child upon the sopha, if you please - and as for the chair, you may find Gilbert Norrell's man of business situated within it, looking entirely out of place in such a light, airy, respectable room (yet not ill at ease in the slightest).

'But where is Mr Segundus?' you may ask. With good reason too, I dare say - for where one of this pair is to be found, it often happens that the other is close-at-hand. On this occasion, John Segundus sits on the arm of Childermass' chair, supplying the occasional remark and mild rebuke.
"I do wish you would not," he now implores in reproach.

Childermass shoots him a wry look and shrugs minutely in response. It is not enough to alert Mr Coombe, the florid, blustering man sat opposite them, but his mousy-haired wife gives Childermass a glance of curiosity.

Segundus' comment naturally refers to the pittance which Childermass has just offered in exchange for two books - one on magic, one of.¹

Childermass - wary of Segundus' presence beside him and of the man's distaste for dubious dealings - had offered rather more than usual. Still not one fifth of the proper price, of course.

After all, he had thought, what did Segundus know of their value?

Enough to distrust his methods, apparently.

"Are you-"

"-Now," says Coombe, talking over his wife, "I don't put much stock in magic. None of that yellow-curtained nonsense for me, thank you!"

Hopefully, Mrs Coombe opens her mouth, but just as she does so the man resumes. "No," says he, "I'd rather keep to an honest trade. You're welcome to the books, I say - and good riddance!"

Childermass casts a look at Segundus. See? He does not want them anyway.

Segundus takes a second to parse his meaning. Then he begins to splutter. "Yes- But- It's the principle of it, Childermass!" comes his hissed response.

Mrs Coombe, having sensed a pause, makes to speak again. "I think Mr-"

"-I dare say," Coombe interrupts, "that this fad will only be over in a year or two - and all these magicians'll look rather silly then! I said just the same about the Locktons' blasted contraption - what utter tosh! - and would you look at how that turned out?" He turns to his wife, who bears a resigned sort of exasperation upon her countenance. "Didn't I, m'dear?"

"Quite, but-"

"-Yes - yes, that I did! I've an eye for these things, you see, and I am certain - ab-so-lute-ly certain - that we'll see a decline in all this twaddle before the year is out." He turns his smile upon his wife. "Wouldn't you say so, 'Liza?"

Mrs Coombe purses her lips at her oblivious, beaming husband. "Arthur. Dear. I do believe that Mr Childermass is-"

"-What?"

"Also a magician."

"Oh!"

Coombe does not ask for evidence of this claim. Why would he? This will not be the first nor the last time that Childermass' magicianship is assumed upon the mere basis of appearance.
Childermass doesn't correct the assumption. He has long since given up on denying it for Norrell's sake, though he would not yet go so far as to claim the title of magician for his own. It is one Childermass rightly deserves, of course, but his magic is put to such trivial use that he can hardly think of himself as a magician in the older, grander sense of the word.

Coombe has the grace to look a little embarrassed as he casts a considering glance at Childermass, his brows still raised in surprize. "Well- Well why the devil didn't you tell me earlier?"
Mrs Coombe delivers unto him a dubious look. He reddens again and apologizes awkwardly. Segundus looks a little tickled by the situation - though he attempts to appear composed, a pretty flush of amusement suffuses his face all the same. He coughs, pointedly, when he catches Childermass watching.

The Coombe's infant daughter begins to cry. Mrs Coombe rocks the bairn in her arms and shushes her, but this proves ineffectual. It is only when Segundus begins to make faces at her that she stops crying for the surprize of it, green eyes widening as if only just noticing him. A quick look of delight plays over Segundus' brow, radiant with the confirmation that she can see him, and he goes over to engage with her.

Infants usually can - see him, that is - but it is still a rare enough occurrence. It is not as if they come across many in this line of work.
They are not sure why it happens to be so. Perhaps the veil between life and death simply holds thinner for them, being so new to the former and so dangerously close to the latter.

Now - his embarrassment rapidly forgot - Mr Coombe continues to discuss the terms of sale, but Childermass only bestows half of his attention upon him.
Out of the corner of his eye, the other half lingers appreciatively upon Segundus' face, dwelling upon the faint birthmark beneath one eye and travelling along to smile-lines, dark lashes, the pink shell of his ear.
The babe is babbling in meaningless child-speak at Segundus, who ohs and ahs and agrees very seriously and inquires as to whether she has ever considered taking these excellent ideas of hers to publication. Watching this, Childermass feels an unexpected rush of affection for the man - with warmth enough that, for but a moment, he almost forgets to bury it.

Segundus looks a little tired - his eyelids droop a little, his gestures are less animated than the norm - but no more so than is to be expected. After all, he has walked some way today.
They are in Hetherstone Village at present, some thirteen miles South of London, having travelled on business to settle this deal with the Coombes. Segundus had come with him. He does this every now and then, on the conditions that the journey must be feasible for him to make and the weather not too foul (it being entirely undesirable to both parties that Segundus should catch cold).

Well, the skies have been agreeable enough thus far. It had been a fine, clement morning, though the day has grown warmer still with the progression of hours. And as for the distance, Childermass had taken the journey at an easier pace than he would in his partner's absence, halting for breaks every few miles despite Segundus' unconvincing protestations that he could walk all thirteen in one go.
This journey is farther than the ones which Segundus tends to accompany him on, which are generally eight or nine miles at most, but Childermass has been absent so often this month that Segundus had rather insisted upon coming with him today. Well, Segundus had not exactly insisted; he does not insist upon anything. He had but asked. And Childermass is quite powerless to deny him, so in terms of persuasive strength it is about the same.

"-ermass," whispers Segundus. "Childermass, you are not paying attention."

That he is not. Childermass sets aside his distracted train of thought and applies full attention once more to Coombe's monologuing (and the occasional interjection of his wife). In a rather roundabout fashion, hindered significantly by Mr Coombe's indefatigable habit of turning every topic to himself, Childermass manages to extract an agreement from them regarding the bargain. The terms now finalised, Coombe makes himself scarce in order to fetch the volumes.

-

Upon arrival at Hetherstone, they had paid for a room and had Brewer stabled at The White Hart Inn. The Hart was moderately busy, the air filled with the loud hubbub of chatter, a heated argument between two callow youths and the curling, perfumed ribbons of pipe-smoke. Counting out the fee for their room, he had cast a brief look to Segundus. The man's attention had been elsewhere, so Childermass glanced in the direction of Segundus' gaze and discovered a lady watching them.

Her face was oddly-proportioned and angular - it was something, Childermass had reasoned, about the too-wide set of her eyes or the cold, amused twist to her mouth. Perhaps her eyebrows, which were as elegant and expressive as the work of a calligrapher's hand, terminating in a neat, upwards flourish.
She had been rather handsome (if one were inclined to consider such things), and so finely and delicately wrought that she could well have been some craftsman's magnum opus. Her attire - neither travelling clothes nor the hardy, everyday garments of the other patrons - was curiously sumptuous and old-fashioned.

She had watched them with a queer sort of intensity - as if she might root them to the spot with her gaze alone. Childermass had only frowned in return for her stare and turned back to the innkeeper.
"Who is she?" he had inquired, handing over his payment.

The man merely shrugged. "Who's who?"

So Childermass had then provided a description of the lady, but the innkeeper had merely watched him with a growing sense of bemusement. After a minute more of this Childermass had elected not to try the man's patience much more.

But in the present, Coombe now shakes Childermass' hand with overmuch vigour and presses the books into his possession. Childermass delivers his payment and thanks the man and his wife for doing business with him (this last to avoid Segundus' remonstrance more than anything else). For his part, Segundus bids a mock-solemn farewell to the babe and smiles brightly up at Childermass as he straightens. Childermass coughs to conceal the answering smile which creeps unbidden into his face and leads the way out.

-

Having finished his meal at the Hart, Childermass is by no means eager to linger in the taproom. He cannot see the lady of earlier, but his back prickles nonetheless with the understanding that he is being watched. And, although he does not voice the sentiment, Segundus is evidently discomfited by it too. He rubs continually at the nape of his neck, eyes flitting about in fretful unease.

Upon retreat to their room, the Johns soon find themselves a good deal lighter in spirits. They sit awhile, exchanging a murmur of conversation at intervals, but for the most part pass the time in companionable silence. 
A humid, crackling heat gathers as the evening progresses, hanging heavy in the air and sticky on Childermass' brow. When it becomes too much to bear, they both remove their jackets, leaving them hanging together upon the back of the chair. A moment later, as Segundus loosens his neckcloth, Childermass is forced to tear his eyes away from the lines of that pale throat. Once he has taken off the cravat, stowing it neatly-folded in his pocket, Segundus casts a questioning look at Childermass. Who swallows down the dryness in his mouth, shakes his head and lies that it is nothing.

Segundus shrugs (having been accustomed to queer looks and mysterious silences since the early days of their acquaintance) and goes back to his reading.
He has Coote's Reflection laid open upon the bed and is experimenting with trying to turn the pages. It seems rather more difficult a matter than Childermass had at first assumed - for, as Segundus explains, it is difficult to regulate the amount of force which he puts into any one touch, and - fragile as it is - Segundus dares not cause damage to the paper. There is a neat little frown-line drawn between his friend's furrowed brows, brought about by concentration and consternation both.

Childermass takes the pipe from his mouth and asks if Segundus would rather he turned the pages. Back at Hanover there are books harder to damage (and considerably more disposable) than these, and he feels Segundus' peace of mind would fare much better in practice with those.

His friend agrees gratefully. But they have been at this no longer than an hour when Segundus begins to act restive. He fidgets with his hands, cuffs and hair, and he worries at his lip and his collar and he drifts, distracted, from his reading. His gaze flickers about the room like a robin hopping from branch to branch on a tree. Childermass wonders how long it will take Segundus to begin pacing agitated circles into the floor.
"What has you so restless?"

Segundus sighs. "I am not quite sure," he says. "I may take a walk."

Childermass thinks he can taste the faint, metallic tang of magic in the air, but surely he imagines it. 
He does not at all consider attributing it to Segundus, who is most probably made restive by this clinging, clammy heat instead.

"You're sure? It will be dark soon."

He shakes his head. "I must, I feel. I shall not be able to settle until I have."

Perhaps his phrasing strikes Childermass as odd, but it is not odd enough to cause concern.
"I'll come with you," he says, feeling that he, too, could do with some air.

So they take their jackets from the chair and set off, taking a meandering route about the common. It is still fairly light and, though stiflingly hot, the weather has so far been dry enough to permit a turn about the fields.
Dry grasses (of a height to Childermass' chest and Segundus' shoulder respectively) have sprung up amidst the soft, white flowers of bindweed. The fields are filled with the chirping of insects and the high-pitched, drawn-out screeches of crickets.
There is only the faintest suggestion of a hot, humid, whistling breeze upon the sultry air - air which for the most part lies sluggish and inert, heavy with dampness, and harbours the crackling tension which precedes a summer storm. The hairs prickle on the back of Childermass' neck in anticipation of the heavens opening.

But Segundus seems to breathe easier in the open (figuratively, that is). He does act rather calmer now that he is not bound by four walls and his restless energy has an outlet. Perhaps calmer than Childermass is accustomed to.
He walks faster than usual, and with purpose, though seems entirely oblivious to his behavior when Childermass asks him about it - he claims that he is doing no such thing. Childermass believes him, for his face is utterly guileless, confusion writ across it clear as day.

Perhaps Segundus is not aware of it. Perhaps his movement is influenced by a pull from external forces. Perhaps... Childermass wonders about the magic in the air - he had put it down to a trick of the mind, since he himself has performed none, but what was once a mere tinge has grown steadily stronger since then. It is utterly unmistakable now, the dizzy haze of it pervading the atmosphere, making it hard to look directly at his friend.

Could Segundus be...?

No. Surely not.

One does not enchant a ghost. For why would anyone go to the bother? Like a handful of slippery, silvery minnows, the shade would simply elude their grasp in the space of a moment.
It is improbable - or, at least, this is what Childermass tries to convince himself of.

But, in case he is enchanted (for it never did anyone any harm to be thorough), where are they being led?

Childermass tests the bounds by taking paths different to the ones which Segundus initially directs them down. He makes excuses for the changes - this path is too muddy, the other too overgrown with nettles and bramble-bushes, or it is too dark or too narrow and so on and so forth. But Segundus bears no objection to this - the only times he does object are when it has been suggested that they turn back the way they have come.

"Just a little farther," he will say (or something of the sort) and then, "I shall not be able to sleep at any rate - it really is far too hot!" or, "Oh, I am still far too restless for that. I will be pacing in circles all night if we go back so soon," or, "I do like it here; it is so very peaceful. It is not yet dark; could we stay out a little longer?" And then he will hasten to add, "but do not feel as if you must accompany me just for my sake!" or, "although I would not keep you here against your will, Childermass!" and the like, and then he will apologize in fear of having unintentionally dismissed Childermass. Much what Childermass might expect of Segundus - if not for the mist clouding his eyes, if not for his strange insistence upon the matter.

Childermass concludes that Segundus has no clear destination in mind, merely the unwavering desire to walk. It could simply be determination, or course; Segundus can be impossibly stubborn when he so wishes, but - call it intuition - Childermass does not think so. He has voiced his desire to return so frequently that, in normal conditions, Segundus would surely have noticed by now that something were wrong.

It is not to be denied that there is a certain peculiarity to his demeanour. Oh, he speaks and acts much the same as ever, accompanied by most of the usual habits and gestures, but there is something about his general air which strikes Childermass as odd.
He notes a marked absence of certain mannerisms. Segundus is usually a slow walker, dawdling and exclaiming over the little things. He is not so at present; these little distractions seem far from his mind. And he is oft talkative, but now only speaks when spoken to - though, as Childermass notes, Segundus is quite as verbose as ever when he does happen to open his mouth. It seems, as is fortunate, that Segundus is at least half-there.

But no matter how Childermass appeals to that half of him, Segundus only seems to want to go farther.
It is queer indeed, but cannot be helped. Segundus is not to be dissuaded and Childermass can hardly force him back to the inn. If he were to try, Segundus would surely not let him and would escape his hold like naught but mist - and then he would walk all the more quickly in an effort to be free of Childermass' presence.

Which means that, aside from muttering a few woefully ineffectual spells of disenchantment under his breath, there is nothing he can do to stop it.
So Childermass thinks upon it and resolves to remain with Segundus. He will wait for his chance to help, whenever that may be. If this enchantment should prove harmful, at least one of them will have his wits about him.

The sky is darkening. Black clouds gather overhead, fit to burst.
And the magic grows stronger all the while.

Some minutes later, as they come to a large, flat, open meadow cleaved in two by a wide desire-path, Childermass feels that the current of magic is no longer ebbing and flowing as it has thus far. It is, in fact, directly concentrated in this very field. If Childermass moves too fast, dark spots obscure his vision and a wave of nausea sweeps over him.

Segundus stops in his tracks.
So sudden and unexpected is this halt that Childermass walks through him, feeling an unpleasant shiver run down his spine at the ice-cold, buzzing, lively sensation of it (which is generally bearable in smaller doses, being rather similar to pins-and-needles, but comes as a shock to the senses in larger ones).

The ghost blinks. His brow knits in sudden anxiety. Dismay clouds his features. He turns about, disoriented, and the look on his face when he finds Childermass still beside him is absolute in its relief.
"What- Where are we?" he asks. “What happened?"
The familiar hesitance has crept back into his voice. Childermass has never been so glad to hear it.

Lightning flickers across the sky. He opens his mouth to answer, but no sooner has he done so than a deafening clap of thunder carries away his words. He flinches, on-edge, and Segundus laughs nervously.
"Something made me come over very queer,” his ghost continues. "I remember... Oh!" Attention drawn by something behind Childermass, Segundus startles. His eyes are wide.

Childermass, fighting a sinking feeling of foreboding, turns to look into the wide-set eyes of the lady from the Hart. The same cold amusement plays across her lips; the same intensity pervades her stare.
Here, then, is their enchanter.

She laughs in tintinnabulation, her playful giggle lost amidst the tinkling of silver bells.
"I know you," she says, in a voice both puckish and resonant.

"Me?" asks Childermass, eyeing her with a wary look.

"Not you, silly! You"- she indicates Segundus, stepping closer -"yes, you, sweetling, with the eyes of remembrance."

Segundus starts. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. He looks behind him for the subject of her address. "I- I do beg your pardon, madam? You can see me?"

At first, the lady does not answer. She merely tilts her head to one side, her manner strikingly similar to a cat playing with its next meal, and smiles a closed-lipped smile. "Who did you think brought you here? (How very odd these Christians are!) But really now, truly, you must know why I am come."

"I confess that I do not. Perhaps you have the wrong person, madam?"

She shakes her head, tapping one sharp-nailed finger to her chin as she steps back a pace to survey him. "There are not many with eyes of that specific shade, you know. Chatterbrook did tell me he was tempted to keep them for marbles."

Childermass begins to wonder if she is mad.
Segundus is stunned into silence for several moments. Shrinking from her, he rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand. "I- I beg your pardon?"

"Ah. Forgive me," she says - languid and facetious, resoundingly unapologetic. "It slipped my mind."

Segundus regards her in confusion. "What did?"

Her eyes widen in false, exaggerated surprize.
"Why, dear heart, that you have forgot! I am sorry. Chatterbrook has not the least idea of etiquette." Her criticism is directed at another but, from her mocking tone and the way she eyes Segundus, one might easily imagine it was him who had perpetrated the impoliteness.

"But- Do forgive me, madam," stammers Segundus, "who might Chatter-brook be? What is it I have forgot? And I am sorry," he apologizes a second time, "as I do not mean to pester - but how is it that you know me? I am afraid I do not remember you. I- Well- I am dreadfully sorry again, but are you quite sure that you have the right person?" His words tumble out very fast. Childermass is of the distinct impression that he has been rather dreading the asking of them.

The lady watches him with a measure of amused condescension. "You ask a great many questions for one so small. How do you expect to contain all of the answers?" She turns to Childermass, one eyebrow raised. "Is it you?"

Childermass sighs. "Is what me?" he asks curtly, finding his patience lacking.

"Do you hold the answers for him? Surely he cannot keep them all to himself - he would burst!" The lady giggles again, amused by her own joke. "T'would make a frightful mess, I think."
She looks to Childermass in sharp expectation. "Well? Do you not agree?"

"He does not," says Segundus, his voice wavering but nonetheless resolute.

"Perhaps not now. When you are splattered all over the London house in a thousand little pieces he may come to see it differently."

Segundus frowns. Childermass throws her a black look. "Don't be crude," he reproves.

Her eyes flicker with a curious light. It takes Childermass a moment to recognize it as lightning. "I would not dream of it," she says. Sweetly so, but the words come with a serrated edge. A burst of thunder ripples through the air, and Childermass is not so great a fool as to mistake it for anything but a warning.

Childermass feels a softer, cooler hand stealing into his and holding it tightly. He lets it and bears his friend's white-knuckled grip without complaint. When Childermass flicks Segundus a glance, the anxiety is clear as day in those wide dark eyes, and so he squeezes his hand back in protective reassurance.
It is clear that the lady is taunting Segundus - that she savours his bewilderment and distress like a particularly fine vintage.
So Childermass, wishing to bring this back-and-forth to a halt, speaks in Segundus' stead. "If you would care to explain why you are here, I am sure we would be greatly obliged."

The face of the fairy (for what else could she be?) splits into a smile, and Segundus blanches. It is not a pleasant smile - rather the opposite. Indeed it might better be called a sharp one, for want of a deadlier word, for Childermass finds himself leaning away from all those teeth before he has even half-registered the grin.
"I am sure that can be arranged. Why, I shall arrange for it this very moment!"

Then she snaps her fingers, sending a bright bolt of lightning flashing through the clouds.
In that same moment Segundus draws in a sharp, gasping breath. He staggers back a pace or two, his face deathly pale.

"Childermass," he says in a rush. "Childermass, I am going to faint."

And that he does. Segundus is, after all, a man of his word.

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER, 1806.

-J.S-

-

At first, nothing happens.
Then, ever so faintly, Mr Segundus becomes aware of a light pattering of rain. He initially assumes it to be outside (as one tends to when it rains) but when the trickling sounds of water begin to grow louder, flooding his ears in an awesome roar, Mr Segundus is not so sure anymore. A burgeoning realization has been building up in him, much as black clouds foretell a storm to come, and as such it comes as little of a surprize when he turns to finds another person in the room.
Indeed, it would seem the most natural thing in the world - were this not the most momentous occurrence of John Segundus' life, that is.

He smiles a small, glowing smile, then smiles wider still, at last breaking into a grin as a burst of delighted, disbelieving laughter bubbles up in his throat. Why, he has done it! He has done what no other man has done in three hundred years!

The person opposite is regarding him with a bored, clinical sort of disdain. Mr Segundus quickly composes himself with an embarrassed cough and clearing of the throat. He wonders whether he ought to shake his hand. Do fairies shake hands? This one does not. He looks Mr Segundus up and down, mouth twitching in cold amusement, and declines the proffered hand.

"Well?" His voice carries a pervasive sort of cold, like ice stealing over the surface of a lake. "What is it that you have summoned me for?"

Mr Segundus, thrown off-balance by this abrupt address and the lingering joy of his success, finds himself inarticulate. "I- That is- Oh, forgive me, I confess myself tongue-tied. I have not done this before, you see. I am not quite sure how to conduct myself and..." He trails off, rather red in the face.

"You could start by giving me your name, yes?"

"Ah! I knew I had forgotten something. Do forgive my impoliteness, sir. I am- Oh." Mr Segundus catches himself teetering on the brink of what could prove a very foolish mistake indeed. A right hash he is making of this!
"Goodness! No, I am afraid I cannot give you my name."

Mr Segundus fears that he is being dreadfully rude, but the fairy's lips merely curve into the sharp twist of a smile and nothing more is said upon the matter. He raises one fine, arched eyebrow. "What is it that you wish me to do, magician? Dare say I that I could fulfil any number of wishes - for a price, naturally."

Mr Segundus' eyes widen. "Naturally!" he exclaims. "I would not dream of suggesting you be without recompense. You see, I had wondered, sir," he suggests, timidly and very hopefully, "if you might do me the great kindness of teaching me a little magic? I am familiar with the theoretical aspects of the study, but as to practicality I confess myself no expert. This is the first spell I have made work, you understand, and I know of not a single man who might know more upon the subject than a fairy."
In fact, Mr Segundus had not expected it to work at all, having purchased it some months ago from a yellow-curtained magician in London (who seemed untrustworthy at best), but tact urges him to keep this last thought to himself for fear that his fairy visitor should take offence at the implications of it.

The fairy looks disinterested. His lip curls, as if to suggest that this is beneath him. "Pah! That is nothing. I will do you better than that; I will make you a bargain. Your heart's desire, sir, for but one possession of yours. What say you?"

That is terribly vague, is it not? Mr Segundus thinks that he knows his heart's desire. But he enquires further as to the payment, for he suspects it is sure to be very dear indeed. "This possession, sir - will it be precious to me? Might I know what it is now? Could I choose it? What would I do if I were to regret the exchange?"

"I assure you, magician, that you would not even know it had been taken! As for regretting the exchange, it is most fortuitous for you that I am incredibly generous and notorious through eight kingdoms for my clemency. We shall make it a game, shall we?"
He smiles, but to call it a smile is generous, really, for it is more of a sneer, and Mr Segundus feels very strongly that he is being laughed at. "If you can find, let us say, your true love, I shall allow you to have the thing back and keep your heart's desire in addition." He flings his arms wide. "Does the prospect not delight you? Why, you could have it all!"

Mr Segundus dips his head in a hesitant, wary nod, feeling rather unconvinced about the wisdom of accepting. "If it is not too much trouble, might I be allowed some time to think upon this?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, that you may. I shall give you twenty hours and done. By the end of that time I will come to you and I will expect you to have come to a decision. But remember this, magician - you will not receive such an offer again. Others of my race are not nearly so generously disposed nor half so obliging."

Mr Segundus bows deeply in thanks. When he looks up again, the fairy has departed. A damp mist clings to everything in the room, causing all his papers to buckle, and he is obliged to open all the windows and shoo it out like a fly.

Mr Segundus makes his way downstairs - gripping the banister hard for he is still faint from magic and excitement - and talks to Mrs Pleasance about the magic, feeling that this is not something he can bear to keep to himself. How can he suffer this to remain secret? How could he possibly not tell another when this is the most significant thing he has ever achieved? Besides, in the case - God forbid! - that the fairy tricks Mr Segundus and he should find himself in trouble, it will be beneficial to his security that somebody knows of it.
He half-wishes he knew more people in York, but he should not like to seem a braggart or a liar and so this is, perhaps, for the best.

Mrs Pleasance, far from seeing his words as those of a braggart, is all warmth and cheer. "Why, dearie," she tells him merrily, "I don't pretend to know much of magic, but I am glad indeed of your success!" She advises him to agree to the bargain - "for," she reasons, "it is not often that such an opportunity comes one's way, is it? Now, I've a loaf out to cool. Would you care for a slice?"

That he would. It is very good bread. It is warm and fluffy on the inside, with just the right amount of chewiness to its golden-brown crust. He thanks Mrs Pleasance for her congratulations and counsel (and excellent baking), then wanders off through the streets of York, lost deep in a morass of considerations.

It is not just a matter of whether he wants to agree. If the decision rested only upon that, he would oblige in rather less than a heartbeat. It is more, he thinks, ducking under a ladder, that the very nature of the bargain is so oblique, and that he is not so naïve as to imagine that the possession lost (whatever it may be) will be so easily forgot as the fairy has declared.
What constitutes a possession? He does not have anything of material significance - so, in making such a bargain, might he lose something of himself?

What of himself could be so insignificant as to never notice its absence?
Could the fairy take his memory? His reason? His mind? Oh, but his heart's desire would very much involve the use of all three. The whole point of it would revolve around the ability to engage with it using these very things - it would not be the least enjoyable otherwise.
Is enjoyment inherent to achieving the heart's desire? Mr Segundus supposes it is not, but he chooses to believe otherwise. After all, where would we be without faith? And his heart's desire could not possibly be marred by the hollowness of any sort of regret. How could it - when it is all he has ever longed for, when it eclipses all else?

Segundus realizes he has nearly walked into a black cat and stops to let it cross his path, reaching down and stroking its midnight fur. Could the fairy take from him certain emotions? But these are all very much wrapped up in his identity. Their absence would be noted, if not by himself then by others around him.
Dreams? Perhaps. The dreams of sleep he is happy to exchange, the dreams of ambition not so much.

A pair of magpies pick at and fight over scraps by the roadside. They scatter as Segundus approaches; he watches the black-and-white tails bobbing as they alight upon a street-lamp. Metaphysical traits aside, what if the fairy should determine upon something more concrete? An arm, perhaps, or a leg? What about an eye? Most definitely not! Mr Segundus shudders and sends out a silent prayer in the negative.

Well, perhaps the question is better phrased thus: can one's heart's desire be wanted enough to make any such sacrifice worthwhile? Mr Segundus does not suppose his own is worth all of those things he might feasibly be parted from - his mind, for instance; he is not at all willing to lose that - but it is worth a great deal nevertheless.

Is it worth the risk? Dare he take the chance? For perhaps it need not be so very precious a payment. Fairies are very powerful, after all, and notoriously capricious. Perhaps one has merely taken an interest in him, though he cannot fathom why they might. He is hardly the most interesting of men.

When he returns to his rooms, he idly flips a coin a great many times, willing the farthing to make the decision for him. As it is, he cannot decide whether he likes one outcome any better than the other, and he abandons the decision-making as a lost cause, resolving to decide once he has slept upon it.

As might be expected, Mr Segundus is too excited to sleep. Excited and apprehensive in equal measure, he tosses and turns into the small hours of the morning.
When he wakes after a few stolen hours, he knows immediately which path he is going to choose. But as a final security he dashes off a last-minute note - 'Remember - he has something of yours!' - and folds it neatly, tucking it into the pocket of his breeches just as his preternatural visitor arrives.

"And?" the fairy demands, his voice staccato like raindrops striking a tin roof. "What have you decided?"

Once the deal has been agreed upon, the fairy disperses like nothing more corporeal than a cloud of mist. With his going, Segundus gasps at the sudden, chilling sensation flooding through him. It is not dissimilar to icy fingers plucking at his throat, to a cold, vice-like grasp clamping his heart, but no sooner has he drawn in breath to cry out in a panic than it has departed, knocking the breath from his chest. His heart races.
Unsteady on his feet, Mr Segundus staggers to his chair and collapses into it, waiting for his ragged breath to even out. For a while it feels as if his lungs have shrunk to half the size, that they cannot possibly contain the air they require. He rubs at his throat in no small degree of discomfort, unable to banish the ghost of sensation and the memory of unseen hands tightening around it.

But he does not notice a difference in himself. The fairy spoke correctly - whatever has been taken, he does not know of its absence.

Mr Segundus does not realize, in his fright and trepidation, that his hastily scribbled note has drifted from his pocket and settled on the floor. Nor does he notice that his light footsteps have ceased to make any noise at all, that they cause none of usual creaking complaints put up by the aged floorboards of Lady Peckett's Yard. For the present he is overcome by overpowering, exhausting tiredness, and it is all he can do to make it to his bed before he collapses upon the floor.

So he sleeps, and he sleeps, and he sleeps. He awakens some days later in dizzied disorientation, racked by nausea and weak, shivery chills. Mr Segundus feels, contrary to his ordinary experience of illness, rather lighter than usual, and fancies in half-wakefulness that he is merely painted upon the air.
He spends the remainder of the week suspended halfway between dreaming and the waking world, too feeble to drag himself into full consciousness and too overcome by utter exhaustion to build up any strength. The days pass in a blur of brief wakings and long stretches of dark, silent sleep, and an array of strange and peculiar dreams which feel somehow inseparable from his fragmented reality.

Upon recovering - at last - the strength and consciousness needed to make him feel quite himself again, Mr Segundus finds that the memory of what caused this enchanted sleep has simply trickled away. It is as if his head has sprung a leak. In theory Mr Segundus knows precisely what has happened - but the further he probes, the fuzzier it becomes. Eventually he is forced to accept that he now has even less of an idea than he did upon starting.
A day later, he has forgotten even the enchanted sleep.

A week later, he sits on somebody's doorstep, watching the progression of the stars across the sky in a feeble attempt to distract himself. It is not working. He had thought that being around other people was what made him hurt most, but this is somehow worse. The quiet makes him feel all the more alone. The autumn air is frigid but - regardless of any susceptibility to it - Mr Segundus is growing used to the cold. It would be difficult not to when these past few days he has been nothing short of freezing.

He is dead, or at least he supposes so. Mr Segundus cannot be seen, felt nor heard. He has walked through no less than three walls and two doors so far. He does not need to breathe, nor does he seem to require sustenance, and he is racked by cold at all hours. It is as if the world has simply moved on without Mr Segundus, abandoning him to be quite forgotten by its objects and inhabitants both.

And yet he cannot seem to accept his death. His heart still beats, after all. Mr Segundus has spent an inordinate length of time merely feeling his pulse - the only sign of life left - and wondering if this is truly the end for him. Death simply feels too final.
In truth it does not matter so much to him precisely what he is. Only that the question distracts him from the hollowness of invisibility.

He becomes gradually aware of footsteps in his vicinity, a thing which surprizes him a little for it is very late. Rather too late, in fact, for anyone possessing so much as a modicum of respectability to be walking the streets of York. Especially on a night so bitterly cold as this, when the soot-black sky is cloudless and all is silence.

Well, almost all.

The footsteps come to a pause when they reach the place where Mr Segundus sits.
He looks up upon a whim and realizes with a jolt that the feet belong to a man (which is not surprizing) and secondly that this man is looking directly at him (which is).
Mr Segundus scrambles to his feet. "You can see me?" he asks, stumbling over the sheer speed with which he throws out his words.

-

JUNE, 1813.

-J.C-

-

Childermass had been treated to the bare bones of the situation in Segundus’ absence - with no small amount of persuasion on his part. The fairy had not wished, at first, to tell him, but after some well-chosen words Childermass had drawn the information out of her.
(Fairies are naturally inclined to gloat. This one is no different.)

Segundus' return to consciousness is incremental.
When he does come back to himself and sits up, Childermass can sense a change about him.
Segundus is very, very still for a long time. His jaw is clenched. Rigid tension lines his shoulders.
“What did he take?” is the first thing he asks, after a lengthy, dragging period of silence. He does not so much as look at Childermass; his gaze is fixed intently upon the fairy. There is a storm brewing in his dark eyes.

“You know it, surely." She raises an eyebrow. "I gathered that you would be dim, but not so dim as this."

"I do not know it specifically," says Segundus, getting to his feet. "Tell me." His voice is still shaky with nervousness, but he remains unapologetic in his demand. "What, exactly, did he take?"

"Your life."

“What? But I noticed it was gone!” he splutters. “He assured me I would not - he lied, then?" he asks, wide-eyed and a trifle frantic. "If he has breached the contract, might I not reverse it?”

The fairy giggles girlishly, her too-white teeth flashing for a brief moment. She shakes her head and tells him, "No."

“Why not?” asks Childermass.

She smiles coldly. “It was not about noticing it, magician! It was never about noticing it. You did not notice it was taken, for you did not recall its theft.”

Silence.
Segundus’ face is pale, his mouth set in a hard and determined line.

His voice, when he speaks, is quiet - choked up with emotion.
“Because he has taken my memory," says Segundus. "Because he has taken the memory of everyone wrapped up in this wretched business. Because he has tricked, and taken advantage, and deceived, and because he is the worst sort of confidence trickster I have ever encountered. For what, may I ask?”

His shoulders are trembling with anger. Where he has been soft-spoken up to now, Mr Segundus' voice now turns faster, impassioned. “What use can it possibly serve? How can a life be worth so much to him, I ask, that he is willing to deprive me of everything I know? It would be easier to simply kill me and be done with it - why did he not?" He swallows. "Why torture me, I ask; why force me to exist in a world utterly separate from myself? What good-" Segundus’ voice breaks, but he continues on. A bright, angry flush spreads across his cheeks and his thin hands curl into fists at his sides.

”Are you done?” asks the lady.

“No I am not! What good did it do? And furthermore, what is the point? No, do not trouble yourself to answer that; I know there is none."
His eyes are wet. "Does he think I cannot feel? Or does he delight in causing pain? It must be one of the two, for I utterly fail to see how a being with but the slightest ounce of empathy could even consider such a venture. Your brother," he finishes, "is a cheat and a liar, and the most wicked of persons!” As if expecting the fairy to contradict him, Segundus fixes her with a warning glare.

The fairy, however, looks more bored than anything else. “My, my,” she says languidly, “you are childish.”

Segundus’ eyes flash. “Do not talk to me.”

He turns on his heel and marches off, but in a blink the fairy has multiplied and her double is blocking the path. The two open their mouths and speak in eerie unison. “I am afeard that you must, dear heart. You cannot restore yourself to life without me. It is an impossibility of the highest order - and so I suggest you wretches listen.” Her last words are accompanied by a deafening clap of thunder. Presently Childermass realizes that he cannot move his feet and he surmises, from the panicked glances which Segundus shoots his way, that his friend cannot either.

“I demand that you release us this instant!" Segundus snaps irritably, though his rush of anger is fast draining away, now, and he merely looks miserable and thoroughly lost. "I do not want your help.”

The fairy, now one body again, raises her eyes heavenward. She paces a predatory, scrutinizing circle around Segundus, and he twists about to face her as she moves. “Why must you be so stubborn?" she asks in her lilting, sing-song voice. "Your pride can suffer a few bruises, you foolish men - so why insist on such ridiculousness?"

“Why are you helping me?”

She ignores the question. “If you cannot be silent of your own accord, I have no scruples about making you so." There is a subtle, sickly-sweet sharpness in her voice.

He persists. “Why are you helping me?”

She stops prowling. Her eyes are dark. “Because your prying brother, much like yourself, cannot let sleeping dogs lie. Because he has pestered me from the very beginning and I, for one, have had enough of interfering spirits.” Lightning flickers across the sky.

Segundus looks as if he has been struck. A great deal more of the fight seeps out of him, replaced by wide-eyed shock. “Simon?”

"Is that his name?"

"You do not know it?"

"I did not care to ask."

"But you must be mistaken, madam," he says faintly. "He is dead."

"Oh," she replies in her lofty voice, "very much so. It makes him no less inclined to irritate me. I had patience and sympathy enough, at first, but I was fast called upon to remember that humans are just senselessly attached to each other. It is simply sickening - how do you bear it?"

Rain begins to patter down around them, dusting the fairy's hair with a scattering of tiny, sparkling baubles. Childermass suspects it will rain harder yet before the evening is out.
He is rather lost. If either of the pair would deign to offer him an explanation, he would be much obliged. As it is, the tension between them stretches so taut that Childermass suspects a single word from him would send them both snapping.

"But enough of this! He can very well talk to you himself. I have not come to exchange pleasantries. I have come to explain your exit clause, since my fool of a brother lacks the grace to do so himself."

Segundus frowns. "He said that I must find my true love. Was that not explanatory enough?"

That is the exit clause? How does one find their true love when they are a ghost? This is ludicrous. Segundus can barely make himself noticed as it is - how is he to court a lady who does not know of his existence? Furthermore, what counts as finding true love? Is it a mere matter of picking them out on the street? Must the pair know each other more intimately?
How can it be self-explanatory?

Eyes sparking with mirth as the rain begins in earnest, the fairy levels her Cheshire grin at Segundus, who shrinks away and then, as if remembering that he is meant to be angry, draws himself up again, chin raised in defiance.

"It is not. You are correct in one matter: he did trick you."

"What?" Segundus exclaims, fair speechless with indignance.

"In the manner of omission, yes. No, you cannot reverse the bargain, as I have told you a thousand times already. But fear not; I am here to explain it to you. It is simple: you need to be in possession of your life in order to find it again."

"If that is not the most utter nonsen-" He chokes. Cut off mid-sentence, Segundus blinks rapidly. Panic builds behind his eyes. He tries to continue, but not a single sound slips past his lips.
Segundus casts the fairy an aggrieved look. He swallows hard and folds his arms. Perhaps to others it may seem a defiant gesture, but Childermass knows this one well. To Segundus, it is one of defence, of self-comfort, one which shields him from the world - and it to see it used now is a blow to Childermass, who cannot help but intervene.

"I thought you just told him not to be afraid?" he asks, keeping the anger from his voice as best he can. There is no point in provoking the fairy further. "Fine behaviour from one who claims to be helping. Give him back his voice."

(Sighing through his nose, Segundus grants him a shaky smile.)

"What, and let him bore us with another lecture?"

The tension draws out till it is fit to snap, but Childermass will not budge. She sighs in an affected, childish fashion, but nevertheless flicks her wrist in Segundus' direction. "Very well," she mutters petulantly, ignoring how Segundus rubs with discomfited expression at his throat. "Now - hush! I have your life with me, magician, and I want you to listen closely to what I will say."

She draws something out from her pocket. A little box of soft grey-blue, such as one might use for a ring. As she opens it, Segundus lets out a soft gasp.

-

-J.S-

-

And there, laid out in smooth silk lining, is his life.
Mr Segundus does not need to be told that this is what it is; he had known it from the moment the lid was lifted. It takes the form of - or is contained in - a rounded, dove-grey pearl. Such a little thing, such a colossal purpose. It is terrifyingly small. Multitudes swirl beneath its hard, shiny skin.
He starves more than ever for the world denied him. Mr Segundus spots several small chips and salt-and-pepper flecks - tiny imperfections across its surface - and he wants to say 'I know these marks, I know these scars, I know this grief, I know this joy - I know this man,' but if he begins to talk then he knows he will never stop, his words as uncontrolled as a river breaking its banks.

Oh, but this is him.

This is him.

Instinctively, Mr Segundus reaches out. His fingertips almost brush it-!

-And the fairy shuts the box with a smart snap. Fat raindrops fall upon the lid, dark stains blooming like blood in the material.
"You are not to take it!" she rebukes.

Mr Segundus feels rather like a bullied schoolboy all over again, shrinking away out of habit and hating himself for his cowardice.
"I have not explained to you and you have not the slightest idea how to use it. You," she continues accusingly, "will decide something ridiculous, no doubt! If you crush it or do something equally stupid," warns she, "then I simply cannot help you."

Mr Segundus ducks his head in apology (but, rather than guilt, a stinging sense of injustice is what simmers in his heart). "I am sorry," he stammers, looking down. "I did not think." Although angry, he is anxious not to offend. Not when his life is held - quite literally - in her hands.

She huffs. Like a peevish child. "Apparently not," she snipes.

With an intake of breath, brow furrowed, Childermass seems itching to intervene, but Mr Segundus suspects they have tried her patience enough for the moment. He shoots Childermass a warning glance - later, if you must.

The fairy continues on. "Now, Christian, listen here. The exit clause states that you are to find your true love, but it is not so simple as that. When you are certain - absolutely certain - that you two are fated, you must swallow the pearl. Then, when you two kiss, you will be restored."

Slightly stunned, Segundus does not know quite what to say in response to this, and suspects that anything he does say will sound like a wrecked, incoherent mess. "Oh," he pronounces faintly, struggling around the vowel like a rock in his throat.

"But," the fairy sharply appends, "there is a caveat! This is no game - you are not, under any circumstances, to make the wrong choice once you have swallowed it. This is very important. If you are mistaken," she says, smiling her razor-toothed smile, "you will lose the life."

Rather faintly, Segundus whispers, "Oh," again. It is only audible to himself. A fog is settling over him.

The fairy extends her slender hand again, presenting the box to him. When he does not initially take it, she rattles it pointedly and arches an eyebrow. This time, she does not snatch it back when Mr Segundus takes it hesitantly. He cradles it to his chest, defensive, as if it might be stolen from him once more.

Silence stretches out for several seconds - tense, tangible. An owl hoots in the distance.

"What if he did lose it?" asks Childermass. "What would happen to him then?"

"Then?" She throws back her head and laughs her high, tinkling, silver-bell laugh. "But there is no helping him then, silly! He only has the one life to lose! He has but one chance. I suggest he uses it wisely."

"What? You do not mean that. You cannot find a way to prevent him from losing it again?"

"No."

Outraged, Childermass continues to argue with the fairy (a lost cause, if you ask me). He looks to Segundus several times for input, but Segundus does not fancy himself quite capable of commanding the English language at present.
No, he is entirely swept away by the clamour of a hundred and one warring emotions. Some of which he couldn't name if he tried.
How does one reconcile this? Mr Segundus has lived - died? - by a lie. Had this fairy not come to disabuse him of this notion, he would have continued on - never knowing, never caring to know, thinking the world still barred from him.

Well. It is still barred from him now, of course, for his task is impossible. How can he possibly find his true love - guess his true love - when he is the way that he is?
And Mr Segundus is not only thinking of his physical state.
John Segundus, you see, is one of that unhappy breed of men whose inclinations lie not in the fairer sex but in that of their own. When one is deemed unnatural, an invert in the eyes of the law, love is a dangerous luxury. Mr Segundus has had his sparing attachments; he is no stranger to hiding; yet, even then, there is so much risk associated with affection that even without his ghostliness he would hardly dare attempt it. No, this way is not open to him. Perhaps it would have been kinder to leave him in ignorance, as insensible as this sounds - perhaps it would have been less cruel to let the mystery of his death remain.

Come to think of it: is he still a ghost? What is he to call himself? If suspended between here and his afterlife, does that not make him a ghost? He must be - he has no life and by definition he is dead. Yet Mr Segundus cannot quite count himself amongst the numbers of the deceased. Theoretically he should. But in practice? - what does he feel? He feels... Well. He feels rather too much to condense it into a simple distinction between death and un-death.

There is fight in him yet; John Segundus knows this as clearly as he knows himself. It thrums beneath his skin and beats in his heart and breathes in his lungs. He has none of the grey apathy which comes with the end; he has all the boldness, all the brightness of life. All the trials and tests and joys - great and small - which accompany the burden and gift of what it is to be human. And yet Mr Segundus knows too the enduring and endless coldness of death, how the grief of it can rack a heart with pain. How it breaks one like glass - how each shard, every splinter, every tiny granule of hurt digs just that little deeper.

Perhaps Mr Segundus is both alive and dead. Perhaps he is as an insect caught in amber, suspended in sticky stasis, spotted only by those who happen to look closer than the rest. Perhaps he is a butterfly pinned to a cork-board, bright wings spread wide in false-flight, so perfectly preserved as to give every vibrant impression of life but the unmistakable, tangible intimation of death. Perhaps Mr Segundus is a painted flower captured mid-bloom, ever unfurling frozen petals of oil and brush-stroke and canvas.
This is what he is, is it not? At once alive and dead. A soul wavering between two worlds, caught between destinations, feeling the drawbacks of both - too absent to fight his way out, too determinedly alive to disappear.

And what of Simon? Why is he wrapped up in this? It has been years upon years since his passing - why is his brother still here? Can he truly not find rest?
Mr Segundus is not so much shocked at his involvement as he is distressed.

Simon has been the subject of a great many dreams, but he had not believed - had not wanted to believe - that it could be him.
To think-! Has he been here this whole time? Is he here now? Why does he not advance to his afterlife?
It should be a consoling thought that his brother is not yet departed, not yet lost - by all means, it should. And yet it is not. How can it be? Mr Segundus has spent too long caught between worlds to harbour any such illusions as to the comfort of the dead.

There comes an almighty clap of thunder. The rain begins to come down in waves about them. Mr Segundus can no longer hear the others arguing, but is so driven to distraction that it bears no relevance to him now.

He cannot make sense of this. It is cruel; that is what it is. It is cruel that he should be tricked and cruel that he should be kept in the dark. Cruel that he should be treated as a fool, and a triviality, and a plaything, and cruel that even as - at last - the sun shines upon him, an eclipse should darken her surface.
Mr Segundus is long resigned to the truth that there is no use in wanting. Good fortune simply does not come to him, and he should not expect it to last when it does. But this? He suspects he deserves rather more than this! Surely it is not too much to ask.

Childermass taps him on the shoulder. Mr Segundus nearly jumps out of his skin. He realizes that his friend is soaked head-to-foot in rain, that the heavens are opening in full force, turning the dusty earth to slippery muck. But Childermass is not occupied with the turn in weather. No, his gaze is fixed quite intently upon Mr Segundus.

"She has gone?"

"She has." Childermass pauses. "Are you..." He sighs. His face is perhaps the most frank and open that Mr Segundus that has ever seen it. "Are you well?"
When Mr Segundus does not answer, Childermass prompts him again. "You have been crying," he says. It is not an accusation.

Mr Segundus had not realized he was, but cannot seem to care enough to feel surprized. He grips the little grey-blue box somewhat tighter and shakes his head to Childermass' question. "I do not know," he says stiffly. "I- I do not know what I am going to do."

Pushing wet hair out of his face, Childermass nods. "Come, then," he says quietly. "Into the dry, before you catch cold."

Mr Segundus tries to move, but it feels like his body is separate from his own, like he is the inexperienced puppeteer of his own trembling, unsteady limbs. A heady wave of nausea sweeps over him. "Childermass," he says, hysteria building as he hears his own voice coming from elsewhere, "I cannot walk."

"It's shock," says Childermass. "Give it a minute." He casts a cursory glance about and directs Mr Segundus' attention towards the nearby dry patch beneath a large oak. "Do you think you can make it over there?"

Childermass is obliged to repeat himself once more before Mr Segundus quite takes in what he is saying. Mr Segundus nods in a single, jerky movement and prepares to force himself into motion.

He makes it there, after what seems an inordinately long time, with his fair share of trips and stumbles and sudden halts (but Childermass is very patient with this and steadies Mr Segundus each time his footing is lost).
He is dimly aware of Childermass telling him awkwardly that he has done well and helping him to sit amongst the dry, dead grass and dusty summer dirt. Mr Segundus thinks that he smiles at him but it is hard to know if this is what actually shews on his face. Likely it comes out as more of a grimace, but it is fine. Childermass will know what it means. He usually does.

Mr Segundus hugs his knees to his chest and watches the dull silver buckles of his shoes. Childermass has the sense to leave him be. The downpour continues about them, and it is as if the world is letting out a great sigh of release, but Mr Segundus does not hear it over the roar and din of blood rushing in his ears and the over-abundance of thoughts crowding his mind. He blinks and realizes he has taken out the pearl - his pearl - and so he simply looks at it for several minutes, turning it over with cold, numb hands and inspecting its minute intricacies and imperfections. He puts it away in his pocket when he can stand to look no longer.
It is worse, perhaps, to have it. It is a comfort to know that he is all in one place again, but to hold his life in his hands and yet be unable to truly make it his again is a cruelty beyond measure.

Mr Segundus' vision blurs. He touches his face and his hand comes away wet. He realizes that he is crying again and somehow the realization makes him do so all the harder. He lacks the energy to fight it, but even in his right mind Mr Segundus could not have contained the heaving sobs which rack him now. A welcome pressure comes to rest on his shoulder, but then the owner thinks better of this action and withdraws it, urging him a moment later into a rare embrace instead. Mr Segundus muffles his tears in the damp shoulder of Childermass' jacket, clinging to him like a drowning man. A hand comes up to rub wide circles into his back. The weight of it is steady, dependable, not unlike Childermass himself, who has the grace not to complain that Mr Segundus cries rather more than he rightly should for a man who has just been told he is not dead.

Mr Segundus has cried before over his death (un-death), of course he has, but today's revelations send him over the edge and he finds the breath knocked from his lungs with the force of it.

It feels like he is being rent in two. He does not know why he is reduced to such an incoherent state - is it the shock at finding out? Is it anger at being deceived, at his own utter foolishness? Is it distress at knowing he could have avoided all the grief, all the strife of these seven years past - and simply by saying 'no?' Is it misery at his own nature and how it bars him from salvation, or does an enduring sense of hope add its happy number to his tears? Is it him cursing his curiosity, his naïvete, every weak, kindly part to him which trusts more than it should? Is it relief, or is it dread, or is it all of this - and more - at once?

The memory of what Mr Segundus has been made to suffer for the better part of a decade is crashing down upon him in one moment. He can hardly bear it.

The low rumble of Childermass' voice comes to him dampened, as if through a wall. "We'll get thee right," he says firmly. "I promise you that."

Mr Segundus sniffs. He still hides his face in Childermass' shoulder, not wishing to be seen like this. Which is ridiculous, he knows, for Childermass is already watching him cry, but this is different somehow.
"I think," he begins haltingly, but then his throat catches and he starts again. "I think I would like that. I think I would like that very much indeed."
His voice is thick like syrup, trembling like an autumn leaf, and his heart convulses in his throat. "But it is useless," he tells Childermass. "I cannot... I cannot. Not when I am the way that I am." Here Mr Segundus realizes he is teetering on the edge of a rather dangerous admission. He volunteers no more information. He fears he has already given far too much as it is.

Childermass, bless him, takes the pragmatic approach and assumes Mr Segundus' words stand in reference to the more obvious hurdle here. "And yet I can see you," he says. "What is to say that there are not others?"

"If there are," he mumbles, "I have not met them."

"You," says Childermass, "would not know if you had." This is, to some extent, true. Mr Segundus looks ordinary - just another living, breathing person if one does not watch him too closely. Nobody would approach him on the street, proclaiming their ability to see him - for why would they?

Mr Segundus detaches himself and draws back, wiping his eyes and face on his sleeve. He meets Childermass' gaze and finds it softened, which goes some way toward soothing his mortification at exhibiting such vulnerability. Head at a tilt, Mr Segundus manages to ask; "But you-?"
His throat is raw. His words are still shaky.

"-I did not. You told me that I did."

But this still does not work, does it? Not really. How rare must these theoretical people be? Can Mr Segundus truly chase down every man in London and beyond just to test such a hypothesis? Besides - just as one cannot coax a sapling to mature any faster than its wont - one cannot force true love to take root in the heart. No, it must develop at its own pace, for one cannot chuse to love. One cannot select the person who sees him in a crowd and blindly assume that this is fated. No, it would be absurd.

Almost as absurd, he thinks, as attempting to maintain the concealment of his inclinations from somebody promising to help him find his true love.
Mr Segundus' next words are, in a way, markedly similar to how a man does not know he is about to fall down the stairs until he has already lost his footing. "I will not find my true love," he blurts out - abrupt and unthinking, feeling a surge of unusual, most regrettable boldness. "Men like me so rarely do."

That was reckless.

Oh, that was reckless indeed.

Why in the world did he have to go and say that?  And yet, even as he hates himself for his folly, it feels such a relief to make his nature known.

"Men like you?" repeats Childermass, frowning. He has that look in his eye - that inquiring gleam of intrigue, like a fox catching a scent - which tells Mr Segundus his secret is to be discovered whether he confides it in Childermass or not.

But Mr Segundus very much wants to tell Childermass the truth of his own volition. He wants to summon it up and let it run loose, consequences be d---ed, but the ramifications of honesty are a matter he is scared to test. And his secret - on the tip of his tongue but a moment ago - has fled to God-knows-where. It has been so long concealed and so very well hidden that he cannot seem to call it back.

"I misspoke," he lies, this being easier than the truth. "Pay it no mind." He has put too much of himself out at once. He does not know how to put it back.

"You did not," Childermass tells him, his voice firm. "If my judgement is what makes you hesitant, know that I am in no position to pass it."

Mr Segundus feels far too exposed. He feels like the layers are being peeled off him. He is simply small and helpless and unprotected, laid bare with no secrets left to him. "But you are in such a position," he miserably insists. "You would despise me for it. I..." He sniffs again and looks down at the grass to hide the tears welling up again in his eyes. "John, I do not think I could bear it if you did."

Childermass reaches out and crooks a calloused, ink-stained finger beneath Mr Segundus' chin, tilting his face upwards so that their eyes meet. He raises one eyebrow.
"John Edmond Segundus," he says, "I could never despise you."
To which Mr Segundus' mouth twitches in some watery semblance of a smile, and Childermass produces a smile too, the one which goes all up one side of his face - Mr Segundus' favourite - and asks; "Trust me, would you?"

Mr Segundus sighs, gently pushes Childermass' hand from his face and decides to risk it.
"Very well. But you must know what I mean.” He bites his lip. “Men like me. Men who... who desire other men." His voice grows quieter and quieter as he talks. These matters feel too delicate to be spoken audibly; every word is too loud for him by far. By the time Mr Segundus has finished explaining, his voice is little more than a cracked whisper.

And what does Childermass offer in response to this? Well, surprize writ clear across his face, Childermass lets out a bark of a noise which sounds suspiciously like laughter to Mr Segundus' ears.
He might have known it would be like this.

Wary of further ridicule, Mr Segundus recoils. "You needn't laugh," he mutters - feeling wretched, and hollow, and unbearably weary. "It is hardly so humorous as all that. I did not ask to be unnatural, you know, or deviant, or... or..." He looks down and realizes he is picking at his cuffs again. His hands tremble traitorously. He shoves them into his pockets.

But Childermass calls him none of these things. He shakes his head. "No. I do not-" He stops. "Come, John, look at me. I do not mock you. I am"- he pauses, and this is the most uncertain Mr Segundus has ever seen him -"I am," he says, "much like you, and I did not truly expect it to be so. That is why I laugh."

For several moments neither of them make a sound. All there is to be heard is the distant rumble of thunder, the bullet-like rain hitting the dusty earth and the incessant hammer of Mr Segundus' heart.

He is having difficulty swallowing.
"Oh," he mumbles, still shaking all over with the dregs of fear yet to dissipate. "Thank you."
Mr Segundus finds himself occupied with fighting the stinging at the back of his eyes. "I am very sorry," he says, blinking quickly and fervently wiping his eyes, even laughing a little through blurring vision, "I do not mean to be difficult. I am only... " Mr Segundus trails off and swallows around the lump in his throat. Wordless, he shakes his head at nothing in particular.

He is not quite sure how he feels, even now when gladness and relief should trump all other emotions. For, even as he smiles wide and laughs, Mr Segundus' fragile state still necessitates the concealment of tears and a great deal more damage to his fraying sleeves.

Not saying much at all, they sit for some time, waiting for the rain to ease. Mr Segundus, a little uncertain as to where they now stand, sneaks furtive glances at Childermass. Occasionally Childermass catches his eye and smiles his sideways smile in return.

Finally, when the rain has let up enough for walking to be feasible, Childermass stands. "It'll do us no good to sit here all night," he says, offering Mr Segundus his hand. "We'd best be going."

After two attempts Mr Segundus manages to take the proffered hand and allow Childermass to pull him to his feet. Childermass watches him warily at first, but after some experimental pacing Mr Segundus can assure him that he is - albeit unsteady on his feet - fit to walk again.

So they make their way back, walking fast to get out of the rain. In half-breathless tones, Mr Segundus explains to Childermass what he has remembered, what the fairy had tricked him into accepting. He is immensely thankful that Childermass does not say a word as to his idiocy, instead merely nodding and asking one or two clarifying questions.

Mr Segundus had said earlier (how very long ago that seems!) that he would find an empty room for the night. But when they arrive at the Hart, he finds himself loath to be alone. He is truly grateful that Childermass accepts it without question when Mr Segundus follows him into his room.

Chapter Text

Mr Segundus lets out a breath. He is glad to be out of the open; he is glad of the room's smallness and dinginess; he feels an inch away from breaking down again, but, at the very least, he isn't to be alone.

Averting his eyes as Childermass hangs up his wet things to dry and pulls on his nightshirt, Mr Segundus instead takes the time to examine his pearl and its box in light which is (though dim and flickering still) slightly better. It is a peculiar object - they had tested it on the walk back to the Hart and out of the two of them it is only Mr Segundus who can touch and handle the box and its contents. The laws of physicality do not appear to apply, for interacting with it requires none of the concentration which Mr Segundus would otherwise have needed to put into practice.
So he holds it now, examining how it catches the candle-light, and then; "Childermass," he asks musingly, shewing him the blue-grey box, "what colour would you say this is?"

Childermass seats himself next to Segundus, mattress dipping under his weight, and looks over. "Grey. Why?"

"Because it does not look grey to me. Or it looks grey, but I do not think that is what it is. I cannot quite... "

"Well? What is it, then?"

A crease draws between Mr Segundus' brows. "A sinking feeling, I think."

"Hm."

A brief pause, in which Childermass simply watches him. "There is a fire in the taproom, you know."

Mr Segundus frowns with incomprehension. "Why?"

He is shivering.

"Oh," he says, feeling rather slow and stupid. "No, I think I shall stay here. There are too many people downstairs."

Childermass tilts his head. He had thought that Mr Segundus liked people.

"I do," Mr Segundus tells him. It comes out more clipped than he had intended. "But I would rather avoid them tonight."

Something like uncertainty flickers over Childermass' brow. Then his expression settles and it is gone again. "I will go," he offers. "If you wish it, that is. I am not opposed to it."

Abashed, Mr Segundus shakes his head fervently. "No! No, I did not mean you. You can stay." He blows out a breath. "I am sorry," he apologises, fretful, "I am all out of sorts. I do not mean to be irritable, sir - I hope you do not take me to mean that-"

"-Calm yourself. You've done nowt wrong."

Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is bitter - he is for a moment surprized that this has come out of his own mouth. "I have done a great many things wrong, Childermass.”

"Sounded like just one to me," says Childermass. "Hardly your fault for being curious."

Mr Segundus rubs at his tired, red eyes. "You make it sound far less senseless than it was."

"I am not denying the senselessness of it in the least," replies Childermass, fixing him with a wry look, "but you seem to know it well enough with or without my input. The fact remains," he says patiently (far more patiently than Mr Segundus feels he deserves), "that you were tricked. Your only crime, sir, is trusting more than you ought."

The muffled sounds of chatter and cheers drift up to them from downstairs. Rain drives hard against the window. Mr Segundus looks upon Childermass' face, calmed by the utter familiarity of it, by the agreeability of his features - which, as we very well know, are thin and crooked and twisted up like a hedge root. But I beseech you, dear reader, to recall that amity is remarkably adept at altering our perceptions, and that it is, perhaps, not so very odd that Mr Segundus should gaze upon them with such affection after all.

When Childermass asks what his heart's desire was, Mr Segundus coughs in embarrassment and rubs self-consciously at his shoulder. "You can very well guess that," he says. "I do not think it was ever a particularly knotty question.”
Mr Segundus happens to be predictable. To see magic returned to England is a significant thing, but he feels childish to name this out loud as his heart's desire. It does seem quite an infantile wish - an idealistic flight of fancy which he should by all rights have grown out of as a boy, a child who found his friends in Pale, Dundale, Winchester, Uskglass.

Such curiosities are often left behind once one grows older and taller and finds that the world is not nearly so magical nor adventure-filled as once anticipated. But Mr Segundus, you may find, is nothing if not endlessly curious. Perhaps it is fitting that this very trait should be his undoing.

Childermass cocks his head. "I thought so. From the heart of the revival, no less."

Oh dear.

"What has you worrying now?" asks Childermass. "Don't deny it; it's plain upon on your face."

But Mr Segundus is not listening. I hope you will not hold this lapse in manners against him, for he does not consciously chuse to ignore him - he just does.
Now, he considers, that is a thought. Could their meeting have been a direct result of this deal? It has always seemed, to him, rather too fortuitous for belief. What are the chances that the one person who could see Mr Segundus just so happened to have magic flowing is veins?

Mr Segundus is inclined, in the nature of one accustomed to disappointment, to be suspicious of good fortune lest it turn sour. So perhaps it is only wariness drawing these conclusions. Mr Segundus should like to think so, at any rate, for it disturbs him a little to wonder whether his bargain still holds influence over him even now. He does not think he and Childermass became friends as a direct result of the deal (it having been such a long-winded process), but the first year or so of his knowing this man were so clouded with utter disconsolation that he does not trust his memory of them a great deal.
On this he determines to reflect some more, but his train of thought is soon interrupted by the need to stifle a yawn.

Several minutes later find them in bed. After a brief scuffle, of course, what with Mr Segundus having determined to sleep on the chair and Childermass shooting him a great many exasperated looks. Childermass wins.

He has taken the side closest to the door and Mr Segundus chuses the lesser exposed, by the wall. A silver-grey light dimly illuminates the room for, though the hour may grow late, summer hours stretch long. The rain still patters down outside, maintaining a steady rhythm which shews no sign of letting up, and the indistinct murmur of conversation can be heard from the taproom.

Although he cannot quite be said to be in them, Mr Segundus can feel Childermass' warmth through the sheets and it is, it must be said, a great comfort to have it. It is a blessing to be reminded that he is not alone.

Mr Segundus tries to sleep, but - bless him - his repose is not forthcoming. Something in him rebels, urging him not to sleep just yet. It seems Childermass struggles also, for the man comes to strike up conversation after some time.
Together they converse in hushed voices of life, death and matters of the heart. Childermass grows strangely reticent at this last (though Segundus does not push him) and nudges the topic away from himself whenever it becomes too personal. Mr Segundus has spent many years doing much the same, so he can hardly find fault with this.

For his part, Mr Segundus is grateful for the ability to discuss these things. He is glad not to have to watch his words about Childermass and even more so that his closest friend is one of those rare people who understand. It is good indeed to have such anxieties resolved.

Childermass seems more interested in Mr Segundus' own experience than he is in speaking of himself. Mr Segundus suspects that Childermass is hoping to find his true love amongst his past paramours, but he will be disappointed if so.

Mr Segundus' history is hardly the most riveting. He lays out a few brief acquaintances in university cupboards, several fleeting attachments and one now-estranged childhood friend (Edward Basingstoke - from whom, he says, still smarting with the hurt of years ago, he had learnt to keep his inclinations secret), and can feel the man next to him losing hope by the second.

"Anyone memorable?" They were all memorable. The question Childermass means to ask is this: 'anyone you loved?'

A smile plays over his lips. A long time ago, he had known a bookseller's assistant - Henry. (His eyes were a very particular grey - like dark river rocks, like a storm in the dead of winter - but intensely warm all the same.)
They were companions for some time. In the third year (a little after the publication of Mr Segundus' monograph) Henry had gone back to the Americas to care for his ailing mother. They had parted on amicable terms, though he can only hope Henry forgives his not sending a single letter since 1806.

Childermass pauses. "Do you wish to write him another?"

He thinks on this. "I should like to, yes." It is uncertain whether Henry has the same address, but perhaps it is worth a try. "But not in the way you are thinking of."

"Remind me when we're back at Hanover," says Childermass. "We'll write your letter."
He sighs, and Mr Segundus hears a rustling of sheets as Childermass turns to face him. His eyes glint in the fading light. "Anyone since we met? Lascelles, perhaps? Mr Norrell?"

Laughter bubbles up in Mr Segundus' throat. A moment later, Childermass follows under his breath. "No," says Mr Segundus.

Childermass smiles his sideways smile. "Mr Strange?"

"For a time. I fear it is not him either."
Not to mention that he is a married man! It would be most improper. Besides, affection built wholly upon admiration is a very hollow sort of thing.

And so they go back and forth for a few minutes, but Mr Segundus cannot make out a single instance of possible true love. Part of the difficulty comes from the impossibility of defining true love. What is it? His other relationships are hardly diminished for lack of it - what in the fated aspect of it makes such a love inherently more worthy than the rest? Perhaps Mr Segundus will not be sure of true love until he has felt it - but perhaps he already has, and perhaps it is more trivial and easily-forgotten a matter than the term quite suggests. He is wrong-footed by the whole affair.

Thankfully, Childermass does not intend to keep them up till morning. The conversation gradually makes its way to an end, a slow dwindling to silence which Mr Segundus finds himself infinitely glad of.
He has reached the stage of tiredness in which a man does not realize the whole extent of his exhaustion until he closes his eyes. The first time Mr Segundus falls asleep, he does not so much fall as he plummets.

-

When he wakes later in the night, restless, Mr Segundus lies awhile merely watching the ceiling.
He listens to Childermass' breathing, letting his own fall in line with it, and shifts a little closer to him.

He lets out a shaky exhale, too loud by far in the still summer air.

It's going to be all right.

It's going to be all right.

-

John dreams of Simon, something he hasn't done for a while now.

Simon is rapping on the window. He smiles his laughing smile when John opens the sash and helps him in.

Once inside, Simon takes one look at his red-eyed face and his own melts into understanding. "She told you? he asks.

John is momentarily distracted by the task of refreshing his memory of Simon's face - the mole by his ear, the curl of his short, cropped hair, the speck in the iris of his left eye.

It strikes him, as ever, how very young he is. It feels wrong to be older than Simon ever was. As a child, the three years' difference between them had seemed so utterly insurmountable. And Simon does not appear to take any notice of this, but John feels the decades which have grown up between them like a dragging weight.

"Yes," he answers.

And Simon grins. "High time, too. I half-feared she never would."
He is eerily bright. Not enough to dazzle. Just enough to turn the darkness of the room from black to a softer sort of grey. But then again, he was always very bright - even in life, back when he joked and laughed and exchanged with John those secret looks of mutual amusement so routine to a pair of siblings.

John smiles back. "Thank you," he says softly. He cannot remember at present what this conversation is about, but something tells him to express this anyway.

Simon sighs. He turns a fond, wearied look in John's direction. "You'll be fine," he promises. "Hold on."

-

-J.C-

-

As is habitual for him, Childermass wakes early in the morning. Beside him, curled into himself like a cat, is Segundus - peacefully asleep.
It is strange. He does not often share his bed with someone he cares for (though this is of course not quite the same). His work does not allow the time for such inane dalliances.

He contemplates waking Segundus for an early departure. It happens to be, however, that the man is smiling faintly in his sleep, and this stills his hand just long enough to decide against the move. After all that Segundus discovered last night, Childermass can hardly consider it fair to deprive him of sleep on top of all that.
So, instead, Childermass leafs through their books till the arrival of a more reasonable hour. He flicks the occasional spare glance at Segundus, not sure how to feel.

It is not him; Segundus is too good for him by far. What sort of fate would place him - coarse, harsh, disreputable - with Segundus - this kindly, proper, sympathetic gentleman? Nay, it is an utter impossibility.

Childermass has known this from the start. Why does it ache? He could never be Segundus' true love. Not unless he becomes a different person altogether, and this face happens to be one he has grown comfortable in - God knows how long he's worn it for.

But Childermass tells himself that this can only be a good thing. These feelings have caused him naught but distraction and disorder. It is a good thing to have a definite rejection, for he has been aware all along that this was never going to happen - this will surely be the thing to put an end to his folly. Childermass does not have the time to become embroiled in matters of the heart, and he is not nearly so affectionate nor loving as Segundus deserves - and this confirmation, he asserts to himself, is a good thing.
(This is what he tells himself, at any rate. The validity of this argument I shall leave for yourself to determine, for in truth I do not think the world of Mr Childermass' present reasoning.)

So - willing this contemplation to cease and knowing it will only do so with the occupation and distraction of matters more mundane - he rises in order to dress and ready himself for the day. Childermass goes about it quietly, but they are both of them light sleepers and Segundus stirs just a little later as Childermass is tying the knot of his cravat. Upon hearing the soft sounds of waking, Childermass looks over, wanting to see whether the man's spirits are risen any higher today.

"Morning."

"Good morning," returns Segundus, sitting up. He hugs his knees to his chest, regarding Childermass sleepily. He looks peaky - there are dark bruises of circles beneath his eyes, a whitish pallor to his face. "Did you know that you sleep with your eyes open?"

"I did not. Couldn't sleep, then?"

Somnolent and drowsy, Segundus shakes his head with a yawn. "No, not particularly well." His hair is sticking up in places and flat on one side where he has slept upon it. Childermass finds this strangely endearing, though no sooner has he registered his folly than Segundus begins combing fingers through his hair and coaxing it back into presentability. "I woke twice," he continues, "I was restless. But Childermass," he says abruptly, "tell me I did not dream yesterday up."

"I can attest that you did not." Childermass tilts his head to the side. "How are you faring?"

Segundus does not answer him at first, though at least this is more of a present silence than the unnatural absence of yesterday (which had felt more akin to talking through a wall than anything else).
Childermass directs his attention back to doing up his waistcoat, noting with a bitten-off curse that he has lost a button somewhere or other. Likely yesterday, in which case he will have to find more when they are back in London. He is not eager to retrace all his steps all for the sake of one singular button. And Childermass suspects, also, that Segundus wishes to go home as soon as possible.

Childermass peers out of their little window. Now that the sun - an artist painting the sky in vivid oranges, blues, pinks and yellows - has broken out across the horizon, the land seems all the more verdant for last night's downpour. Diamonds of dew sparkle in the grass, twinkling amidst several yellowish-purple, star-shaped flowers which Childermass does not recognize (and suspects to be the handiwork of a certain fairy).
A magpie alights upon the birch below, shaking the thin branches and letting loose its usual litany of chattering nonsense. Through the grubby window-panes, it is rendered inky and imprecise like a smudged signature.

Now Segundus sighs and Childermass turns attention back to him.
"I am not sure," his ghost hedges, "how to answer you. I shall second-guess myself whatever I say. Maybe it is good to know that there is a way (and I am very glad not to be dead, believe you me) - but it is a rather hopeless one, is it not?"
Segundus' eyes are still red about the edges. "I am," he confesses, "rather lost. I fail to see how it is possible, let alone feasible."

Then Segundus looks off to the side, hugging knees tighter to his chest, tugging at his sleeves. "And besides," he whispers, as if by saying it quietly enough he can erase the sentiment, "I am scared."

Childermass sits down next to him. "You need not be," he says. On reflex he goes to put a hand over Segundus' and still the frantic worrying at his cuffs, but the man is only so substantial as a cloud of fog on a frosty winter morning.

("I am sorry," mumbles Segundus, apologizing as if it is his own fault. "I do not suppose I have the energy after yesterday."

Childermass shoots him a sharp look. "You don't owe me a thing," he says, "least of all that.")

"Segundus," begins Childermass, then thinks better of it and calls him John instead. "Listen to me. We'll find a way, " he says, and he means it. Segundus' way out is more along the lines of capturing lightning in a bottle than anything even moderately sane - but are they not magicians? Are they not intelligent fellows? A way can be found. "If I ever do one thing for you, it will be to set you right."

Segundus, despite his state, looks somewhat amused by this claim. "How can you possibly know that?"

"It is my business to know everything." (Segundus gives him a look of mild exasperation.) "When we first met, I promised that I would help you, and you know I always keep my promises."

Segundus laughs weakly - a relieving sound.
"What of last March?"

Childermass answers quickly. "That does not count."

"Or the year before that, in York-"

"-You would understand," says he, lying through his teeth, "had you been there."

"Reading-"

"-That was an isolated affair."

Segundus shoots him a faintly amused look. A smile of Childermass' own tugs, crooked at his lips.
"Very well," he concedes, "perhaps not all. But those were promises I made to others. This is you, sir, and I keep my promises to you - don't I?"

"That is true." Segundus still looks anxious. "Only I..." Face twisting, he shakes his head. "Pay me no mind. I am being ridiculous."

"How so?"

"I... I fear I will have forgotten how to be alive."

He is indeed being daft, but Childermass does not voice this opinion.

"I will forget to eat, Childermass. And I shall forget to drink, and to talk, to breathe, and"- his ghost lets out a choked half-laugh -"and I will walk into walls, you know - and talk to myself, and eavesdrop without end, and-"

"-And you'll adjust," Childermass cuts in. It has become clear that Segundus will be at this till the turn of the century if not brought to a halt. "And I will be there. I have told you from the very beginning that you should not bear this alone. I am not going to rescind that any time soon."

And so Segundus nods in appreciation, but it is clear that some fresh problem has been plaguing him. At length, Childermass extracts this too. And so he continues to gradually argue his friend's doubts and worries down.
(Segundus falls to fretting very easily. It's best to ease these anxieties as they occur - otherwise, they grow worse and overwhelm. And now, at a time when Segundus is frightened and bewildered and does not know what will become of him, it is essential to Childermass that the man should worry as little as possible.)

Eventually he manages to wring a proper smile out of Segundus. Later, a laugh (non-embittered), something which Childermass is grateful of in the extreme. He catches himself considering that he might do anything for that sound and curses the thought.
This is ridiculous. He simply cannot want Segundus in that way. He cannot. He is needed as a friend, not a lover.

-

As they leave Hetherstone Village, they pass through a tunnel of green, broad-leaved oaks, littered with knapweed and campion and clover. The daylight filtering through lends perfect clarity to the world at large - it seems almost too real. There is scarcely a cloud in the sky; an expanse of perfect, unbroken blue spreads its wings wide above them.

Segundus, walking alongside Childermass and Brewer, seems lost in thought. His pace is slow and meandering because of it, but Childermass does not ask him to speed up.
But, "Calm down," he says, breaking the quiet. "Tha'll be fine - by Bird and Book."

"I do hope so."

"And I would not expect any more than that."

They are silent for some time.

Then Segundus sighs.

He reaches up and plucks gently at Childermass' sleeve, grazing the skin of his wrist as he does so. Regardless of the coldness of that touch, the ghost of it sends a gentle warmth trailing up Childermass' arm. Segundus turns his head towards him, a stray lock of hair falling in his solemn eyes as he moves, and Childermass (hands tightening on Brewer's reins) suppresses the familiar urge to brush it out of his face.
Segundus hesitates. "Thank you," he says, not quite managing to meet Childermass' eyes.

"For what?"

"For this."

A swallow warbles somewhere far-off. Wind rustles through the trees.
Childermass is not sure how to take this.

"What is 'this?'" asks Childermass, breaking the pause. "Tolerating your presence?"

Another lingering moment of quiet.

"I would not put it that way, but yes." A small line has appeared between Segundus' brows. It occurs to Childermass that the man cannot tell whether or not he is joking.

"I do not merely tolerate you, Segundus. You are my dearest friend; you would do well to remember it."

Ears turning faintly pink, Segundus addresses his next words to the ground. "Forgive me," he says, "I know it really." Then he lifts his gaze to Childermass, a hint of humour in his eyes. "I suppose it goes without saying that you are mine."

Childermass tilts his head. He smiles slantwise at Segundus. "I could not have guessed."

Segundus waves a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, I am well aware that my options are limited. Still," he puts forth, a flush raising high on his cheeks, "given the choice, I would chuse you over those from before."

Childermass hums doubtfully. "Then you are woefully misled. I am not so good a man as that."

Disbelieving, Segundus raises his eyebrows. "I shall pretend you did not say that."

And Childermass laughs.

Then; "You know," says Segundus, "I dreamt of him. My brother."

"You dream of him often?"

"I used to rather more frequently when I... When we first met, that is. I have seen little of him as of late."

"And you think your fairy told the truth about him?"

"Oh, I think she told the truth about every thing." Briefly Segundus looks as if he will say something else, but he stays silent in the end.

"Go on."

He visibly dithers. "You will laugh."

"I will not."

"I think... I think perhaps it was him."

True to his word, Childermass does not laugh. I might venture to suggest that it is not such an outlandish proposition for a ghost to exist, and particularly so when its proposer is a ghost himself, but I digress.
And now Childermass addresses a question to this very same ghost: "Did he give you any message?"

Segundus pauses, absently biting his lip as he remembers. He looks tired.
"'Hold on.' That is what he told me. 'Hold on.'"

-

DECEMBER, 1813.

-J.S-

-

Jagged, intricate spirals and peaks of frost sprawl out across the window-pane in elaborate patterns, half-obscuring the world beyond their domain. Familiar strains of music drift up from the streets below - this carolling accompanied by the faint, distant ringing of church-bells. And, all-pervasive, the indistinct murmur of a city coming together.

Watching a woman pass through the Square, Mr Segundus finds his contemplation turning to the matter of Lady Pole. He had not known, before, why he should have felt such a kinship with her. But as of late, the answer to this question has been all too clear.
He cannot help but wonder how she fares. This day, above all others, is a time for family and companionship. Mr Segundus has his - does Lady Pole have hers?

He hears the creak of a foot upon the stair. This is a gait as familiar to Mr Segundus as his own. Turning now, he smiles widely to witness Childermass ascending.

"Merry Christmas."

Mr Segundus smiles. "Merry Christmas," he returns.

Something of his musings must still shew in his face - Childermass pauses before entering Norrell's study, one hand resting on the door handle. "Later?" he asks.

Mr Segundus nods. Childermass mirrors the gesture in acknowledgement, turns the handle and goes in.

-

Some hours later, as Childermass works through the household accounts at his desk, they find the opportunity to talk.

Mr Segundus has done his thinking upon the matter of Emma Pole. At present, he and Childermass have decided that she is held by some kind of enchantment and a muffling spell. The cause of all this they have determined to be her resurrection and, possibly, a fairy deal made during that same event.

It is, of course, possible that the fairy had simply stolen Lady Pole's nights away on a whim - he has certainly done so with Walter Pole's butler - but after the revelations of this June Mr Segundus has settled upon the theory that her condition is the result of a fairy bargain. (Childermass, not one to jump to conclusions, still maintains a neutral stance as to whether it was the product of a bargain or of the fairy's own will.)

Now Mr Segundus brings up, once again, the much-debated question of whether Lady Pole's missing finger could be at all involved. He pauses briefly. "Do you think we ought to-"

"-We," Childermass says immediately, not so much as looking up from the page, "are not summoning one up to ask for it back. You've a fraught enough history with them as it is."

"I do not see another way."

With a shrug, Childermass dips his pen back into the inkpot and continues writing. "Nowt we can do."
An oft-repeated sentiment. Mr Segundus is tiring of it.

He huffs. "But there is something! Just because it is - I confess - somewhat hazardous, it does not signify that we ought to give up!"

Childermass lays down his pen. "Segundus," he says abruptly. "Between you and Lady Pole, who do you think I would rather protect?"

Segundus understands his meaning. In Childermass' eyes, Mr Segundus takes precedence over Lady Pole. Heretofore Mr Segundus has been the target of no less than three antagonistic fairies, and as such it is reasonable that Childermass should be reluctant to let him enter negotiations with one. Still...

"Do not hold yourself responsible."

"But if I do not," he says softly, "then who else will? For how many other people know of her enchantment, sir? And not just Lady Pole, but her butler too! It cannot be many, Childermass - it really cannot. And, as such, the duty of aid surely falls to those who are aware."

Childermass is silent for a moment. "If you can find some other way - one which does not endanger you - then I may be more amenable to it. But I draw the line at this."

Mr Segundus, a little put-out, promises to think upon it. Reluctantly so, for he does not suppose there is a safe way of doing it.
Though the matter is to remain weighty in his mind, Mr Segundus allows Childermass to steer the conversation away from the topic.

They talk of other things, Childermass leading the conversation at first until Mr Segundus thaws and becomes inclined towards verbosity once more. And how very much there is to discuss! There is a Frost Fair to be held upon the frozen Thames - something Mr Segundus has not witnessed since his youth, and news has reached them Mr Strange has moved a river in the Peninsula, and far-fetched rumours of a ghost are flying about Hanover-Square again, courtesy of Lucas.

(Childermass shakes his head at these rumours. "What fool," he says, "sees a pen roll from a desk and attributes it to a ghost? It could just as well have been a draught."

Pressing the knuckles of one hand to his mouth, Mr Segundus stifles a smile. "But he is correct, you know," he says mildly. "Even if his evidence is... insubstantial, I suppose." Then he appends; "Don't roll your eyes, Childermass; it's rude."

"Rude to whom? He's not here."

"I shall tell him."

"Forgive me if I find that threat unconvincing."

Mr Segundus' grin turns into a laugh.)

Childermass' head is bowed as he scratches out a calculation onto a piece of scrap paper. He talks little - and Mr Segundus rather more than that - but such is often the way between them. It is a comfortable balance that they have struck.
Childermass does inform him that somebody has strung up mistletoe by the servants' stair. In a fit of impish humour, no doubt, this being a sure way to cause traffic.

Mr Segundus simply smiles.
(It was Lucy and Hannah. He'd spotted them early this morning - flush-faced, laughing, each shushing the other's mirth as they put it up in the doorframe. But it is not Mr Segundus' secret to disclose and so Childermass will not hear a word of it from him.)
He leans forward. Is Childermass contriving to pass someone beneath it?

Childermass coughs. "Yes," he answers, fixing Mr Segundus again with that queer dark stare of his. "Perhaps I am."

"Oh!" exclaims Mr Segundus. His question had run more along the lines of teazing; he had not truly expected an answer in the affirmative. "Who is it?"

Childermass is silent for a moment - he is considering something, Mr Segundus decides. "Davey."

Well, it is not to say that there is anything wrong with Davey, but Mr Segundus can perhaps be forgiven his confusion if one considers the great unlikelihood of this claim. "Truly?" he asks.

"O' course not. Are you scheming something?"

Mr Segundus does not think he likes the idea of frightening some poor person out of his wits. This is not intended in a humorous vein, but Childermass laughs darkly nonetheless.

There comes about a lapse in conversation. Childermass turns back to his work.
After a few moments of this, Childermass makes a face at the calculation before him and scores it out in a brisk, impatient movement. "The devil take it," he mutters. "This cannot be right. Look"- he rotates the paper so that Mr Segundus might see -"where am I wrong?"

Mr Segundus frowns over it for several seconds, squinting to decipher the untidy scrawl of Childermass' numbers.
"Did you carry that three?"

"I did-" Then Childermass looks down at the sheet, sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "-n't. Aye; that'll do it."

As he watches, Mr Segundus smiles. Upon noticing, Childermass meets his eye with a questioning glance, but Mr Segundus only shakes his head silently.

One may argue that his bargain has brought naught but melancholy - yet Mr Segundus cannot help a slight measure of gladness, really, for how else could he possibly have met John Childermass if not for it?

Chapter Text

JANUARY, 1814.

-J.C-

-

For his part, Childermass had been amenable to aiming a few subtle questions at Norrell, receiving avoidant non-answers and nervous Don't You Have Somewhere To Be's, but it seems that Segundus has a little more in mind for the matter of Lady Pole. Today, when Childermass informs Segundus of this lack of success, his friend is only half-listening. (Though Segundus volunteers no ideas at first, Childermass is sure to hear them soon enough.)

They are, at present, in Segundus' bedroom (a guest room, but Mr Norrell and Guests are not concepts which ordinarily mix, and so it is more often a ghost room). Mr Norrell has yet to retire; they are not safe to talk in the library - and nor in the servants' quarters, for the rest of the household is settling now and is, for the most part, still awake. Childermass would rather they had use of the library. A safer, less intimate setting, with greater distance put between them and the barrier of it to stall the temptation of saying what he should not. It feels a steadily growing risk that he might let something slip - that the words might unthinkingly tumble from his lips, should he not be harsh enough in repressing them.

Dust sheets are draped over the disused furniture. It is Childermass' view that they lend a needlessly funereal look to the room, but 'tis a view which Segundus finds amusing. And it is not, as he has pointed out before, as if he spends much of his time in the bedroom, and as such he does not mind it so long as he needs not sleep on the sheets (a matter arranged easily enough).

They are seated upon his bed - Childermass having settled with his back to the headboard, a book open in his lap, Segundus cross-legged beside him and leaning over to read. But somehow, Childermass doubts that either of them have absorbed a single word in the past five minutes.
Segundus' hair is rumpled and messy (he is developing the habit of running a hand through it while thinking) and Childermass is pointedly not finding it endearing, just as he is not finding that for the drowsy frowns and too-long, twice-turned sleeves, for his stifled yawns and the way he- Nay, no more of that.

Segundus taps him on the arm. "Childermass," he says, finally abandoning the pretence of reading. "I have been thinking-"

"-Have you."

Segundus rolls his eyes, this followed by a little inward frown of self-chastisement for the motion. (Childermass is never quite sure why he resists the picking up of such mannerisms. It must be on sheer principle alone - certainly not for disinclination to offend, seeing as they were Childermass' in the first instance.)

"There is no need to be impossible. I have been thinking," Segundus resumes, "and it seems to me that it might not be so absurd to summon up a fairy after all. For- Ah." He stops and sighs upon seeing Childermass' face.

Childermass looks steadily at Segundus till he begins to fidget with embarrassment, and then he takes mercy and breaks the silence. "A hundred times," he says slowly. "I must have told you a hundred times now that this is recklessness. Perhaps I would understand more had your experiences with them been of a positive nature, but where each of them ends in tears I begin to question whether it is the fairies who possess more reason than thee."

Undeterred by this flattering assessment of himself, Segundus persists. "But I have remembered something. The fairy - the one who took my life - he took my memory as well. And, though I was not able to make his sister see it, would you not say that to do as he did - to hide it without intention of revelation - is theft all the same? I do believe he is indebted to me."

It may be so. But is it wise for Segundus to put himself at risk once more? Is it not made all the more convoluted by the specific fairy with which he means to commune? What naïvete propels him still? What makes him so determined that magic is a force for good? Magic is dictated by its wielders, and none are better wielders than the fair folk, who act on whim, on vengeance, on madness. Something Segundus would do well to remember.

It is true that this is not entirely fair. The proposition is formed from a desire to help - to aid another life blighted by the fae - and its risks duly considered. But that does not render it tenable.

Regardless even of his concern that Segundus should come to harm, Childermass does not expect him to fare well when faced with the greatest reminder of everything he has come to lose. For a time after the revelations of June, Childermass had worried for Segundus - more than was his wont, in any case - Segundus, who had drawn into himself, prone to depressive silences and distracted airs, and who had suffered a resurgence of his nightmares, seeking out Childermass upon the particularly fraught nights and doing his best to conceal the telling tremble of his voice. Segundus, who had affected to be the same so long as daylight burned. But later, when the candle was out, darkness granting him his privacy - his deniability - that pretence was liable to fall away.

Childermass had done his best, but there is only so much that one can do to ease another's pain, and more so when it is a thing they must come to terms with themselves. One may calm and help as well as he can, but he cannot dissipate a cloud of despondency; nor can he reach into a head to pluck out the nightmares there. (Just as one cannot controul the twisting of his own heart. Just as one cannot controul an affection so strong it aches - the contracting of thorny briars about his chest as he checks himself time and time again for wanting what he should not.)

And yet it is the nature of all things to persevere. A tree will continue to grow even when felled by a storm. Its leaves will always angle themselves towards the sun, striving for the light and freedom of the open air. And John Segundus will find a way to survive, even when that very path is barred from him.
With the slow, incremental passing of this melancholia had come a second lease of life (or so to speak). Perhaps it was the knowledge of a second chance, and perhaps it was the desire to push back against his circumstance, but - whatever the cause - Segundus had been much inclined to be himself again, doing what he could to engage with the world. A refusal (steadfast, as in all things) to let this be the thing to break his resolve. And a campaign which has, in fairness to him, been running all these years, but which accelerates with the confirmation that there is more in store for him than this pale half-existence.

Segundus has been better these few months past, though Childermass cannot discern just how much is owed to sheer force of determination. But it does not matter how Segundus has found cause for cheer, only that he takes care not to misplace it again. Childermass has witnessed twice over what such upheaval does to John Segundus, and he is not in possession of the slightest desire to witness it again. Not for such a cause; not for anything.

"I still do not want you striking a deal with him," he says - this being what little protection he can offer, the closest he can get to 'I cannot stand to see you hurting.'

Segundus shakes his head quickly. "It would not be a deal, not as such. Childermass, I-"

"This is senseless," says Childermass. "And it is dangerous. And the worst part is that you know it already. What makes you so reckless?"

"I want to help," comes the stubborn response.

But it is not just that, is it? Segundus wants to help, through genuine goodwill and empathy, but he wants also to leave an impact, to shout I Am Here! He wants something that is within his power to change. He wants to put a reason to his exile from the living, wants it to be more than just wasted years.

"Childermass," he says, softly, looking him in the eye with a queer intensity, "I know it is foolishness. But I want to help, and the Lady is so tied up in fairies that one cannot deliver aid without involving them." Segundus shakes his head. "I think, also, that my contractor will not wish to retain a debt of any sort, for I recall him as very proud, and it is not so much a deal as the claiming of due compensation - do you see?"

By Childermass' reckoning, Segundus is rather like a limpet when he becomes set upon something, in that he simply does not let go.

"To be frank, sir? I do not. But I see you do not intend to let this rest. So if I agree, you must agree to a term of my own - that I do not want you to be present."

Segundus blinks. "Why so?"

Because it will only hurt you to see him.

Because I loathe it when you are upset.

Because there are a thousand and one different things I would willingly do for you, but putting you in harm's way is not one of them.

Because I love you.

"You do not fare well with fairies," he says bluntly. "So, should you permit it, I shall negotiate in your stead. Does that sound fair?"

Evidently not, judging by his expression. "Not to you!” he cries. “No, I do not feel right about you doing this alone. I must object."

"I'll be fine. 'Tis you I worry for."

"What, and I do not worry for you?" Fretful, he picks at his cuffs. "If anything were to happen to you on my account-"

Childermass hushes him. "Do you trust me?"

Though unhappy, Segundus nevertheless nods.

"I will be prepared. I will not let him trick me. You have said it yourself - this is not a bargain. It is not so dangerous."

"But- You were arguing the opposite a moment ago-! You," he accuses, "are merely being trying for the sake of it."

Well, that is quite simple to explain. A moment ago, Childermass had thought he might talk Segundus out of it. Now he has seen he cannot, his argument is focussed upon taking him out of harm's way.

He does not tell Segundus this. Instead, he enquires, "What am I to ask him for?"

Segundus sighs at his evasion and thinks. "Answers," he says. "A memory is not much - certainly not enough to ask for anything significant - but we can make do with answers. I do not know how many he will see fit to grant (if he does even that) but I should expect that one or two would suffice."

"Then what questions? Shall we say three?"
Segundus opens his mouth to speak, but Childermass cuts him off. "And," he appends, "they are not all to be about Lady Pole. 'Tis your memory, not hers."

Segundus nods again. He shifts; his arm brushes Childermass'. The latter flinches away - masking the instinctual jerk with a dry cough so as to spare Segundus' feelings - for, as unwise as it is to touch, Childermass has never been able to withdraw quite as bluntly as he should. He is not harsh enough with himself.
Perhaps this is why his feelings persist, regardless of half-hearted attempts to tamp them down. Childermass has, so to speak, wandered far too deep into these woods to ever find his way out again, and it is nobody's fault but his own that he has ventured so far in.

So where does this leave him? Restraining the little urges and broader temptations, but not to such a degree as to be sufficient. Aiming to shield the object of his affection from himself, and yet managing only to worry and confuse him.

Segundus knows - not of Childermass' attraction, but he knows. He has noticed a shift, and some weeks ago he had approached Childermass about it (so very hesitantly), and queried as to whether he had caused Childermass some upset or other, and all Childermass had been able to produce was the assurance that it was naught wrong with Segundus - that it was a problem of his own and, given some time, he would be himself again.

Segundus had swallowed down a reply and nodded. He has not questioned it further - and nor has he brought it up since, save for the little concerned glances he is wont to send Childermass' way (gaze darting from him like a minnow as soon as the latter notices it).

"I should like to know," Segundus begins, hiding another such glance now, "how one would go about disenchanting her. That is crucial. And - if I should be allowed a second - I would like to know whether one would require the token of her bargain in order to perform it. Oh - do you suppose we need to ask that? You might ask how to acquire it, I suppose. It rather depends on how fully he responds to the first.
For a third... Oh, I do not suppose he could say so accurately, but if he could, somehow, I desire to know whether I am ever to have my life restored to me."
Then he draws in a sharp breath. "Wait - no, do not ask it. I do not wish to know."

Childermass is confused. "You do not?"

"No, I do not. I know very well that I will regret asking."

"And what if you do not?" he persists. "What if the answer is a good one?"

"I still would not wish to know, Childermass. If the answer were no - which it likely is! - what would I hope for then? Even if it were a yes, it would mean I spent the remainder of my days wondering whether this or that person were right. I could not live like that. But - come to think of it - you might ask that for me."

"Who it is?"

"No, not the person. He will not answer that. After all, why should he? There is no fun to be got from merely telling me!"
Segundus' voice runs up towards the end of the exclamation. He composes himself and resumes more quietly.

"I meant the remainder of my days - I am aging still, so what happens when I live out the length of my mortal lifespan? If I should chuse the wrong person, say, or never find the one to free me." He takes in breath as if intending to continue, then shakes his head to himself and says, "Yes. Yes, I think that is what I should like to know. Would you ask that for me?"

"That I will."

Segundus smiles. Childermass allows himself a wry flicker of reciprocity before he looks away.

They discuss several more matters, such as where to find the summoning spell (Hurtfew; it is always Hurtfew) and when is best to do it - May, for that will be their next visit - and then their conversation migrates naturally to more general topics, and then not much at all, running out in their tiredness of remarks with which to detain the other man (disinclined as they are to leave one another's company just yet).

The hour grows long. Segundus lies back, hands folded neatly over his stomach, gazing up at the ceiling with a thoughtful frown upon his countenance (for all the world as if the paint and plaster present some kind of magical conundrum) as he exchanges absent murmurs with Childermass.

Later yet, Childermass posits a half-serious theory on Hether-Gray and receives no response (odd, what with Segundus being such a dedicated supporter of the magician). He looks over and finds Segundus asleep.

Here is that softness to him, with his nervous energy put aside, a quality which Childermass has been trying not to contemplate for a very long while.
Childermass grimaces, overcome by the unwelcome burden of his affection. He knows not what to do with it, so deals with it the only way he can. He crushes that unwanted longing back into the cage of his ribs, back where it can do no harm, hidden away from out in the open.

He absents himself from the room, puts the book back into the library, and goes up to his own draughty attic quarters. The solitude of it is usually a blessing, but a blessing which he would gladly trade now for the ability to remain beside Segundus, if only for tonight.

-

EARLY MAY, 1814.

-

All sound abruptly dies as the spell takes effect, an ethereal hush muffling the moor like a heavy blanket. The shriek of birds is silenced; the blowing wind quelled. But somewhere far-off, he thinks, the rain is pattering down.
The sun has receded behind heavy, swelling clouds, and the sky has grown dark as jet.

The candle-flames are flickering madly, speaking in a language he does not understand.

Childermass looks up.
A fairy is standing before him with a bored, languid quirk to his eyebrow. 'I have come a very long way, you know,' his expression proclaims. 'This had better be worth my time.'

A long silence. "Well?" His voice, thinks Childermass, is as rainwater gushing through grime-filled gutters. The pungent smell of petrichor permeates the air. And an uncomfortable dampness - the kind that clings like smoke.

Childermass swallows down his distaste. An unpleasant-tasting medicine, aye, but he must keep his composure now more than ever. It will do him no good to commit some breach of etiquette and find himself placed under a curse.

For it is evident that this fairy is bored. And a bored fairy is the very worst sort, you see, for the mundanity of existence is intensified in the extreme when a lifespan is so extended as theirs. And when they are bored (as they so often are), is it not to be expected that they might do anything - anything at all! - to relieve such enduring tedium? Such as, I suppose, appearing to every layman who summons him in the hopes that he might be able to inflict some of his own gloom upon them, too? (Or even, I might venture, taking a life?)

Oh, he may cover it up with scathing mockery and haughty looks, but make no mistake about it: this one is bored. Childermass must handle him carefully, for to pique this fairy's interest may secure success - yet to lose it will endanger him greatly.

"There was a man," Childermass begins in a business-like manner, breaking the heavily expectant silence. "He summoned you in the September of 180-"

"-Him?" the fairy complains, holding up an imperious hand for silence. "Now, you did not call me over him, did you? I have been pestered enough about the damned fool as it is."

His voice, if one examines it past that uncanny resemblance to running water, carries almost precisely the same cadence as Lascelles'.

"-He summoned you in the September of 1806," resumes Childermass, ignoring the interjection. "He was desirous of learning magic and his curiosity had led him to you. You promised his heart's desire in exchange for one possession of his. And he trusted you, so you took advantage - and his life." Brittle irritation seeps into his voice, try as he might to quell it. "But in order to conceal the taking of it, you stole another thing from him - from several others besides."

Having foreseen where this is going, the fairy throws Childermass a truculent look, eyes flashing like lightning. "I did not steal it-"

"-You concealed it seven years," he continues brusquely, "which is as good as that. You had no intention of restoring it to him. I should define that as theft - at minimum deception."

The fairy's face twists. It is a face suited to twisting - his nose is long and upturned, his arching brows haughty and pointed. His supercillious eyes are like brilliant chips of ice - cold, freezing stars. Spellbinding in their way, though the inhuman coldness of them sends one recoiling just as much as he is drawn in by them.

A long pause.

"Very well," he says, though his frigid eyes do not match the agreeability of his words.

Childermass presses on. "You owe him. He wishes to collect that favour."

At this, the fairy's gaze rakes up and down Childermass' form, appraising him lazily - and it is evident that his assessment of Childermass does not add up to much, for his lip curls up into a sneer and he laughs with a mocking huff of breath. "What are you?" he asks, incredulous. "His shield?"
Oh, but he and Lascelles would make the dearest of friends. If they did not kill each other first, that is.

"I represent him."

"Is the wretched creature such a coward that he cannot represent himself?"

Childermass bites his tongue. (It is foolish to insult a fairy. It is foolish to insult a fairy.)

The fairy hums. There is a distinct sense of I thought so about the noise, though his face is so sour and displeased yet that resentment cannot quite dampen Childermass' feelings of vindication.
He has the fellow ensnared, now, for if there is one thing a fairy cannot bear it is unfulfilled favours. They collect them from others, yes - one's firstborn child, a page from one's own story, etc. etc. - but to owe a favour themselves is a different beast altogether. A fairy is a prideful creature; he does not care to incur debts.

"And what does your mouse wish for in compensation?" the fairy adds, dismissive, "I shall not restore his life, mind you."

"Knowledge. We want to know-"

"You want to know whether he loves you? That is easy," he says flippantly. "He does not."

Childermass stares at him. Shakes his head. Hates that the words chill like freezing water down one's back.
"No. No, not-" He clears his throat. "We do not wish to know of that."

Annoyed, the fairy sighs, a sound like wind rustling through creaking boughs. "I cannot find his fated love for him either, you know. If you mean only to waste my time-"

"We want to know about a fairy enchantment."

"Oh?"

The fairy frowns. Childermass waits. Then a slow, predatory smile steals across the other's countenance - ice, thinks Childermass - ice freezing over the surface of a lake. "Oho," he says. "Now, whatever has you meddling in those? I have put him under no other enchantments myself."
He laughs abruptly - a sound of genuine glee which is, somehow, even more unnerving than his cold and affected amusement. "Tell me, magician, did dear sister Angelica lose patience and curse him? I should not be surprized; one must wonder at all the words he can cram into that little head."

"He is not the victim."

"Do take care who you call a victim," he says idly. "I know a fair few fellows who would have your head for such a claim."

Childermass does not rise to it. He waits.

His vision is beginning to grey a little about the edges, and the world seems muffled, but he fights against the sensation. If Childermass is to lose consciousness here, no-one will find him for some time. This is both a drawback and a benefit of performing the magic here - away from the eyes of Norrell, yet far from any sort of help.

It has barely been twenty seconds before the fairy huffs and gives in. "Fine," he snaps. "Five questions - and five answers."

Childermass' mind is foggy with magic, but he recalls the need for precautions all the same. "Then you must answer truthfully."

"I do not lie," he spits, wrinkling his nose in disdain. "Lying is for fools affecting to be clever."

"And you will answer fully."

"Yes, yes. Let us get on; I do not have all day."

"Very well. We wish to know about Emma Pole," he says. "She was resurrected by one of your race, and now spends her nights dancing with the fae. She-"

He holds up a stalling hand. "-Spare me the drivel! I am aware. What is your first question?"

"How are we to disenchant her?"

"You need me to tell you this? Well, you need what she is missing. Join the parted articles, magician, and make her whole. Well. You could always kill her enchanter, I suppose." He casts another coolly appraising look at Childermass and smirks. "Or not."

"You have not told me what it is she is missing."

The fairy smiles unpleasantly. "I do believe that constitutes another question."

Childermass stares. "Are you always such a-"

"Is that-?"

"-Nay, that is not my next question. Besides," he mutters under his breath, "I already know t'answer. Sir, you must tell me what she is missing in order to answer me fully."

The fairy sighs (with wholly gratuitous melodrama). "Her finger, you blockhead."

"Thank you," says Childermass, resolving not to be riled any farther. "My second question is this: how are we to find it?"

He scoffs. "I won't be getting it, that's for certain. That fairy would kill for the mere offence of your having eyes on her disenchantment."

"That is not what I asked."

"Go and make a deal with him for it; how should I know? I dare say you will struggle to acquire it through any other means."

Childermass nods. "My third question, then, is to do with your contractee. What will happen to him when he lives out his mortal lifespan?"

He waves a hand. "Oh, the bargain will end. He will join the other ghosts, if he is one of that tedious, maudlin crowd who choose to remain. Well - he could move on, but I am not so sure that he will. He never struck me as the sensible type."

"You knew him for all of an hour."

"Did I really?" he asks, utterly disinterested. "It should have been less."

Now that is something the both of them can agree on. In some other world, John Segundus never knew the fairy at all, and he is a happier man for it by far.

Would Childermass be so? That much is debatable. Through Segundus' involvement in the York Society, he does not doubt their paths would still have crossed - though not nearly on such good terms. Childermass imagines that Segundus' magicianship would not endear him to Norrell, and thus this solitary, other-world Childermass would never have known him. Would not have memorized the lines of Segundus' face nor known the distracted tangents of his speech, the light of his self-effacing laughter, the insatiable curiosity of him.

And Childermass finds, strangely enough, that he pities this version of himself. That, despite the deep ache of loving John Segundus, it is worth it all for knowing him. It is hardly conceivable that some other Childermass goes about his business so unaware of the hole carved out in his soul.

"My fourth question," he says, wrenching himself back to the present world, "is why you saw fit to trick him."

(They had discussed the possibility of extra questions beforehand - had drawn up a list. "I do not think," Segundus had said, brow furrowed in concentration as he took up the pen and wrote 'WHY?' in a weak, tremulous hand,¹ "that it will yield a satisfying answer. But I must know.")

Shrugging carelessly, the fairy makes a face. "I was bored. He was tiresome. A life is not so difficult to take, you know. Not when you have done it before."

And if Childermass did not hate this creature already, this thoughtless cruelty would be the very thing to make him.

But what of the fifth question? Well, Childermass does not ask this one. It is the last in a sequence - whether it be wishes, challenges or answers - which holds all the power. A rule rooted in folklore and echoed throughout magical history. One may happily squander the first few questions to no real effect, but it is wisest to retain the final one for a case of real need.

The fairy huffs impatiently when Childermass informs him of this decision. "Very well," he says icily. "Jack Chatterbrook is what they call me - you may call it yourself when you think up your question."

The candles are blown out, sending wispy, trailing columns of smoke through the air.

And, just like that, Chatterbrook is gone.

Childermass feels the withdrawal of the magic like the most utter relief he has ever known. He sinks unsteadily to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, breathing shallowly from the intensity of the magic (dissipating, yet potent all the same). Refusing to succumb, he blinks against blackening vision - but stubbornness never saved anybody from fainting, and I dare say that Childermass is no exception.

A few moments later, he comes to. The air is still damp and humid, and the cool rush of riverwater echoes in his mind yet, but the gathered clouds are beginning to part now, returning sunlight from the captivity of their inky depths.

He stands too fast, sways dizzily, and is obliged to consign himself to the grass for the next five minutes.

-

Upon walking back to Hurtfew (the magic had been performed in a tavern nearby, Childermass not wanting to chance the casting of such strong spells within the same house as Norrell), he cannot seem to locate Segundus.

Having walked about much of the Abbey in confusion, he ventures outside. Here he finds his ghost in the stables, making tentative friends with Brewer. Childermass hangs back and watches this scene for a moment. For years Segundus has been nervous and flighty around the beast - it is only recently that he has begun to face this fear.

Which is difficult, for Brewer is still somewhat skittish around him also. Animals are, as you recall, anxious to be in the presence of a ghost - at least until this ghost proves himself of little harm. Never having become used to each other's company, the horse is a little uneasy of him still, and so Segundus rather fears affrighting Brewer himself.

Childermass has no wish to disrupt the process. For a minute or so he looks on from the doorframe, not granting the pair awareness of his presence. But he cannot spy upon these two forever, can he? When Childermass feels he cannot reasonably linger any longer without oddness, he ventures in.

So Childermass reveals himself by voicing a greeting, to which Segundus turns and smiles warmly at him, enquiring as to what business brings him out here.

"You, in fact."

"Me?"

Brewer nudges Childermass with a soft whinny, receiving a pat on the neck for his troubles. "I have asked him," he informs Segundus - "your fairy."

Segundus' eyes widen. There is a tinge of excitement there, but it is clouded over by anxiety. "You are well, yes? Nothing went wrong?"

Childermass tells him aye, but Segundus remains apprehensive. "You are quite sure?"

"You needn't fret so. I'm fine," he insists.

"But you look-"

"-Dreadful, I know. You may blame my mother."

Shaking his head in denial, Segundus stifles a smile. "I have never thought you dreadful in my life. No, sir, I mean to say that you are quite as white as a sheet! Come," he bids, "you must tell me inside - but after you have sat down, of course, for you look fit to fall over."

So they go in. Segundus keeps a cautious eye on Childermass all the while, much as if anticipating his keeling over dead at any moment. It is a level of fussing which is entirely unnecessary, though it would be a blatant lie were Childermass to claim that the concern did not please him even a little.

Once the three of them are settled - yes, three, for a certain animal had snuck out of the servants' quarters, come up to the door and miaowed until Childermass let her in - Childermass relays the new information.

That they must reunite the Lady with her missing finger - must join the parted articles - he adds, remembering the queer phrasing. That Chatterbrook did not know quite how to acquire the missing token, but did imply that it was in the enchanter's possession, and that the latter is a violent one who wishes to keep hold of her - though this they already know from Segundus' own experience.

"Is that enough?" he asks.

"I believe so. I do not think there is any thing we can do just now, but. . ." Segundus trails off, thinking. He absently scratches behind Cat's ears. "Yes, I should think it is enough to go on."

"As to the other questions," says Childermass, "I have asked him what happens when you die."

"Oh?"

"You will be freed from the bargain by death. You may move on. If you so chuse," says Childermass, "you'll be able to remain. But I do not think you should."

"Oh," Segundus murmurs again. "Thank you. 'Tis good to know. I had rather feared, you see, that I might be bound to the earth forever, what with my already being - well - dead, in a sense." He smiles a slight, glad smile. "I shall admit it has weighed on me."
Cat purrs contentedly as she butts her head into Segundus' hand, and his smile grows affectionate as he pets her obligingly.

He looks up. "Ah - did you remember to ask him why he did it?"

Fixing Segundus' eyes with his own, Childermass sighs. "Aye, but you won't like to hear it.”

Segundus nods stiffly as Childermass tells him.

"I am sorry for it," says Childermass. 'Tis not enough, but he must say it.

"Do not be," Segundus chides, eyes flickering away. "It is not your doing, and the answer was rather what I suspected in any event. What of your final question?

"I thought we'd best leave it till we needed it. Should you desire to ask it, he told me to call his name when I did. Here - I shall write it down."

Childermass finds an old bookseller's receipt in his pocket and writes the name upon that. He hands it to Segundus, who mouths the syllables to himself as he looks down at the paper (laughing softly to himself as Cat squirms out of his hold and leaps down to pad about on the floor).
"I shall keep it in mind," he says, smiling at Childermass. "Thank you."

A moment later Lucas rushes in, looking wide-eyed and confused, spots Cat stretching out upon the floor and - utterly relieved - scoops her up. “Cat!” he exclaims.
Then he notices Childermass and clears his throat, embarrassed. "She got out," he says by way of explanation. "Shan't happen again, I promise."

Chapter Text

LATE MAY, 1814.

-J.S-

-

"Childermass!" exclaims Mr Segundus, rushing in to find his friend composing letters at the desk.

Childermass does not look up. "Hm?"

"Mr Strange is back! He was here - just now!"

"Oh. That." Childermass does not sound terribly surprized.

"What?" he asks. "You mean to say you knew and did not tell me?"

As Childermass begins a new page, the corner of his mouth twitches in subtle, furtive amusement. "Thought you'd prefer the surprize," he says.

Mr Segundus realizes rather abruptly that he is being baited.

"Ah," he says pleasantly, "all right. I suppose I shan't tell you what happened, then."

Childermass levels him a sceptical look. "You will," he predicts. "You will. I give it two minutes before I know all."

"No, no," refutes Mr Segundus, "I shall leave it a surprize. You can ask Strange himself."

Childermass laughs (and oh - how light it makes Mr Segundus feel!). "You know very well that I will not."

But Mr Segundus, desirous of teazing his friend some more, does not indulge him. He drums his fingers upon the table beside him. But it is a curious thing - every few taps, he hears the muffled sound of it. He frowns down at his hand in confusion and stills the movement of it.

"Come," Childermass prompts, "I shall not wait for gossip. You know how Lucy twists it."

Mr Segundus only shakes his head, tuts sadly, and pretends to walk out of the room.

But Childermass is not fooled (he so rarely is). When Mr Segundus pokes his head around the door a moment later and re-enters, Childermass raises one unimpressed eyebrow and the ghost cannot help but grin back.

For a moment, their gazes catch and snag - holding just a hair too long. A palpable uncertainty comes to dance about the air between them, though Mr Segundus cannot see why this might be.

So the silence stretches out until Childermass cuts the taut string of it with the welcome interjection of his voice. "No need to be childish," he says, and Mr Segundus breaks from his gaze with a huff of laughter.

"I do believe I can be excused it, you know."

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me?"

"I am. It was not much, truth be told, but he did look in my direction several times (though did not spy me). He complained of it being cold, also - and you know how warm Norrell keeps that room."

Mr Segundus hates the cold. It feels like a punishment of sorts, an added cruelty. But it is useful in determining who has felt his presence. Nowadays most will at least shiver should they, for example, walk through Mr Segundus. For some - those more sensitive, he has theorized - to be in the same room is enough. Childermass is certainly one of them, and Lucas on occasion, and today Jonathan Strange.

Childermass smiles his sideways smile. There is something assessing about it - but then again, all of Childermass' looks tend to contain great multitudes and Mr Segundus has not the wherewithal to pick this one apart. "I take it you are glad of his return."

"Oh, very much so."

"Good," says Childermass.

There is a cleaning-cloth left out upon the table. Dido had gone out as Mr Segundus came in; he assumes it has been forgot amidst the towering stacks of paper cluttering Childermass' writing-desk. And now Childermass throws it to him, saying; "Catch!"

Mr Segundus fumbles but manages to catch it, laughing even as the awkwardness of it turns his ears pink.

"My dear sir," he says, somewhat mystified. "What was that for?"

Childermass simply goes back to his work. "A surprize," he says mildly.

Mr Segundus sets the cloth back down on the side-table, throwing up his hands in a mock-exasperated gesture of I-give-up. "Oh, why not? Let us run in circles forever! Must you-"

Then, eyes widening, he stops. A flush creeps up his neck. "Oh. You are experimenting on me!" he exclaims, a trifle scandalized.

"Merely conducting a study."

(Well. 'A study' is better than 'a surprize,' but not by much.)

"Will you think it terribly impolite if I demand no more vagueness?"

So Childermass gives in. "You're more solid with him around. As you were the last time. You were not concentrating when I threw that cloth, and yet you still caught it."

"Yes," he says quietly. "Yes, that is right."

"Do you think of him as a friend?" Meeting Mr Segundus' eyes, Childermass folds his arms. "I have been wondering, sir, whether the connection between the sightings is that these are all people you think well of."

Mr Segundus ponders it for a long moment. He has been sighted in flashes by a few, now, and it seems to him that these few are indeed persons whom he finds agreeable. He excitedly expresses his accord and Childermass continues on, wondering something about the people whom he would have known, were he not a ghost.

But Mr Segundus, his attention drifting, finds himself - quite against intention! - growing distracted. What does this theory mean for his regard of Childermass?

-

NOVEMBER, 1814.

-J.S-

-

"My dear sir!" exclaims Mr Segundus, rising from his seat as Childermass enters the parlour with a scowl darkly writ across his countenance. "What troubles you?"

Childermass strides over and collapses wearily into the chair opposite. "Christopher Drawlight," utters he, drawing out each syllable as if it has committed him some personal offence.

Mr Segundus nods in sympathy. "What is it this time?" he asks.

Leaning forwards, Childermass fixes him with a sardonic look. Irritation is set in the taut, rigid line of his shoulders. "Were I to tell you," he says, "you would not believe me."

"I shall be the judge of that."

So Childermass laughs - a sharp, bitter bark of a laugh - and tells him of Mr Strange's unhappy discovery.

"But you cannot be serious!" cries Mr Segundus, appalled and dismayed. "Such deception! Never have I thought-" He realizes that he is gesticulating madly and stops himself with an embarrassed cough.

He inclines his head - "Truly?"

Childermass tips his own head acant. The weak winter daylight plays darting games across his face; Mr Segundus reflects upon the pleasing shades and contrasts presented thus and wonders briefly as to whether the hawkers in the streets below might sell paint in the precise colour of his eyes, fierce and dark like the embers of a dying fire.
"I would not lie t'you," he says (a claim which sounds most remarkably like a lie to Mr Segundus' ears).
"Besides, you shall hear plenty of it soon enough. Norrell, is determined to see him hanged, though I dare say he will not manage it."

Mr Segundus' eyes widen. "Why so harsh? Is not Mr Drawlight his friend?"

"He was." The words are biting.

One might easily assume that Norrell was almost waiting for something like this to happen - his paranoia, his hoarding of books, and his possessive, suspicious nature are all vindicated now. But one wonders, naturally, whether it was worth it in the end. Would this betrayal still have been the case had Mr Norrell let in other, more well-meaning people instead?

Mr Strange, for instance - although he has not managed to reverse Norrell's more paranoid tendencies - had thawed something in the man when he became his pupil. All of a sudden, Norrell had found himself burdened with the knowledge that he was no longer alone and, rather than mourn his loss of standing as England's only magician, he had come to embrace the fact - had even come to admit Mr Strange into his library, his own sanctum sanctorum.

Mr Segundus does wonder, on occasion, whether Mr Norrell is simply lonely. The magician does not often enjoy the company of others, mistrusting their intentions and preferring to remain with his books, and yet Mr Segundus has seen how the man lights up at the mention of Jonathan Strange, never once hesitating to praise his pupil to others.

There is something, he supposes, in the fact that Mr Strange understands Norrell (or as far as anybody might be expected to understand the confounding man). Mr Segundus knows well how finding such a person may change one - even if in subtle, creeping ways, even if so gradually as to go plain unnoticed.
Now, had Norrell known more magicians like Mr Strange, who is to say that he would not have grown warmer? For he is a cold man, true, and so are his policies, demands and notions of respectability, but his love for the magic is anything but. If, say, he could be persuaded to feel with some of that warmth for his fellow man (as with Strange), would he still be the same man as this? The man, that is to say, who does not hesitate to condemn Christopher Drawlight, who does not trouble to deny such accusations through any idea of friendship, through misjudgement of his goodness.

Well, it is too late for such wonderings. (The real irony, of course, is that Mr Norrell has been employing a magician all this time - one who aligns, to some degree, with his views on English Magic, and who possesses an entirely equal devotion to the cause. A magician, however, who Norrell refuses yet to acknowledge as such, though whether for reasons of class, respectability or position it is unclear. Mr Segundus, try as he might, does not suppose he will ever understand Gilbert Norrell.)

"-so?"

"Oh. Oh! My apologies, Childermass; I was away with the fairies."

"That much was clear. I asked," he repeats, "whether you suppose he might be induced to lose faith in Lascelles also. They are a pair, aye? I say we do not need him."

Mr Segundus shakes his head regretfully (though finds himself inordinately pleased by the 'we'). "I doubt it. They are not a pair any longer."

"Shame," notes Childermass, leaning back and folding his arms. His eyes linger upon Mr Segundus, who is not entirely sure what is expected of him here.

"Quite," he agrees, for want of any other response.

A pause descends. Childermass drums restless fingers on the sides of his arm, blows out a breath and says he intends to take a walk - and a smoke - to clear his head. "Coming?" he asks, as if the matter is in question. As if Mr Segundus would ever chuse not to.

They come out by the servants' entrance. Standing by the doorway as Childermass lights the pipe, Mr Segundus contemplates the remarkable deftness of those skilled hands.

As easy as it would be to simply light it with magic, Childermass is obliged to use his tinderbox, for it does not do to perform such things around bystanders. Mr Segundus has long wished for Childermass to reveal himself as a magician - it irks him to see his friend so overlooked - but, for the sake of his position, Childermass cannot. He is confined to secrecy, little as one may like it.

Oh, but how it bothers him! Why are Norrell and Strange assigned such lofty titles as First and Second whilst all other magicians are so utterly overlooked? And because they do not fit the narrow standards set for birth, status, respectability - simply put, because they are not gentlemen. This is the natural, unthinking way of it, and - what is worse - Mr Segundus does not suppose he would have noticed the injustice were Childermass not so known to him.

But it is not as if said bystanders would be likely to notice it anyway. Not with this fog, which is thick as pea-soup and humid enough besides that they may as well be drinking it. The people upon the streets are far more absorbed in the task of escaping these smoggy, soot-filled dampness and finding refuge in their homes to even consider sparing a glance for a potential magician.

They walk. Childermass' strides are brisk and impatient. Mr Segundus has to walk fast to keep up but, contrary to the usual, does not ask him to slow. For Childermass needs space to clear his mind and to plot his next movements - and Mr Segundus suspects this is something best done in silence. Inane chatter may serve to calm Mr Segundus, social creature that he is, but Childermass thrives in the quiet moments.

Mr Segundus casts the occasional glance at Childermass, hoping to see some of the anger bleed out of him.
At one point a mail coach trundles through Mr Segundus, who yelps in surprize. But Childermass merely asks if he is all right and does not deign to teaze him at all, which he supposes is a testament to how distracted he is.

Childermass directs them down a narrow alley. Leaning against the wall as he smokes, he is silent for some moments. After a time, he turns his head and fixes Mr Segundus with an inquiring look, as if to say spit it out.

"What next?" asks Mr Segundus, breaking their silence.

His low voice clipped and caustic, Childermass tells him that the next step is asking around to discover Drawlight's other victims. Mr Segundus wonders anxiously as to just how much damage this misguided venture of Drawlight's will do.

"More to Drawlight than to us - though I'll doubtless be quashing rumours all this year and the next. The d---ed man!" he curses. He waits for Mr Segundus to admonish him, takes the lack of chiding with mild surprize, and resumes. "What idiocy provoked him?"

Segundus sighs. "I suppose it is not so much idiocy as greed. But," he chances, "what of Mr Strange's other discovery? The Roads? You mentioned those earlier, I believe."

Childermass' ill-temper slowly (but surely) wanes as he tells Mr Segundus of Strange's crumbling bridges and moonlit arches, of roads standing stark against a silvered, desolate backdrop - drained of colour like bleached cambric. Mr Segundus, observing with satisfaction this turnabout in humour, congratulates himself on his stratagem and listens, rapt, as Childermass relates.
As ever, magic proves the greatest distraction of them all. So Mr Segundus leads Childermass down this path until he is more like his usual self - though still nursing anger - and judges that this is the best he can do to help. For he himself struggles with the knowledge of Drawlight's betrayal - and how much more a blow is it to Childermass?

It is not so much that Childermass had particularly trusted Drawlight; neither of them did. It is not necessarily wise to put faith in a man who drives others into debt for his own personal gain. But betrayal stings regardless of whether one might anticipate it. Why, to throw aside the nobility of such a cause for mere monetary gain! To exploit the overlooked and the desperate! And the despised, yes, but does being hated (or even hateful) warrant such deception? I dare say it does not.

Mr Segundus does hope that Drawlight has not damaged the cause too badly. Rumour of this is sure to spread like fire - it will take great care not to inadvertently fan these flames, particularly so where personalities such as Strange and Norrell are concerned. There will be less trust in magic, or at least for a time. Perhaps this will serve to enshrine their authority as magicians, eliminating any idea of a third party, but perhaps it will also do the very opposite - damage not just their standing but that of English magic as a whole.

Childermass is certain that the spark which is English Magic will outlast this, and Mr Segundus is rather in agreement, but it worries him nonetheless that the purveyors of this cause should be blamed for the upset.
Will the public chuse to drag Childermass into it? He is not well liked as it is - for good reason, naturally, what with his shutting down of societies, his taking of books, even his very appearance (every bit the portent of doom in a bad play). He acts on Norrell's command, but that does not matter to those wronged - to them, he is Norrell's shadow, a servantile extension of his doctrine, and more easily disparaged than Gilbert Norrell, First Magician and hero of the age. It would not take much, surely, for somebody or other - Lascelles, say - to start up rumours of his involvement. But still, Mr Segundus does not think Childermass will stand to be a scapegoat of the slightest sort, which is some comfort to recall.

"What will become of him?" he asks.

A quick grimace flickers over Childermass' face. He takes the pipe from his mouth, blows out smoke. "Depends who he's tricked. If he's been clever, his victims'll be of little consequence and his punishment sparing. But whatever comes to pass," he says lowly, "I do not think they will hang him, not while he owes his dues yet. Nor will Norrell manage to revive the Cinque Dragownes, much as he may try." He shakes his head. "If you ask me, debt is what'll bury him in t'end."

"I suppose there is a certain irony in that."

Childermass laughs darkly. It is a most agreeable sound, though Mr Segundus should prefer it without the grimness, and also lacking the intensity of him - about which Mr Segundus does not quite know how to feel. He forces his gaze away from that laughing mouth, allows it to flick up to those queer dark eyes instead, finds this a poor decision indeed and focusses (turning to an area of greater safety) upon the posters and advertisements pasted to the soot-blackened alley wall. 
He clears his throat. Fidgets with the loose button on his waistcoat.

Childermass raises a brow. "All right?"

"Quite!"
Too fast. His voice is uncomfortably high.

They converse about Drawlight for a time, pondering what is to be done and what will come to be, and upon the natural conclusion of this discussion step out once more into the fog-hazed bustle of London. The street-lamps reflect golden ichor in the wet flagstones, carriages crowd the streets, and all about them is damp and mizzle clinging resolutely to the air.

A lady, turning the street-corner with her companion, knocks Mr Segundus' shoulder with her own. She cries out, "Oh!" in surprize, then apologizes.
Rather distracted with the task of keeping sight of Childermass' retreating back in the winter smog, Mr Segundus murmurs that it is quite all right; the fault is his own. She nods, smiles, and walks away. Mr Segundus hurries on after Childermass, keen to make up the distance put between them by the collision.

Then he stops.
Oh. Oh!

He looks between Childermass and the lady, deeply torn, and decides he must go after her. So he runs to Childermass and tells him, in a rush, "She- Childermass, she saw me! That lady there - she talked to me! I-"

"-Then what are you waiting for?" demands Childermass. "Go, before you lose her!"

Mr Segundus ducks his head appreciatively and turns back, hurrying after the lady at a good pace.
He slows to a walk as she enters his line of sight, calling out excuse me, but she does not heed him so he comes closer.
She looks to be about Mr Segundus' age, with laugh-lines about her eyes and a deep, kindly voice, and Mr Segundus takes to her at once.
"-seems to want to place," she is lamenting.

When her friend suggests, "Starecross is rebelling, Maria," she smiles.

"I suppose it does not want me to go," Maria replies, adjusting the fall of the Indian shawl over her shoulders.

"Well," the other points out, "the birds nesting in the eaves cannot help. Nor it being built like a maze."

Maria laughs. "I shall provide a ball of string. Will that not negate the issue?"

When Mr Segundus talks, she does not hear, and she does not so much as blink when he waves a hesitant hand before her face. When he taps her on the shoulder she looks around, confused, but it changes nothing. She cannot see him.

But that's all right. Better, even. If an ordinary person can see him, then something must be different. He has been seen before, yes, but rarely addressed. He has been the darting shadow glimpsed in the mirror, the phantom footfall upon the stair, the cold spot in the room. He has been the subject of rumours, the mover of objects, the prickly feeling of being watched. He has been seen, yes, but only in the context of a haunting, and in eight years this lady and Childermass make up the only two yet living who have known him without doubt for a Person. It is an exhausting affair, being a ghost - some-thing to be feared and awed and wondered at, and, all in all, not some-one who you collide with on the street, apologize to, and promptly forget.
Perhaps there will be more moments like these. To be a person is a normality that aches - and it sounds agreeable indeed.

He makes his way back. Childermass - having waited around the corner for him - greets and startles a distracted Mr Segundus.
"So?" asks the former, still taciturn but nonetheless wanting to hear all.

"Ah - she could not see me when I went back. I suspect it was only momentary the first time."

Childermass nods. "Then I am sorry for it, sir."

"Oh, do not be! I am perfectly well."
Mr Segundus offers him his hand as they begin to walk back. Childermass hesitates for a fraction of a second, shakes his head (but minutely, as if disagreeing with himself) and takes it, prompting a smile in the other, who runs a thumb over Childermass' knuckles.

"I am happy for it to be like this," Mr Segundus resumes. "If she saw me as you did, it would not mean much for my... my presence - only that she could. If she saw me for but a moment, however, it surely means something more." He hesitates and laughs a self-effacing laugh, for he cannot find quite the right words to translate his tangled thoughts into speech. "Am I making sense?"

"Not sure. Go on."

"I feel it is of greater importance that she could not see me again. It is my belief, you see, that it is something about you which makes you able to perceive me, and not myself. But in these instances, I come to suspect it must be me. I... I am still not making sense. I mean to say, also, that this occurrence was more, in that she saw me for a person. He hums. "I suppose Mr Strange was the one who came the closest to that, and even then it was in the mirror, and only for a moment." He squeezes Childermass' hand. "Something must be changing."

The air is suffused with the cries of raggedy children playing around the corner and hawkers peddling their wares. It is a life which runs separate from Mr Segundus' - but he is, for the moment, reconciled to it running adjacent to his own, at least until such a time as he might join it again. To put aside the shock of Drawlight for the moment, Mr Segundus finds that the incident of the lady has filled him with a great deal of cheer. There is a rightness in the world, but Mr Segundus does not think it is the world which has altered, much as it might have shifted on its axis for all the calm he feels.

When John Segundus was a boy, the millpond in the village had held a certain fascination for him. Over the spring and summer, he would walk down and watch avidly as the frogspawn grew into sludgy, wriggling blots of tadpoles and long-tailed froglets - then finally frogs, which poked their wet, shining heads out of the water on warm summer days and crawled cautiously onto the sun-dappled banks.

But the winter he remembers best, for that was when the pond often froze over entirely. He and Simon would slip out unnoticed, then, Mr Segundus having been too prone to sickness to be allowed out in the cold. Perhaps it was inadvisable, but then no harm ever came of it.
The ice was thick. Several times, Simon had stood upon it (simply, Mr Segundus suspects, to laugh at his younger self's sudden yelp of alarm). His mind returns every so often to those days - to him bundled up in a half-dozen layers, crouched by the banks as Simon idly throws pebbles onto the surface of the frozen pond. To him watching the contents of it suspended indefinitely, wondering if its inhabitants had so much as noticed the slowing of their lives.

No longer a youth, he has become aware that this is not how the freezing works, but the child's naïve flight of fancy lingers yet - he has often thought that it might be a fine thing to preserve a moment so - infinite, lingering, bound not by the transient constraints of time. Merely the serene silence of the ice and a boy tossing pebbles onto the pond somewhere. 
And here, decades later, are his and Childermass' hands hanging between them, linking them together, one moment out of the many moments he might like to freeze in time like a millpond in winter. Everything all at once - but, at the same time, a day almost like any other, a day he will forget even if Drawlight's betrayal he does not.

'Tis strange how time can pass so very fast, is it not? Just yesterday, it seems, he was pleading for Simon to get off the ice - or older and watching him leave, or burying loneliness in his books, in a passion for magic which (before it was his life) was a distraction and escape from all that was wrong. Equally, it could also have been only yesterday that Mr Segundus was casting his first (and last) spell, or befriending the man next to him now - not anticipating just how dear he would prove - or witnessing the return of magic to England, every thing he had dreamed of and somehow not enough to sate his longing for it (not then - not ever). The days from in-between are forgot; they are naught but a blur, naught but this interwoven collective of memories and nostalgia - but they are important, these lost moments, and he should like to keep them all.

Today is a day, a day he will forget, but that is all well and good, for he is here now, is he not? Here to enjoy the moment while time allows it to linger, and to put aside all thought of the future - for Childermass' hand is in his, and they are together, and so all must be fine. There is something right in the world, even if he cannot put his finger upon it just yet.
Spring is a long ways off, but he feels the heaviness of November's gloom breaking apart nonetheless.

-

DECEMBER, 1814.

-J.S-

-

Mr Segundus thinks he might love him.

Well, he supposes, love is a subjective term. He has, in some form or other, loved John Childermass for a great many years.

It does not feel all that different from before. In truth the stirrings of it are overwhelmed already by the friendly affection he feels for Childermass, for the way that this man fits so neatly and so perfectly into his heart as it is.

He worries over and cares for him as much as he ever has. He has been inclined, with or without this new love, to fret over the shadows under Childermass' eyes and wish that he could ease them, could say let me take care of you and guide him back to bed. He has been inclined to try and make Childermass smile in ill-temper, coaxing amusement to the fore of that dearly twisted face. Inclined to to keep an eye out in his absence for matters of importance - to bring him secrets, little scraps of gossip, every small and trifling thing which might provoke interest in his friend, just for the simple satisfaction of doing so.

It is only now that he has begun to feel for Childermass like this.  He was not, before, plagued by the tentative daydreams of the present, ones he must chastise himself for and dutifully swallow down like a bitter medicine. It is not proper to think these things. His nature he has made his peace with, but he does take issue with thinking such sinful things of the man beside him - his friend, his friend who has never expressed a bare inkling of attraction to him - yes, it is wrong, that is what it is.
And yet... the after-image of his imagination - that he might reach out and brush the wry, slant curve of those lips with trembling finger, that Childermass might smile further into the touch, might draw him closer in and closer still- No! None of that, John; do not think of it.

It will be fine.

All will be fine.

But that does not stop him from longing.

He has always longed for his company; that much is a drawback of being a ghost. But the hours did not always drag so. He misses Childermass fiercely when he is absent (almost as much as when they first met, when he was dangling over that precipice - that chasm - of uncertainty and would have done anything to keep him from leaving, but did not, for with all things considered a week of loneliness is preferable to being a clinging nuisance over something that cannot be helped).

Yes, Mr Segundus thinks he might love him. And, as much of a lovestruck idiot as he might curse himself for, he would be more fool not to. Who wouldn't love him? - him with his warm glances and dry humour, his brusque practicality, his reluctant gentleness and surprising tact? With his twisted looks, barking laugh and sly, witty nature? With his confidence - so self-assured and reliable that one cannot help but to feel he has everything safely in hand, that one need not worry with John Childermass about.

His shadowed face is like a storm in bleak winter - beautiful, as nature is, but also fierce, and stark, and unpredictable - lighted in turn by their shared passions for the magic which runs through every wild thing in England.

It is true that he can be cool and prickly upon the outside, but that is only armour, and Childermass' attempts at dissimulation and defence do not fool Mr Segundus, not any-more. He has seen beneath them far too often to perceive Childermass' exterior as the whole truth. And yes, it is true that the man may have a predilection towards sarcasm and discourtesy - but does this matter? No, not one whit.

This is, after all, the man who stopped for him when no-one else did - who saw him when no-one else could. Who listened, and who understood, and who cared with such frequency. Childermass had invited him along, and combed the papers for news of him, and shewed him his magic, and shared his secrets, and above all has been a friend at the time he has needed one most. They have known each other so long - and so intimately - that there is no-one else he would trust with such utter completeness. It is an undeniable truth that the world is easier to bear when he is around. So, with all this taken into account, is it truly such a surprize that Mr Segundus should fall for him?

God, but he feels warmth enough for the man that it almost negates the coldness of his very bones.

(There is something to his wry, sideways smile, also - that when it is turned upon him, Mr Segundus cannot quite stop an answering smile of his own, cannot help but feel he is the thing of most interest to this man, that there is nowhere else he would rather be than here, nothing else but the subject and recipient of such a look. A sudden moment of calm in the eye of a storm - all wrong things forgot, all upsets eased.
When that subtle twitch of amusement passes over his features, come and gone as quickly as a lightning burst, one knows that Childermass’ slant smiles are for himself and himself alone, a silent form of mockery of your own ridiculousness - but Mr Segundus does not think this is the case for him, not anymore.)

He has noticed a change of sorts in Childermass, in the conflicted quality of his gaze and the words left decidedly unsaid.
Does he know? Is he trying to spare Mr Segundus from the disappointment of non-reciprocation? Well, there should not be any harm in him noticing - Childermass shares his inclinations - but there is, there is. Mr Segundus quite desperately does not wish to damage the current state of their partnership.

Or, whispers a small, fragile part of him, does Childermass return the sentiment?
No, surely not. He is projecting his own feelings, his own love - it is true, he supposes, that they are never so very far from tripping over the line into a romantic form of it, and they are close enough that he must be misinterpreting. Besides, he should be happy with this. He should be happy. It is enough.

Is it?

It is. But oh, just in case it is not - is it fated?
How do you tell someone this without making assumptions? Is it not too heavy a burden to place on another?

After all, Childermass had pulled away for a time after last June - does he not wish to give off the wrong impression? Mr Segundus has turned over the affair in his head many times over, seeking to discover some sort of impoliteness or offence of his which might have caused Childermass' withdrawal, but he can only assume it is to do with the terms of his bargain.
'It is not you,' Childermass had assured him - but if not him, then what else?

Whatever the case, he should like to wait a while and see if these feelings linger before telling him any of this. It is very possible that they are not meant to be, and Mr Segundus is only assuming so based on their friendship and his lack of acquaintance with any other. It would not do to make a mistake here.

It is only that something in him feels so very certain. Would there be anyone else to understand him so deeply? Could anyone truly comprehend the strangeness of these years past without having been there with him? They will change him - have changed him. Whether or not he is brought back, he will carry his death with him for the rest of his existence. It is not something he will be able to push aside, to brush off, to forget - it is something he does not think any-one other than he and Childermass could understand.

Mr Segundus thinks he might love him. But he will keep this safely hidden, at least as best he can, until he is certain that this is the right avenue to pursue. And until then?

Till then, he can surely manage well enough. He is used to longing for the things he cannot have.

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY, 1815.

-J.S-

-

Watching Jonathan Strange stride out of Hanover-Square for the last time, Mr Segundus feels something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach.

This divide has been building for a while, it is true. Norrell's ideologies have chafed at Strange from their very introduction. But, as Mr Segundus is remembering now, the expectation of a thing does not ease the sting of it. At the risk of melodrama, your present author might to some extent compare it to a death in that, whilst inevitable, Mr Segundus had refused to fully accept or acknowledge the possibility of it, so that now it has struck him with a surprize no less distressing than if he had not expected it all along.

Mr Strange has been absent often - the vast majority of his apprenticeship has been whiled away on foreign battlefields - but there is a finality to this departure which the others have lacked.

Through smog-stained panes, he watches a footman break off from the onlookers, walking apace in the other direction, and several minutes later Henry Lascelles is knocking upon Norrell's door (no doubt upon the servant's information). Mr Segundus waits where he is - unable to bear listening in to the discussion downstairs, having no space in him to house Lascelles' anger and Norrell's distress.

He does not bother awaiting Childermass' arrival. Whilst he knows where to find him - eavesdropping in the corridors, most likely - Mr Segundus supposes they must all be at sixes and sevens downstairs. His partner is sure to be kept occupied by Norrell's anxiety for the foreseeable future. At present, this suits Mr Segundus, who does not think himself in any fit state for conversation.

Murmurs echo up from the crowd below, bearing hushed gossip and rumour. Mr Segundus wants more than anything to block them out. He turns from the window, feeling ill, and takes slow, deep breaths to quell the ache rising within him.

Sooner than expected, Childermass does find him, but even then he does not nudge Mr Segundus into conversation. He leans against the wall with folded arms, waiting for the ghost to speak first and break the silence on his own terms. Mr Segundus is immensely grateful for it.

For a while they do not speak. Then, "So," says he, "they are split." He wishes his voice would not shake so.

Childermass inclines his head in a nod. Mr Segundus is of the distinct impression that his partner does not know quite what to say. An unusual scenario, but Mr Segundus himself feels as lost as the Basque sailor, and cannot blame Childermass if he too should find himself adrift.

A wooden silence sprouts between them. For some moments they allow it to grow, winding slow, hushed tendrils of ivy round their speech, then Childermass pushes through the whispering foliage to ask, "Will you follow Strange?"

It's an curious question to ask, in his thinking - the answer is, to Mr Segundus, one of the few things he is certain of. "I take his side," he says, "but my place is in Hanover-Square. I would not leave it."
Another long pause. "Really, you need not look so pleased with yourself. What makes you think I stay for you? Perhaps it is only my fondness for Lascelles tying me down."

Childermass smiles a sarcastic, sideways smile. "Aye," he replies, "and the moon's made of green cheese."

It is growing dark. Gloom is swiftly superseding Mr Segundus' humour. He picks at the stray threads by his elbow.
"How is Norrell?"

"Much the same as you."

Mr Segundus frowns and looks up at him. "What is that supposed to mean."

"Staring into space. Miserably."

Childermass is still smiling. Is there a certain wryness to the twist of his mouth? Whatever the case, Mr Segundus elects to ignore it.

"Rest assured, I would rather not be." He shakes his head. "Well? Since I am such a fool for it-"

"-I never did call you a fool."

"Since I am such a fool," he continues, "what do you consider appropriate upset?"

"You are putting words in my mouth, sir.”

Feeling rather guilty, Mr Segundus apologises, and in turn Childermass waves it off.

“No," he says, practical as ever, "I do not consider the upset necessary. Now there are to be two opinions on magic, Strange will not be so influenced as he was, and he is free to pursue his own course."

He pauses. "It's not such a bad thing, not for him. Gone he may be, but still a magician. All students leave their teachers."

"I know, I know, I only-" Mr Segundus sighs. "I don't like that it's ending."

"All things do."

"Well, quite, but it does not make the ending of them any better. I will miss him regardless, you know. It cannot be the same now that he has gone - not with those two turning against each other."

"And yet," Childermass replies, "as much as the mood may be diminished for his absence, I do maintain that it is better for Strange to have left. I expect that you will see more magic from him now than you ever did under Norrell's tutoring. Besides," he appends somewhat darkly, "with him gone, Norrell might heed me more - if I can draw him away from Lascelles, that is."
With this, his friend retreats into thought.

Mr Segundus looks on curiously. Childermass has a puzzling habit of leaning on the walls, on doorframes and the furniture, adopting a careless, insouciant posture - perhaps with his foot against the wainscotting, or his arms folded across his chest, or an absent frown across his face (impressing the false idea upon Childermass' interlocutor that the man is not attending).

It is rather a deceptive habit, Mr Segundus has found, for he has grown aware that, even in these periods of calm and silence and affected boredom, there are a hundred schemes and plans and plots running through this man's head - just as, one might venture, a pocket watch will tick and tell time both with near-perfect regularity, and yet beneath such a calm, orderly surface are parts all a-fervour - collaborating in order to achieve the rapid, fantastic result which one has come to expect of the pocket watch as something altogether ordinary and commonplace (forgetting, of course, that once - before the wonder we call a mechanical clock came into being - men were to be contented with sundials and candle-clocks which, though they have served well enough in their time, were and are perhaps not so reliable as our modern means, nor quite so efficient).

And, just like a pocket watch, Mr Segundus would like to take him apart and see what makes him tick. He would like to examine the intricate, elaborate parts which make up John Childermass and the workings of his mind, and he should like to handle these cogs and springs (delicately and reverently, so as not to accrue damage) and turn them about so as to study the ways in which these individual components server their purpose in the formation of Childermass' hidden thoughts and secret feelings and even more vanishingly obscure motivations.
He might like to take him apart in other ways, too, but that is neither here nor there.

Glancing over, Childermass' eyes find and snap to Mr Segundus'. Dark amusement flickers over his countenance like a fleeting shadow. "Something on my face?" he asks.

Fighting the maddening flush which (with all the knowing mischief of Cat knocking a glass from the table) threatens to creep across his own face, Mr Segundus shakes his head.

"I suppose you are right," comes his hasty response to Childermass' earlier judgement. "But as to the latter, sir, I fear you would be better placed with Norrell at this moment. Mr Lascelles has already been let in."

Childermass lets out a litany of muttered oaths. "He has? Curse the man! I shall talk to you later, Segundus."

He is gone again within the space of a breath. Mr Segundus is left to watch his form recede down the corridor, feeling faintly windswept with the speed of his departure.

-

MAY, 1815.

-J.S-

-

Now, something strange occurs in May, when Mr Segundus goes down to Drury Lane to watch a play - the new run of The Duke of Milan, to be exact. He considers the performance entertaining enough, though he has whiled away enough time in playhouses and music-halls that at some point it had all become simply more of the same. Regardless, it is something with which to fill the hours, and another story brought to life is always cause for excitement.

When he comes out, trailing a little behind the rest of the theatregoers so as not to be walked through, he spots a child lifting handkerchiefs by the stairwell - a little girl of perhaps eight-ish, with a runny nose and hungry, sharpened look about her.
As Mr Segundus goes past, she dips her hand into his pocket, but cries out in alarm when it passes directly through him. She stumbles back, her bearing guilty and fearful all at once.

"Oh!" exclaims Mr Segundus, stopt short by his own surprize. "I am so very sorry, miss. But you- Can you see me?" he stammers, realizing with belated regret that this makes him sound quite decidedly mad.

The child, pale as a ghost herself, makes to push through the crowd and leave. But this is not in the least amenable to Mr Segundus, who does not wish her to carry that wide-eyed fear with her (and furthermore can provide her with something more interesting than a mediocre ghost-story).

Very carefully, hardly daring breathe, Mr Segundus catches hold of his visibility - the thinnest, fraying thread in the embroidery of his existence - and wills it to hold fast for just a little longer.

"Just a moment!" he calls, following on. "Please - wait a moment, and I shall explain it. I have no intention of harming you."

And, thank goodness, the girl hangs back, lingering out of curiosity. She looks Mr Segundus up and down, no doubt considering his outdated dress, incorporeality and the way not a single eye in the crowd had been blinked at his outburst.
"I'm not to talk to you," she tells him firmly. "Janey says no good never came of seeing the dead. 'Specially if they en't in their bodies."

"In that she speaks wisely, but I am not dead."
Mr Segundus smiles. "I am not dead," he says, repeating it for good measure, for the relief it instills in him yet. The words are pleasing on his tongue.

She makes a sceptical face. "You look dead."

"I thought so, too. By your leave, miss, would you mind if terribly if we talked outside?"

She giggles a little at the title - Mr Segundus fairly aches at the contrast of her youth with her situation - and agrees.

His young acquaintance leads them out, telling him along the way that her name is Ann. Likewise, Mr Segundus introduces himself as John. After a roundabout journey she comes to a halt in an empty alleyway, and here Mr Segundus crouches down to her height (or near enough), and does his best to explain the magic.

Ann is more at ease with his assertion that he is not dead. Nevertheless she listens to his unlikely story with the condescension one expects of a child, nodding and pretending to believe him while her face speaks otherwise. A touch amused, Mr Segundus decides that he rather likes her.

Oh, but how he has missed other people! To have this conversation - it is unthought of! Mr Segundus should like to laugh aloud. The sheer joy of it unfurls honey-bright in his chest, a balm to his loneliness and assurance of his hopes.

He wonders - does this prove his suspicions? For change is coming about, is it not? And if the realization of his feelings for Childermass is the catalyst (which Mr Segundus is inclined to believe it is) then this is, surely, something to take as a sign.

Ann's arms are thin. Her eyes are rubbed red like she hasn't slept. It's anyone's guess as to when she last ate.
Mr Segundus has known his own relative poverty - skipping the occasional meal to make ends meet, turning over his sleeves to hide the fraying, burning cheap tallow over beeswax. He has not known anything close to this.

He has a shilling and sixpence in his pockets, and he tries to give these to Ann, but they prove as immaterial as he. They look down as the coins fall, then Mr Segundus bites his lip and replaces them in his jacket, feeling himself a fool.
"Forgive me," he says apologetically. "I doubt I shall ever grow used to it."

Ann looks disappointed, but other matters soon seize her attention. "How're you s'posed to break the curse if you're invisible?" she blurts out.

"Oh!" says Mr Segundus, wondering if she has decided to believe him. He considers a moment, hand slipping into his pocket and drawing out the little box, the colour of a sinking feeling, which contains his life. "Yes, I have wondered that too, but I do believe that I am equipped to answer it now. See, I have a very great friend who can see me, much as you do now - except this person has always seen me, whereas I do not think you will find me still visible in an hour or so. I met hi-" He stops and corrects himself. "I met her when I... when I was first enchanted, and I suspect that she may be who I am supposed to find."

He laughs a self-effacing laugh. "Rather ironic, I suppose, to have had the answer under my nose this whole time."

"You ought'ter tell her," says his acquaintance with surprizing solemnity.

"Ah. It is a puzzling thing... I am not sure yet whether she reciprocates it or not. Besides, if she were my fated one, what is to say that I have not fallen first? If I were to confess before she felt anything, would I not be inadvertently pressuring her?"
Remembering Ann's age, he stops himself with a sigh. "You have no idea what I mean."

She shakes her head mutely. Mr Segundus laughs softly, says, "I thought not," and tells her again in briefer, more straightforward terms, for as meaningless as she may find it he does not wish to exclude her.

Then, "Come," he invites, "I shall swipe you something to eat."

Thievery is surely justified when one is thieving for a starving child. If it is not, then he suspects a change to the system is in order.

-

OCTOBER, 1815.

-J.C-

-

"Childermass," says Segundus, "I fear I have been remiss."

Childermass makes no reply. Now, this is not to say that he is neglecting to listen. As they are with others, namely Norrell, Lucas and Davey, he is unable to speak to the ghost.
Fortunately, Segundus is used to it. He is content to talk one-sidedly to Childermass as means of amusing the both of them. It is a long ride to Hurtfew, and Norrell's silence dreary company, so upon the first changing of the horses Segundus had come out to perch upon the box-seat where his meandering conversation (a fine restorative) might reach Childermass upon Brewer.

Clearly, he is working himself up to something. There is a tentative, pensive air about Segundus, and his speech is almost drowned out by the trundle of wheels on gravel and lively bluster of the wind.

Segundus clears his throat. "I have an admission to make," he resumes, tugging at his jacket-cuffs and not quite looking at Childermass. "I have thought it over for many a month and I do not know if I can keep it to myself a great deal longer. In truth I confess myself somewhat afraid, for, though I think this safe to admit, I do not know how you will take it. I hope you will be patient - I am told," he says, a glint of humour in his tone, "that I am wont to ramble."

A flock of startled, cawing crows takes flight as the travelling party approaches. Squinting up at the paper-white sky, Childermass watches them turn to inky blots in the distance.
Dread is beginning to seep into his thoughts - an unpleasant hunch takes root.

"At present," his ghost says cautiously, "I do not think that I need an answer. I only wish for you to know, for I consider it of some importance that you should. It has not felt right to keep this from you, not when it holds such relevance for the both of us."
Then, though his eyes remain sick with nerves, he casts something of a smile up at Childermass. "I think that we suit each other - I think, sir, that we met for a reason."

And Childermass, watching him through the corner of his eye, finishes drawing up his predictions and begins to take alarm. For what is he to say? If Segundus means to admit what Childermass suspects, then how can he decline? He is an accomplished liar, true, but takes no pleasure in lying to Segundus - still, he does not think the truth is any more favourable, for it will seem a paltry excuse.

The fact of the matter is this: it is not him. No matter how severely Childermass wishes it could be, it is not him, and it would be reckless and foolish both to assume that he was.

It is a simple truth. And yet he does not possess the tact to put this to Segundus sensitively, and certainly not to put it in a way which will be accepted. They do not give up easily; it is an unfortunate quality which they both possess. They share the obstinate and oft-correct conviction that, no matter the obstacle, there is generally some method or other of navigating around it, and so Childermass' reasoning will not hold water at all.

"I am glad to have done so, John - I have never had a dearer friend. And as such, I feel I should tell you that..." Segundus falters. "Well, that I-"

Norrell raps sharply on the carriage roof. He inquires as to when they will next be stopping.

And oh, how Childermass both blesses and curses the interruption! In this moment, dread and anticipation come hand in hand, and for something to have disrupted the culmination of them serves to agitate both.

From the box next to Segundus, Lucas calls down to Norrell, telling him that they know of a post-inn just a little ways ahead. With a brief pause as he and Davey confer, he adds that it had ought to be two miles or so before they reach it.

Once Norrell has been satisfied, Childermass casts a querying glance at his  ghost, who looks about as uncertain as he has ever seen him.
But something settles in Segundus at this moment and he decides against continuing. He shakes his head ruefully, then says, "Another time, perhaps. I have lost my nerve."

Childermass stubbornly does not allow the relief to display in his countenance, not until they come to the inn and he can turn away for a time without Segundus bearing witness. But mingled with this relief is a heavy ache, wrapping iron bands about his chest - in contrast, he harbours too a deep desire to know, to be utterly sure of what Segundus had intended, for his treacherous mind is thrown into disarray by the suggestion of reciprocation.
He should rightly be dismayed at the possibility; he has no cause for hope. And yet.

He fingers the cards in his coat-pocket, feels their friendly edges softened and fuzzy with use. They sing temptation, but in the end Childermass quells the thought - it is not his business, as much as that reasoning has never stopt him before; Segundus does not like him to pry and so on principle he ought not to. Furthermore, he is not so sure he wants to know. Whatever Segundus had meant to tell him, it is best left to speculation.

-

DECEMBER, 1815.

-J.C-

-

Segundus seems distracted. He has not been heeding questions; not once has he risen to comment or debate. Pacing a misshapen circle into the floor, it seems he only half-notices the tables and chairs which he walks through.

He has been wont, today, to flinch away from Childermass - inclined to subdued silences, irritability and low moods. A vague, needling guilt is plaguing Childermass himself, though he finds its source unknown - Segundus' present despondency being, one presumes, no fault of his own. He has been having poor dreams as of late, it is true, but they should not be affecting him so.

"You aren't well," says Childermass, while Segundus takes the first few aimless strides of another circle.

"I disagree."

"And yet," Childermass observes, "you've walked through that table four-and-twenty times now."

"I have not- Ah." Stopping in his tracks, Segundus glances down and discovers himself waist-deep in table. Never truly having grown used to his own immateriality, the ghost steps out with a shiver.

"I see your meaning," he concedes. "My dream, it has put me out of sorts. I should not be so affected, but..." He trails off. Though facing Childermass, his gaze is absent - thoughts evidently drifting elsewhere.

"Do you wish to speak of it?"
Childermass is sorting the clutter on his desk, making the occasional brief note in his memorandum-book. Naught so urgent as to require his full attention. Besides, he wonders whether his own peculiar mood is related.

"I had a school," Segundus begins pensively.

"A school? Of magic?"

"I expect it must have been." He frowns. "Yes, it was something about a school, and you, and- oh, I feel I must have forgotten something crucial. I think you were there to close it down."

Childermass' eyes widen - he knows this dream well. Keeping quiet, he hopes his falter has gone unnoticed. There is no need to unnerve Segundus by making it into more than it is.

"It was not real," Childermass reminds his dejected partner, hoping his own surprize does not shew on his face. "Nowt but a dream."

"But that is the very issue at hand! It felt real. I am- was, I mean- quite dreadfully shattered. I think-" Segundus worries at his lip. "I think," he continues quietly, "that I might have liked to have a school. Teaching has always rather appealed to me."

"I would not give up on it just yet."

"I do not think an invisible schoolmaster would garner much respect."

"On my word, Segundus, this is not how you'll always be."
Childermass desires, severely so, that the man should stop refusing to hope for it.

Segundus looks at him, hard. Then he swallows, turns his face away with a small, self-effacing laugh - more the huffed expulsion of breath than any mark of genuine joy or amusement. All of a sudden, Childermass hates it - not for its owner nor its sound, but for its despondent humour, for the denial inherent.

I love you, he wants to say, you are every good thing. You are loved, and this is proof that you are not hopeless.

This he cannot say, and moreover he doubts Segundus would ever believe it. His ghost is a most obstinate man; when he has got hold of something it would take nothing less than divine intervention to convince him otherwise.

And thus Childermass keeps his silence.

Chapter Text

8th of JANUARY, 1816.

-J.S-

-

The pen sings out scritch-scratch-scritch as Childermass authors Norrell's letters to the ministers. It has been a harsh, cold winter, and so a high-built fire burns fiercely in the hearth, crackling and popping as Mr Segundus casts an eye out of the window to the frost-silvered square below, to carriages rattling by on the cobbles and to the ever-present throng of Norrell's admirers by the gates to the park.

The first few flecks of snow are beginning to fall.
A pause, now, as Childermass dips his nib back into the inkpot. The clear, precise clink of glass rings out curiously to Mr Segundus. It seems that the noise lingers just a half-step too long.

The day is black. The candles are lit before noon. Their flames waver uncertain on the wicks. Sensing its injustifiability, Mr Segundus shrugs the prickle of unease from his arms.

Within moments of that dismissal, however, such discomfort is born anew. "My dear sir," he hesitantly begins, "I should not like to interrupt, but do you hear that bell?"

Childermass stops writing and listens with a frown. He pushes the ragged curtain of hair from his ear, and Mr Segundus notes with some fondness of feeling that his stained fingertips have left a small smudge of ink upon the skin there.

"Not the clock striking the hour?" Childermass asks a few moments later.

"No, no, I do not think so. The sound... it is too..." He trails off, unable to put his finger upon just what it is. "Too mournful," he decides. "I am sure that I have heard it somewhere before, but really cannot remember where. Do you have any idea of it?"

No response seems forthcoming. The man's dark gaze is as absent as it is sharp - cast to some other object, perhaps, but this Mr Segundus cannot espy.
"Childermass?" prompts he.

Childermass blinks.
"Aye?" he replies, not quite concealing a subtle tremor to his voice.

"Are you well? I thought- Where did you go?" asks Mr Segundus.

Childermass opens his mouth with some certainty, then a slow confusion unfolds across his demeanour and he frowns, confidence in his answer shaken.

"The fields," he says at length. "The open sky." That is a non-answer, and Childermass knows it as well as Mr Segundus; it is clear as day in the discomfort upon his face.
"I do not think I know it myself."

"How peculiar," Mr Segundus murmurs. "You have eaten today, yes? And slept enough?"
Without him, he cannot be sure that Childermass would care to look after his health at all. As it is, his friend already walks out in the rain, rests very little if at all, and pays next to no heed to other such mortal concerns as 'sustenance' and 'comfort.' Yes - it is a good thing indeed that Childermass is of robust constitution.

Childermass frowns down at his work as he corrects a spelling error, squeezing in an extra letter slantwise. "Naturally," he says. (Mr Segundus struggles to hear it - his hearing has somehow gone as muffled as if it were underwater.)

"Do you feel faint, or perhaps-?"

"-Truly, Segundus, you need not mother me. I am not. . ."

He supposes the next word might have been dying, but never hears Childermass utter it, for mid-sentence the man falls again to that strange distraction which had taken him previously. The absence is frightening.

Childermass is not merely retreating into his head, as he is so wont to do (Mr Segundus knows that expression well) and it is not the bleary fog of one who is falling asleep. It is as if, Mr Segundus uneasily considers, he has stepped out of his body and gone away for a time.

Mr Segundus tries - and fails - to catch Childermass' attention. But a moment after he gives up to wait, the man comes to himself with a start and the pen jerks in his hand, spattering ink across the letter. Mr Segundus' held breath comes out in a rush.

"What happened?" he asks. "How do you feel?"

Childermass frowns down at his trembling hands. "It spoke to me," he says, and shakes his head. "I did not understand."

He sighs. "I do think you would be better lying down, Childermass. You look rather ill."

"Not looking so good yourself," Childermass remarks evasively.

But this is true, now he thinks about it. Mr Segundus has indeed been feeling light-headed, but Childermass has taken precedence in his thoughts (perhaps there is nothing new in that). He has been dimly aware of the notion that there is something other crammed within the same space as this library, that he might tear the veil of his perception and discover a second realm behind it.

Even as he considers it, a new, overwhelming wave of magic saturates the world about him - stronger than any which have come over this place so far. His vision begins to darken, like an overcast stretch of sky.

"Perhaps," he sighs, "you are right."

When Mr Segundus gets up and goes to the window in renewed agitation - for he cannot simply sit here; what if this strangeness should swallow his form? It would not take much; it had not taken much when he investigated Lady Pole - he feels so dizzy that it is entirely possible he will fall - but fall where? - he does not know. He is both teetering over a rocky precipice in the roaring wind - and standing swaying by the windowsill of a house in Hanover-Square.

A woman passes by in the street, muffled in dark, winter clothing. Mr Segundus is certain that he knows her.

A tell-tale sensation pricks at the nape of his neck - the choking air is awash with magic. His legs shake and so, unsteadily, he lowers himself to sit on the floor (so as to at least be closer to the ground should he faint, which is still rather too often the case with more potent spells).

Childermass shakes his head, clearing whichever new vision had so stained his eyes with this empty sickness. He stalks quickly away from the desk, taking a hurried turn about the library floor as he debates something within himself.
"Where is Norrell?" he asks abruptly. "Have you seen him?"

"Not since he left for the Admiralty." Mr Segundus frowns. It is hard to think - his thoughts have gone as slow and sticky as the drip of treacle. "But he cannot be doing magic, can he?"

But Childermass has gone elsewhere again. Coming to, he shakes himself somewhat, blinking hard. "What?"

Mr Segundus repeats the question.

"Must be," says Childermass, but this time it is Mr Segundus who does not hear it.

He stands upon a grey hillside. Wind whips his hair about and its frigid air, more ice than anything else, burns his lungs and throat. Charred brown fields stretch out across the landscape like a patchwork quilt - sewn together, he sees very clearly, with the things he does not and never will understand, things beyond the comprehension of him and any other.
He looks up to the sky and finds it grey, forbidding, oppressive, as if the halves of earth and sky are steadily moving closer and he is to be crushed between them. And he does not belong here, this he knows - he intrudes upon the space set out for another; the air fits wrong about him, he-

When he is next aware of anything much, he finds Childermass watching - rigid with shock - his expression one of sudden, terrible fear, like something caught in a snare.

Mr Segundus' breath catches in his throat. He does not think he has ever seen such trepidation pass over Childermass' face. An anxiety digs its claws into his stomach, twisting up his insides like a wild animal within.

"What is it?" Mr Segundus asks, needing to know what affrights the man so. "What happened? Pray do not look so afraid."

Childermass kneels before Mr Segundus so as not to be standing over him. And then, after a lengthy silence, he speaks in stilted fashion.

"You vanished," he says. "You flickered out."

Greatly alarmed, Mr Segundus sits up straighter. This has never happened before. (Well, perhaps it might have. He would not know. In general, most aren't aware of such gaps, as one does not typically recall his periods of non-existence.)

"How long for?" he inquires.

"A moment."

"A moment?" Mr Segundus echoes. He does not feel capable of much more articulation. The surprize of it shakes him, almost to his foundations.

He had not noticed the disappearance. Had not noticed the flickering out. He supposes the magic must have caused it - it really is rather strong here, and if it may induce faintness then it stands to reason that it might be cause for more.

Still, it is disturbing. If Mr Segundus were to go out like a snuffed candle, what would draw him back? He is only a soul, after all, and not bound to any earthly weight. It appears that Childermass is of the same mind, for he regards Mr Segundus queerly as he replies, "Too long."

The ghost should like to comfort Childermass with a touch to the shoulder, perhaps, some small reassurance of his presence, but he cannot sacrifice that energy. Mr Segundus is worn out as it is - even to the point of disappearance, as it seems.

"I am sorry," he says softly.

"Don't be."

There is a very raw sort of relief displayed in Childermass' face. It is not to be denied that Mr Segundus is just a little pleased to have broken through that polished reserve of his. Perhaps it is unkind of him to feel that fraction of gladness when Childermass is so moved, and when in truth this should come as no surprize to him. And yet, for somebody so forgot by his fellow men, it is a blessing indeed to confirm that he will still be remembered. He should not like to blot out of this world and disappear too from all others' minds.

Mr Segundus does not require a legacy. He is all too content to be a footnote in someone else's existence - so long as he is remembered enough to make up that footnote in the first place.

Now Childermass determines, even when Mr Segundus makes abundantly clear to him that he is in no fit state to investigate, that he must discover who is causing this. But he has not long come to this conclusion when he faints.

Mr Segundus is struck, for a moment, by utter surprize.
Then he goes for the bell to ring for a servant, dizziness blurring his vision and stumbling his gait, and manages to work the thing after some not insignificant struggle. By this point Childermass has awoken with a faint groan, but he is still disoriented in the extreme. Mr Segundus does not go to him just yet - no, he is stood in the doorframe, occupied with peering anxiously down the corridor, waiting for somebody who possesses the corporeality to help. How he curses his uselessness!

Upon recovering enough to rise to a sitting position, Childermass asks Mr Segundus to come over where he can see him properly. Please.
Mr Segundus obliges. The man does not say please often, after all.

Telling Childermass that someone is coming, he places a tentative hand upon - in - his friend's, even if not quite managing solidity, for Childermass is watching him with some alertness - as if, by his glancing away, Mr Segundus might come to disappear once more - and it is a strange thing, I tell you, to know that behind those quick eyes a man is contemplating your very mortality and furthermore that he does not like his conclusions.

"I am still here," he promises, feeling sick nevertheless with grey-tinged nausea. "I am not going anywhere. I beg this of you, my dear sir - believe me."

As this is a lie told for Childermass' own peace of mind, perhaps it is not so wrong to tell.
Mr Segundus feels that he might be slipping out of this world and into another. He feels very light, now - hardly tethered to the Earth, or even to the air for that matter. Yes, if there is one thing he dislikes of magic, it is the toll upon himself. He has no frame of reference, but it must be worse without a corporeal frame to house his spirit. It was, after all, much more bearable at Lady Pole's fairy ball, and he had, he supposed, possessed a body there.

In time, Lucas comes in. Within a half-second his expression is transfigured by alarm. "Mr Childermass?" he enquires. "What happened? Let us send for a physician, sir. You look a fright."

"Merely fainted," says Childermass. "I do not need the physician." (Here Mr Segundus produces a strangled sort of noise.) "Tell me: where is the master?"

"At the Admiralty, sir. I thought you knew."
With this answer dispensed, Lucas hesitantly resumes his crusade. "I say, sir - are you quite sure you're well?"

"Someone is performing magic."

The footman opens his mouth, but Childermass interjects before he can speak. "And God so help me Lucas, it is not the ghost."

Upon registering Lucas' telling silence, Childermass shakes his head. "Has Strange been here?"

Lucas bristles. "I am not such a fool as to allow that, Mr Childermass! He is most certainly not here."

"Nevertheless," says Childermass, "someone is performing it. One of them must be here. Take me upstairs."

Concern twists Lucas' features into a frown. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I do not think it wise. You are not well - and I assure you that he is not there."

Mr Segundus, sensing that Childermass will push Lucas into it anyway, chimes in. "He is right, Childermass; you had ought to stay. I shall check there myself."

He is gone before Childermass can object. Hopefully - hopefully - his own testimony will be enough to persuade the man out of it. Mr Segundus does not fancy Childermass' chances upon the stairs, not when the magic affects the latter so much worse, and most definitely not when Childermass has just come out of a faint.

He is glad to find the dizziness abating as he ascends - though naturally, this comes after he has made his slow, unsteady trek up the stairs and found, to his desperate frustration, that at the present moment he is so immaterial as for his hand to pass directly through the banister without so much as a hitch.

As he takes a pace down the corridor, however, the world rights itself, halves sliding neatly together into a place which is wholly England. With some of his uncertainty thus resolved, Mr Segundus breathes a sigh of relief to set foot upon such familiar carpeting and boards.

Norrell is not present in his study. The place is too tidy. It always neatly arranged, even in his presence, but magic tends to engender a certain degree of disorganization, and to this even Norrell is wont to fall victim.

Even with this left unconsidered, the room shews no signs of current habitation. The fire is gently crackling; the books are tucked into their shelves; the writing tools sit neatly in their pots. It looks to have been untouched since its last dusting.

Mr Segundus hurries down again. In the library, he finds Childermass on his feet, looking over a spark in a wine-glass. As he comes closer, he sees that it is not a fallen star, white with heat and dazzling with astral radiance as he had first thought, but instead the artificial imitation of one. Still, he thinks, if one were to reach out and snatch a true star from the heavens, this spark would not pale in comparison. It is the brightest thing in this dark winter day and it throws eerie, darting shadows about the room.

Lucas bears an expression of utter amazement and Childermass, upon noting Mr Segundus' return, relaxes about the shoulders - near imperceptible to the layman, but plainly visible to Mr Segundus, who has come to know such intricacies of Childermass' behaviour just as well as his own.

"It is in the square. Come," he is saying - to Lucas, and yet catching Mr Segundus' eye with a meaningful glance as well - "I cannot do this without you."

Mr Segundus' eyes widen. "Stay here," he pleads. "I can look!" Worriedly, he watches the glass shake in Childermass' unsteady hands. "You are hardly standing. Remain for my peace of mind, sir, if not yours."

Childermass casts a wary eye at Lucas, then shakes his head in resignation. Turning a direct gaze upon Mr Segundus - regardless of the footman's presence - he speaks.
"You are no more expendable than I,” he says. “Need I remind you that you disappeared? If I do not intend it to happen again, which I do not, then I must discover what is being done. I am going.”

Mr Segundus' eyes widen in shock - Childermass is fiercely protective of his secrets. He guards them in much the same manner as another might his pearls and fine jewels. There is no vault more secure than Childermass' mind - it is full to the brim of bargaining chips and useful bits and pieces, kept close to the chest for an hour of need. And so, for him to relinquish the knowledge of his presence to Lucas, Childermass must have thought this vital to express.

Lucas is also staring, astonished, at Childermass. "That was the ghost," he stammers, stuck half in anticipation and half in fear. "It was, wasn't it? You were not talking to yourself. You can see it? And hear it?"

Without reply, Childermass looks wordlessly to Mr Segundus, who hesitates - then nods assent. He appends a warning not to let Lucas spread the rumour of it. He fears Norrell's paranoia should further whispers of a ghost reach those wary ears.

"Aye," says Childermass. He looks annoyed at Lucas (as if it is his fault for having intruded - forgetting of course that it had been Mr Segundus' intervention which brought him here in the first instance). "You're not to breathe a word to the rest, y'hear me? He's not a story for the new hires."

"Yes," says Lucas (indignant that such an indiscretion might be expected of him, then a moment later red about the ears upon remembering his role in beginning the initial rumours).
"Yes, of course. But I cannot believe you did not tell me! Why, you laughed at my theory, Mr Childermass!" he cries. Then, affront giving way to curiosity, he asks, "Oh! - what is his name? How long have you known him?" He hesitates. "May I ask how long ago he lived?"

Lucas is, no doubt, wanting to ask after the ghost's method of death, yet aware of the question's sensationalist nature, for he does not venture the enquiry despite it being the obvious question to ask. Instead, he settles for gazing about the room, squinting at a patch of air three feet or so to Mr Segundus' left, as if he has half-sensed something there.

If the situation were not so very fearful, Mr Segundus might have grown a little amused. He is not keen upon the idea of becoming solidified as one of the household myths - but there is, I dare say, an appeal in being acknowledged, and some part of him must feel that Lucas rather deserves such a conclusion to his determined investigation.

"His name is John," says Childermass, "and I swear to you that he means no harm of any sort."

He does not provide Mr Segundus' full name. Nor does the latter wish him to. Segundus is not a common name here - it would hardly do for rumour of this to trace back to him. If he ever does come back to the world of the living, Mr Segundus would rather not be made a spectacle.

(And a small part of him rather likes the sound of his Christian name upon Childermass' tongue. Who would not?)

"But we have no time," Childermass urges. "Ask your questions later."

Still wide-eyed as a child, Lucas nods agreement.

In the square, the magic is stronger. It is not very long before Childermass faints again, this time caught by Lucas. Falling from his hand, the wine-glass shatters upon the cobbles, light seeping swiftly into the snow.

As this is going on, a carriage comes trundling around the corner from George-Street. The throng of Norrell's admirers reposition themselves in their most appealing (most fawning) manner. The gentleman by the railings to the park straightens up. He brushes a leaf from his coat.

Finally, turning about, the well-dressed lady begins to come back. (Oh, but she does look so very familiar!)

"Norrell!" exclaims Mr Segundus, relieved beyond measure.

"Mr Norrell is coming," says Lucas, in much the same moment. "Here, sir, he'll know what to do."

The lady is closer yet.

Soon Norrell, bundled up in furs and layers, nose buried in his collars against the cold, is helped out of his carriage. He registers Childermass and Lucas with a confused wrinkling of the nose, then turns to proceed into the house.

As Norrell irritably waves off the gentleman who had leant upon the railings, the lady (having grown closer) pulls out a pistol from her muff.

A silence falls - the same momentary, frozen silence of a bird realising that it has been spotted.

Norrell blanches a deathly white. He seems rooted to the spot by the threat.

And this is when everything begins to happen at once.

And oh! - Mr Segundus recognizes her now. How he wishes he did not!
It is Emma Pole herself who raises the weapon, who cocks it at Norrell's chest with such single-minded resolve. Mr Segundus has no great fondness for Norrell, no reason to fault Lady Pole for desiring vengeance - after the fate visited upon her, who could? - but to shoot a person-!

As Lucas rushes to disarm the Lady, he lets go of Childermass, who drops to the ground. Mr Segundus knows that he ought to attend to Childermass, but he is transfixed - bound in place - by the cold-water shock of the pistol, which has frozen into a jagged spike of horror, quite sharp enough to cut him to the bone. He would rather Childermass stayed down and out the way of it - unrealistic, his frantic mind supplies, when the danger is immediately before them, and when the weapon is pointed at Norrell's heart - but a man may hope, may he not?

A man may fall to kneeling beside another, may ask him how he fares, may beg him not to endanger himself, not when the would-be-assassin is so impassioned. A man may wish to hold him back, somehow, and force him to stay, but he may be a loyal man, too, and know all too well that there is no getting between John Childermass and his devotion.
And so Childermass arises, and Mr Segundus' pleas go unheeded.

(Mr Segundus' own brother had been shot. He had begged Simon, too, not to go to war. He feels himself transported, very briefly, to that warm autumn day, to dry leaves caught up by playful breeze and blown hither and thither across the paving stones, to trembling hands as he opens the letter bearing Simon's fate. He had not thought that such an experience might be repeated.)

The Lady, with unnatural force, shakes off those who seek to disarm her. Mr Segundus finds himself flinching at each violent defence, and even more so at the dreadful ease with which they are dealt. His eyes go wide as she places a hand upon Davey's face - as the servant promptly crumples and fails to rise.
Magic is most certainly being done. Yet where are their magicians to stop it? One is staring in terror at the intended instrument of his own demise, much too fearful to do so much as think, let alone plot a counter-spell.

And what of Childermass? - Childermass is hindered by lingering faintness and has not reached her yet, but will do at any moment. Mr Segundus is following him, pleading desperately - fervently - for Childermass to change his mind, and he has never quite understood the idea of time slowing down in calamity, but he understands it now, understands it with chilling certainty as Childermass approaches (how can someone so logical be such a fool?), and is it not a terrible thing, Mr Segundus thinks, that Childermass must never have known quite how much he means to him?

His hands raised in conciliatory half-surrender, Childermass begins, "Madam," and goes unharmed, thank goodness, but-

But then a change flickers over Childermass. That queer absence - but upon comparing the two, Mr Segundus realises it is the same queer mist of the eye as Emma Pole's.

Mr Segundus has not time to ponder it, for this is the moment at which all goes very, deeply wrong.

As Childermass seizes the barrel of the gun, a wordless cry of horror tears from Mr Segundus like a splinter, a shard of glass, a blade coming unstuck from his throat.

There is a shot - an intolerably loud sound. 

Chapter Text

9th of JANUARY, 1816.

-J.S-

-

John Segundus sits at the old family table, being served sautéed forks in white wine sauce. Simon raises an amused eyebrow at the faceless man delivering this dish, who does not respond in any way but melts back into the wall like nothing more than a wisp of shadow.

"You have strange dreams," remarks Simon.

John pushes the unappetizing fare away from him with a half-smile. Melancholy threatens to suffocate him - it tinges his teeth and his tongue like the iron tang of blood. It is more muted, more resigned than that scarlet red, yet bites every bit as fiercely.
He swallows. "I tried to summon you, you know. Or to see you, rather. In the silver dish."

A look of happy surprize crosses his brother's face. "You did?" he asks. And as if it has only just become clear that his presence here might be desired! What a preposterous thing to believe - that none might have want of him!

"It did not work."

It is clear that Simon knows, without John's telling him, that something is dreadfully wrong. Although Simon regards him much as if he is made of glass, he makes no remark upon it. Instead, he says, "I doubt it works like that. I'll see you when I see you."

"See me more often, then. Why don't you?" John asks, trying not to sound plaintive and failing. (But, truly, is it too much to ask that one's own brother might keep in contact with him?)

"I'd have thought you were sick of ghosts," he says quietly. "I'd thought you'd not welcome my lingering - that you'd rather I moved on."

"I would," John admits. "I would. It is dreadful to think that you have been here so long. I am certain that you would be happier having passed on." He sighs. "But does that mean I do not desire to see you? I am sick of loneliness, and sick of missing you, and I have no quarrel with ghosts - yes, even if they are such stubborn blockheads as my brother."

"You," complains Simon, "ought not to speak ill of the dead."

"If the dead do not wish me to speak ill of them, I suggest that they visit more often."

"Blackmail, is it?"

But Simon's attempt at levity falls flat. With all this talk of death, John's mind has drifted to Childermass again, and his wandering gaze to the dark stain upon his elder (younger?) brother's uniform.
"He'll be better," says Simon, reading his telling silence. "The surgeon knows his work."

"So did yours," John shoots back.
Even as he says so, he regrets it, not quite sure what anxiety had moved him to snap. Some small, grieving part of him has never entirely forgiven Simon's recklessness - but this is no excuse for blaming Simon himself, is it?
"Forgive me," he says, his eyes wide with misgiving. "I did not think. That was- it was callous."

"It was." Simon's expression is unreadable - and goodness, is it not dreadful that somebody's features, once so very familiar to one, might with time become near-forgot?

A silence falls. Amidst it, the waiter comes in again, taking away the tureen of forks with an echoing clatter. It places a silver platter upon the table. Curiously, Simon lifts the domed cover atop it, peers beneath and - eyes widening - drops it down, quickly pushing the platter aside.
"I wouldn't look in there if I were you," he says with a grin and a grimace, which should rightly be grounds for puzzlement, only John is too caught up in the maze of his own conscience to truly register it.

Such guilt is an unfortunately tangible thing, crowding about the edges of John's dream like miasma, shadowing his aggrieved thoughts like a curse.
"I truly am sorry," he stammers. "I ought not to have said that. Simon, I-"

But Simon only shakes his head, silencing his rambling. "Old wound. Stop apologizing. Make it up to me by lightening up, would you?"

After a pause, John laughs, very tentatively, despite the guilt which still nags at him with stinging-nettle grasp. In a quiet voice, he says, "I do not think your logic quite follows."

He splutters. "You are being served forks and- and spiders, and my logic is what you chuse to call into question?"

Smiling too, now, John steeples his hands under his chin. "I," says he, "am dreaming. What have you to say for yourself?"

Simon scoffs and opens his mouth, but they are interrupted just as he does so. He glances up in mild annoyance as the faceless server returns, this time serving delicate ceramic mice for dessert (well - one assumes dessert, at any rate, what with it being the third course, but there is no real way to be sure).

John picks one of them up. He places it in the flat of his palm, whispers a word of two of Latin in its round, open ear, and smiles widely as it squeaks in china surprize and begins to run about. He laughs a little and sets it down.¹

Simon's eyes have gone wide. "I thought you could not do magic."

"It is not real magic."
John smiles as he animates a second to scamper about with the first. "It is all in my head, after all.² Not that I appear to have any inkling of what is happening within it. Was it truly spiders?"

"Would I lie to you?"

John regards him a smidge doubtfully. ³

But now Simon's countenance turns solemn. "Trust me," he says (evidently it is not the spiders which concern him). "It's not his time yet."

John would like to believe that Simon knows this by dint of being dead himself. That there is some sign, some way to tell. It should, by all accounts, be comforting. But - what with the latter having once been so certain of his own survival - I dare say my reader will forgive a modicum of scepticism on John's part.
And yet he does believe it, even without grounds to do so, for what else is there left to him? He clings to it much as a drowning man might grapple at driftwood.

Simon tells him to be brave.
But that, John objects, is easier said than done.

"'Course it is," shrugs his brother. "Wouldn't be a virtue otherwise."

John opens his mouth to reply, but then the colours and shapes begin to slip away from him, bleeding like watercolours left out in the rain. And so Mr Segundus wakes up - not in the family home but in Hanover-Square instead - wishing to return to his dream as he shuts his eyes against the bleary, grey dawn guilty of stirring him.

There must be spells to extend one's sleep, must there not? He seems to remember something similar in Hether-Gray. He ponders too the likelihood of Childermass knowing something to the point - and this, I fear, this is when he remembers why he cannot currently ask such a thing.

Often, when Simon has been by, Mr Segundus does not quite recall what they two say. It is his brother's presence which is in itself a good thing and a comfort, and regardless of memory it is a happier man who awakes. Today, however, he feels his spirits much too heavy to rise in such a manner.

Chapter Text

8th JANUARY, 1816.

-J.S-

-

Dread trickles down his back like ice-cold water.

The shot is, if not the loudest noise that Mr Segundus has ever heard, then certainly one of them, and quite definitely the most terrible. It is punctuated by an unnatural silence, a momentary shock, a stillness before the scene erupts. Someone cries out and it is likely Lucas, but it may as well be himself; all rational thought has flown from his mind at the sight of Childermass collapsing to the ground.

(There's blood on the cobbles. He hates blood.)

It does not feel real - a nightmare, perhaps, from which he will wake at any instant - only the longer he waits, the more nausea roils in his stomach and his head, twisting his insides into Gordian knots. As if upon a precipice, Mr Segundus stands faltering, heart pounding in his ears and white-knuckled hands gripping the sides of his arms, until he finds, dragging up the dregs of his courage, the sense to stagger forwards on slow, seasick legs; anything to take him closer to John Childermass and the rusty wet stain blooming red on his shoulder, spilling out onto the snow as a smashed inkwell spills out onto paper.

Had Childermass really been writing letters, letters of all things - how mundane! how ordinary! - not fifteen minutes ago?

As he kneels beside the man (legs shaking too much to keep him upright, anyhow), Mr Segundus calls out his Christian name, but his voice is weak. Barely audible to even himself over the ringing, the source of which he cannot determine - whether fairy bells or the shot's reverberation in the mind (a cruel echo, to be sure). There is a great hubbub erupting around them, but Mr Segundus does not quite register it.

The Lady Pole is being restrained. Dimly, he becomes aware of her - she who had shot Childermass! - shot! - ceasing her struggle for but a moment-

-and looking at Mr Segundus.

Mr Segundus, who feels the inexplicable, bitter urge to laugh - that she should see him, she of all people - and chides himself sharply for it. Childermass had not been her target, after all. But the fact remains that, no matter her motives, the man whom he has known and loved these nine years past is now sprawled out upon the street.

Childermass does not indicate that he has heard his name, but then again he does not indicate much at all, being utterly deaf to the cries of the onlookers.
Around his form, there thaws the patina of frost cloaking these cobbled streets. The sky is a stony, impassive grey.

Mr Segundus wrings his hands in futile anxiety and wills whoever has run for the doctors to hurry.
In the meantime, he tries to stop up the wound with his palms, but the blood trickles past his hands regardless. Too agitated to maintain any semblance of solidity - useless, useless to the very last.

Still - Norrell, he thinks, does not appear to have moved an inch. He had, presumably, at least flinched at the moment of the shot, but now he is back to stock-stillness, his wide-eyed gaze flicking between Childermass and the Lady Pole - and, from the lost expression on his face, Mr Segundus has a hunch that that the shock of it being the Lady has taken precedence, that the shooting of his servant does not quite weigh up in comparison.

Mr Segundus would shout, if he felt himself able - 'you are a magician,' he would snap, 'you could help him if you so wished,' - and yet he does not think his words could possibly reach Norrell, even if they had been audible in the first place.

Though he may tend towards indignance at times, Mr Segundus is not commonly angered. At this moment, however, one would be hard-pressed to mistake his feelings for simple frustration. There is naught else to feel for Norrell - it had been Lady Pole's hand upon the pistol, true, and for the firing of it he cannot find it in himself to forgive her, but it had been Norrell's mistakes which began all of this.
Norrell who stands still, doing nothing, even as his servants run for the surgeon, restrain the Lady and make to aid Childermass, bringing clouts to staunch the flow of his blood, a swarm of activity which rushes about him - the one still point in this tableau.

Perhaps it is genuine, shattered distress over his servant which moves Norrell to freeze, yet Mr Segundus struggles to accept it. There must be someone at fault, he thinks. There cannot be such suffering without reason.

Childermass is conscious, he judges, but only barely, and fading in and out of it all the while. Glassy eyes register Mr Segundus dimly but slide off him again a moment later, staring off into space at naught in particular.

They could have avoided this. They could have avoided this.

"You- You idiot," hisses Mr Segundus, for once infusing the admonishment with sharpness sufficient to bite. "You obstinate, obstinate man! Why did you not listen to me? I told you, again and again-" He breaks off, finding his throat constricted - his chest too tight and breathing too panicked to voice the lecture upon his tongue.

This is all wrong.
He feels sick.

"They have gone for the surgeon," he says quietly, struggling around the thickness of his speech. "He will know what to do. You... You will be well, John." He does not voice the unspoken imperative, you must - does not feel like wasting words. Childermass has been shot in the shoulder, and so it cannot a death sentence outright (one hopes), but every bit of Mr Segundus' body is screaming the terrible, terrible fear that this is Childermass' life trickling away onto the cobbles, that he might well fade.

What would he do without him? A world without John Childermass is something he can hardly begin to fathom. Gone would be his last connexion to the living, yes, but more importantly, gone would be that familiarly caustic voice, and those wry sideways smiles and contradictory remarks, and so would the man who leans in every doorway, argues with Mr Segundus about Hether-Gray, and rolls his eyes at Henry Lascelles - who casts sidelong, conspiratory glances at the ghost in the room as if to say everyone else here is really very stupid, and whose eyes spark with mirth as said ghost stifles a laugh at the impoliteness.

Again, unfathomable. Someone of Childermass' character could never merely disappear, could they? I refer not, dear reader, to the immortalisation of Childermass in the memory of others but naturally to Childermass himself. It is a terrifying prospect that all these little things might come to vanish upon an instant, that Mr Segundus might find himself, all in vain, listening out at all times for the sound of his footsteps, a trace of his voice. Feeling the dreadful, bittersweet hope that some aspect of this man, this man who all his life has fought as hard as he might to survive, has lingered.

When the surgeon arrives, after what has felt the longest wait of his life, Mr Segundus finds himself overcome by a relief near-indescribable in its potency. As if, I daresay, he has been underwater all this time, lungs burning for air, and - gasping - has only just broken the surface.
It is out of his hands, now - not that it was ever particularly in them, but some part of him feels that there is something he ought to be doing, or some aid he has neglected to offer.

"You will be well," he repeats to Childermass, unsure whom he voices it for. "Please, be well."

He does not follow immediately when Childermass is taken in. He looks out upon the street, and the onlookers, and the bright stain upon the much-disturbed frost, and feels the enormity of his panic welling up in his throat as if to strangle him.

And so the snow continues to fall, and fall, and fall, melting as it alights - feather-soft - upon the space that Childermass has left behind.

-

10th JANUARY, 1816.

-J.C-

-

For a time - days, hours, months, it is all the same to him - Childermass is not aware of much. Laudanum dreams swirl lazily about his head, twisting the faintness of imagination into something real and tangible. In his moments of consciousness he catches, more often than anything else, glimpses of dark hair and twice-turned sleeves.

Is Norrell alive? Is Childermass alive? Did they stop her in time?

Did...? he asks at one point, exhaustion slurring his questions into a single word, but the ghost at his bedside understands and tells him yes.

Childermass has no sooner registered this than he has fallen to oblivion's beckoning once more. When next he wakes, the room is empty; he thinks he sees a fire-furred thing skirting around the corner.

What's it? he asks with hoarse, cracked voice as Segundus comes back in, but that open face is full of confusion and he is asked what he means by it.

...'s a fox, he says vaguely, gesturing with his chin, t'colour of old pain.

His ghost looks uncertain. He glances about, turning to survey the room behind him. I do not. . .
But Childermass does not catch the conclusion of this sentence.

When he is next squinting in the faint light of winter morning, Hannah is opening the curtains. Noticing his open eyes, she clicks her tongue and chides him for his rashness.
Childermass thinks he cracks a joke of some sort, to which she rolls her eyes, concealing the relief on her careworn face.

He sleeps, feeling as if great weights have been placed upon his form, and wakes. Looks over, and Segundus' eyes are red-rimmed. He seems every bit as exhausted as Childermass presently feels.

You've been crying.

Segundus shakes his head and speaks gently. Go back to sleep, John. You must rest.

He sleeps. He wakes. He sleeps again. Dreams of tight-ropes and coal-scuttles and women in mourning-black - drifting back and forth between the waking world and hazy, paint-smeared, pain-fevered illusions of the mind, never quite sure which state is reality.

When he comes to this time, his eyes are sore and dry.
Sleep has left his back stiff as a board but, as he shifts to relieve the discomfort, something hot and sharp shoots through his shoulder with a burning, agonising intensity, like a steel barb jerked through his skin. He grits out something between a groan and a curse upon recalling why.

The light has changed. What filters through the little window tells Childermass that it is midday, or near enough. His mattress dips beneath another's weight, but when he forces his eyes to focus there is nobody there - then Childermass blinks and sees John Segundus' form restored to his vision.

It is true that Segundus is never truly there,  his presence being situated somewhere halfway between solidity and insubstantiality, but this is different - this is that queer, disconcerting translucency that comes about when he has pushed himself too hard. One can hardly deny, now, that this man is more echo than person. But other than his eyes, which shine sickly bright and distinctly fey, Segundus smiles the same hesitant smile as ever.

"John?" he asks.

Childermass nods, but does not make vocal reply. His throat is drier than straw.

"Good," says Segundus. He exhales deeply, some significant tension dissolving from his hunched shoulders. "I am glad. How are you?"

Childermass shakes his head. "Water," he croaks out.

"Ah! Yes, I..."

Segundus' brow furrows in consternation; Childermass follows his gaze to a glass of water at the bedside.

"I do not know if I could lift that on my own," Segundus continues with an apologetic frown. "I have not been particularly...-" trailing off, he gestures vaguely in mid-air "-particularly here, as of late. Could you manage, do you think?"

Childermass considers the glass, and as it is on the side of his good arm, decides that reward outweighs the risk in this instance.
His shaking grip feels feeble, his limbs leaden, and the movement causes a sharp, searing pang in his injured shoulder, but Segundus soon helps to steady the glass with what strength he has. Slowly, slowly, they manage.

Childermass drinks shallow sips, breaking off at odd intervals to cough. The water is stale and unpleasantly cold against the January chill, but goes a way towards soothing the unpleasant, scratchy prickle at the back of his throat.

Segundus is observing him with conflicted expression, as if he should like to smile and is fighting the urge. "How do you feel?" he ventures again.

Childermass considers it. "Starving."

"You have slept awhile, sir; I should be surprized if you were not. I am afraid, however, that you shall have to wait for someone else to come for that." He looks ruefully apologetic, as if it is his own fault that he cannot procure a meal from thin air, then tentatively asks, "How fares your shoulder?"

Childermass tries to make a so-so motion, only registering that this is a poor idea when his shoulder screams at the movement. With practiced ease, he moves smoothly on. "How long has it been?" he asks.

"Two days." Then Segundus takes in breath, as if to go on, but stops himself.

Childermass nods. "That woman," he says, "who was she? I did not recognize her, but there was some familiarity."

"They are putting it about that she was a French spy."

"And?" asks Childermass, recalling the passionate hatred in her eyes, and the terrible finality of her attempt, and not believing for an instant that this person could be anything so banal as a spy. It seems Segundus harbours doubts, too, for disquietment is writ clear across his features. "Who was she really?"

Segundus shifts uneasily. "Lady Pole," he says. There is a definite waver to his voice, now. "Lady Pole shot you."

"She is not a magician." And yet she had, undoubtedly, possessed magic in multitudes - had used it in her subduement of the servants. "How are Lucas and Davey?" he asks as an afterthought.

"Oh! They are quite well. Lucas was not so badly hurt, and Davey woke not long after the Lady was escorted away. Until the magic wore off, he spoke in rhyme for a good few hours, but all is fine now."
Segundus purses his lips. "As for the Lady's magic - I do agree that it is a peculiarity of the situation. But at present, I do not wish to consider it. There are matters more important, after all-" (and here his voice turns pointed) "-for one, you evading my every attempt to ask after your shoulder. Would you be so good as to tell me how you feel?"

Just in time, Childermass remembers that he ought not to shrug for fear of inciting further pain. "Bit of a twinge."

(This earns him a very long look.)

"I'll be up in a day or so," he says, more seriously this time.

Segundus looks unamused. "Don't you dare."

"I've seen men recover perfectly well from far worse," replies Childermass, recalling salt-sharp, rope-burned years upon frothing sea-spit and rolling green waves.
Upon receiving a wearied look, he adds, "Truly, John, there is not much to say. I have not fallen to fever, and I have not bled out, and I see little cause for worry."

Segundus nods, but does not pass comment upon this. He seems to be bottling something up - it is in the tight press of his lips, the careful restraint with which he talks. In the insistent fretting at his cuffs.
But, yet more strikingly, Childermass can still see the opposite wall through his person.

"And yourself? When did it begin?"

Segundus tilts his head in query.

"Your..." Childermass raises his good arm to gesticulate with, but finds it too leaden to do what he wills of it, and so lets it fall heavily back onto the sheets again. "You don't seem all that present."

"Ah!" says Segundus, comprehending. "It is a matter of overexertion, I believe. The Lady's magic had taken a great deal out of me, you see, and then, not long after I had vanished, I rang the bell for Lucas when you fainted, and I do believe the Lady also saw me when she-" he sighs, avoiding Childermass' eyes "-when you were shot. And then, of course, with you being shot, I did not know how you would come out of it, and... and..."

Segundus' voice is shaking. A hand comes up to anxiously fuss at his collar and the knot of his neckcloth, much as if they suffocate him. "I did not know," he whispers. "Please never do anything like that again."

"Forgive me," says Childermass (eyeing his ghost warily, for he does not like the translucent, watercolour look of him). "I did not know it would come to this."

This is evidently the wrong thing to say, for here Segundus' voice grows strained. "You did not," he says. "But had you listened to me, we would not be here."

"If I'd listened to you, Norrell would be dead."

At this, Segundus turns a singularly desperate look upon Childermass, as incredulous as if he has just been instructed to eat shattered glass for his health. "That does not signify! You are worth just as much as him (more, I would venture, were I not certain of your disagreement). He has brought about so much... so much hurt - what has he done to deserve your life for his own?"

In fairness to Norrell, Childermass has known and served him for much of his life, and something tells Childermass (as much as he likes to think himself prepared for each and every eventuality) that he would be lost without the constancy of his position. English magic, too, can hardly flourish without Norrell, and Childermass requires a master of such standing to influence its course.
But he doesn't say this. He says, "It was hardly planned. Depend upon it; no-one is sorrier for my being shot than myself."

"Don't be flippant." Segundus' tone is sharp, like catching sprained joints at odd angles. He bites at his thumb-nail; Childermass observes that it is already down to the quick. This small detail stings more than any admonishment of Segundus' possibly could. "What would I have done had you- had you-?"

Ah. He has a point. "John." Segundus looks over, warily, a bit like he expects Childermass to snap back, and a bit like he would not blame him for doing so - but like he is too stubborn to back down regardless. "I apologize. Truly. I should have considered that I might leave you alone in doing so."

But Segundus is not mollified - perhaps the opposite. (God, but he can be impossible when he so chuses.)
"It was never merely that, sir. Indeed, I should hope I had more reason to be afraid!" Distressed, he looks down at the counterpane instead. When he next speaks, his voice is small. "Is it not enough that I simply do not want you to die?"

Childermass opens his mouth, but at this moment Lucas comes in, bringing a chair. He looks slantwise at the place where Segundus is sat, casting it a curious, query-filled glance, but says nothing of it.
"The master's coming," Lucas says by way of explanation, before expressing gladness to see Childermass awake and then hurrying out again a mere moment later.

Childermass looks to Segundus again. "But I have not died," he says, trying to ease him. "I am here. Why does it still matter?"

"Why?" Exasperation is writ sharp across Segundus' face. "Because I love you, Childermass!"

Some significant measure of silence follows his outburst. Almost immediately, Childermass views the regret unfurling across Segundus' countenance. It is not a slow release, not by any means, for his shoulders flinch as that horrified look steals across his face in rather less a moment. Segundus opens his mouth as if to apologize, but then, it being far too late to retract the admission now, sets his jaw.

So he swallows hard, and looks Childermass in the eye. "Because I love you," he repeats, very quietly. "And it is the death of me that you would this readily sacrifice yourself for a man so ignorant of your worth."

-

-J.S-

-

John Segundus is a most miserable blurter and a fool of the highest order. How, he asks himself, how can one possibly make such a monumental misstep?

Oh, it is all ruined now; he has little doubt about it. Childermass, though sharing his... his nature, will grow uncomfortable with such feelings - with the presumption upon Mr Segundus' part, that such a man as he could ever dream to-

No, no. This is descending into dramatics. He has no need for dramatics. Childermass will not cast him off for such an admission; Mr Segundus can be certain of that. He needs to put all these fears away and not to think of how stupid he has been (to admit it now! - now, of all times!) and how there is no taking it back now, and how miserable he currently feels at that very prospect, and-

"John," says Childermass, his voice - still rough with disuse - cutting in through these anxieties. (His eyes are pained. Mr Segundus does not think it the fault of his injury.)

With a deep intake of breath, Mr Segundus shakes his head to forestall the moment he so dreads.
"I know what you are going to tell me. You are going to tell me that you do not feel as... as I do." He shifts nervously. "That is perfectly well, but I would rather not hear it from your lips, sir. Not yet."

With this said, Mr Segundus registers that Childermass has gone quite conspicuously silent.
So he stands abruptly, feeling wooden, like he has forgot how this body is meant to move. Naught but a soul, he supposes, and yet still tied to this clumsy sort of physicality - over-conscious of every blink and breath.

He realizes he ought to say something. "I think I shall take a walk. I will return," he says, carefully maintaining composure, "if you wish it." He is not quite able to bear looking at Childermass - what if his friend's countenance should bear relief to see the back of him?

So, feeling those watchful eyes upon his back, Mr Segundus flees, just as Norrell comes in behind him. He is glad beyond measure that Childermass cannot make reply in company. Ordinarily, he would remain to assuage his curiosity, but...

Once out of the room, he does not take the aforementioned walk - that is, unless one counts an unsteady stumble several metres down the corridor, and a folding of arms about oneself, and a sinking down against the wall, and a burying of the head in one's lap. What with everything that has occurred this week past, he dully supposes that this is the point where one might reasonably be justified in crying, but finds himself too shaken for it. Which is all for the best, he is sure. The idea of Childermass hearing him at it is a rather unwelcome one.

He swallows around the lump in his throat. He feels uncomfortably fragile, but fragile is not the word - breakable, perhaps, in the sense that an explosion is occurring from the inside out, and it knows not where to go, and so simmers beneath the surface of his skin and seeps out through all his minute fissures and cracks.
What an abject, utter fool he has been! Oh, but how can he possibly face Childermass now? His face burns with mortification and dismay.

The door to the room has remained minutely ajar. He can hear the faint murmur of Childermass and Norrell through it.

After a time, he lets his head fall back against the wall. Breathes out slowly, then rises and relocates to his room - this primarily because it is distant from Childermass'. If there is one thing that Mr Segundus wants at present, it is distance.

When inside, he does not try to take the dustsheet from the bed, for he has not the energy. And (with a twinge of accompanying hurt) he knows that it is Childermass who does this, for the most part, for much the same reason that he holds open doors for Mr Segundus and walks him to his room at night so that he does not trip in the dark - at first, needless little favours to ease the hurt of a supposed death, now easy habits between the two of them- God, but what will become of it?

So he lies atop the sheet - what does it matter? - and watches the hairline cracks in the ceiling, their familiar spidery arms running through the long-neglected paint. He feels uncomfortably hollow, like someone has taken a knife to his insides and scraped them all out.

Mr Segundus decides not to return to Childermass. Not today. The broken promise rankles, for he had said he would return but, after thinking more upon it, has found that he quite simply cannot. Every inch of him rebels at the mere idea of the look that Childermass will give him - part pity, he thinks, and part awkwardness after his outburst and, he supposes, a measure of sadness that this is the way things must be.

No, it is no good. He does not feel much inclined to contend with it at present.

Chapter Text

11th JANUARY, 1816.

-J.C-

-

Someone or other has placed a stout candle upon Childermass' bedside table. In idle boredom, he has turned his head just so, watching it waver and dance as it sends flickering amber to bolster the feeble, struggling light of afternoon. But now - upon a moment - the light snuffs itself. It does it so abruptly, so decisively, that it may as well have been blown out.

A fleeting coil of smoke trails up into the air, lingering for the space of a single breath.

"John," greets Childermass, disinclined to conceal the gladness in his voice. He raises his eyes from the candle to meet those of the ghost who has just walked in - who has registered the flickering-out of the candle with a dismal sigh.
But Segundus does not hold his gaze for long. There is an awkwardness to his manner, a diffidence which belies the cause of the flame’s extinguishing. 

Segundus shakes his head at nothing in particular and sits gingerly upon the edge of the bed. He has brought the January chill with him, it seems, for there is a definite spot of frigidity where he settles. "I am sorry," he murmurs, looking down at his hands. "I did not mean to put out the light."

"Thought it was too bright anyway."

Segundus grants this a faltering laugh. The soft sound of it proves a great balm to Childermass' own jangled nerves.
He says, "That was a most terrible lie, you know."

Unbidden, a smile toys at the corner of Childermass’ mouth.
He is torn - glad and uneasy both to have the company of Segundus once again. There is little occupation to be found in one's sickbed (especially dull when one is forbidden by a certain indignant ghost from feigning speedier recovery and thus emerging from it sooner), and thus Childermass has been abandoned with his thoughts and his pain for the past day. It is an uncomfortable prospect if one is to consider the revelation which has been imposed upon him.

Despite Segundus' promise to return, this is the first time Childermass has seen him since his confession. Though Childermass can hardly begrudge him his absence - what is one to do in such a predicament? - he rather wishes it had not occurred. The additional time he has had to ponder the matter means, you see, that the extent of Segundus' feelings now sits considerably heavier in his breast than it had at the beginning, when Childermass was taken more by amazement than by dread.

For, though happy he had been, dismay settled in soon after Segundus' hasty departure, simmering in the back of his mind as Norrell censured him for his magic.
A novelty: Childermass is not sure what to do. Is he to reject Segundus on the basis that they cannot be fated (and hereby damn them both to certain misery)? Or throw that caution to the wind and confess in turn, curses and fated loves forgotten?
This latter option would, at least, not make the predicament so unhappy, and yet Childermass still cannot rid himself of the certainty that this happiness would only be initial. For - if Segundus should elect to take his chances upon Childermass and thus attempt to break his curse - it would surely come to nowt, and there is no idea more abhorrent to Childermass' mind than that of Segundus having wasted his one bid for life upon him.

And this is the crux of the matter, is it not? At some point or other, Segundus will chuse to attempt a breaking of his enchantment - that much is inevitable.
It is still possible that all will be well. Perhaps Segundus will experience a change of mind and never try for it at all (and yet this is not a good outcome, is it?). Perhaps Childermass misreads the situation and they two are, indeed, fated, and Segundus will not be wasting his chance. In this case, would a rejection from Childermass not be the very thing obstructing Segundus from his resurrection?

But - call it selfish - Childermass does not suppose he could bear the guilt of a failed attempt, knowing that his own feelings for Segundus had been the man's undoing. Childermass still has little idea of what to do, but with this fear so prominent in his mind he feels there is little choice open to him other than that which avoids it ever becoming true.

Segundus has fallen silent. He does not look quite sure what to say. Childermass would ask what bothers him - but he knows. He knows.

He draws a steadying breath. He shifts himself higher up on the pillows to look properly at Segundus, who blanches at his expression.
"John," begins Childermass. "Yesterday, you-"

Segundus shakes his head. "Pray do not speak of it," he says, quietly and with a definite air of rehearsal. "Please. I should not have said what I did. Let us talk of other things, Childermass. How are you today?" he tries. 
It is as transparent a ploy as Childermass has ever seen. It is a clear request to let the subject alone.

Regardless of these protestations, Childermass is disinclined to leave the matter unaddressed. It would suit them both better not to leave it in suspense. 
“We are going to have to speak of it at some point. Would you not have us clear the air now?”

The question hangs between them for a moment before Segundus looks away. “I think not,” he says dejectedly. “Please. If you truly must, then not today.”

Childermass is still inclined to push the matter, but the growing apprehension on Segundus' countenance warns him off. Perhaps, he thinks, this is a matter for later, when the man is not quite so anxious to evade him. He could speak regardless, yes - make a declaration even if Segundus is unwilling to have the conversation - but Childermass' answer will not be a quick one, will it? It is one more suited to conversation.

"I am tolerably well," he says, replying to the earlier question and watching Segundus with wary eye. "Or as well as can be expected," he concedes, "given the situation. Yourself?"

His ghost sighs. "Tolerable also, thank you."

Attention drifting, Childermass catches a murmur of conversation from the next room over, too faint to make out the words. His eyes drift to the light from his small window, to the golden dust motes dancing amidst its stream like darting minnows, to the uncertain lines of Segundus and the way that they waver upon the air. 
He is ghostly still. Ordinarily, even after a great deal of exertion, this transparency would have resolved itself within a day. This it has, to some degree, but his edges are blurred yet, as if Childermass looks upon him through smeared glass. Concerning, yes, but he doesn’t think the man will consent to being worried over at present, seeing as Childermass is the bedridden individual here. 

Segundus swallows. "Was Norrell... Was he good to you when he visited?"

Here, Childermass does not quite manage to stifle the sudden bark of a laugh which escapes him, and so (owing to the stress upon his hoarse throat) this mirth turns into a coughing fit.
Once recovered, and once Segundus' concern has been waved off, Childermass speaks. "I found him decidedly quarrelsome. I have been reprimanded for my magic - and accused of drunkenness and betrayal."

Segundus takes on a sharp look. "Well-!" he exclaims. "You jest, I hope?"

"Not in the least," he replies. "One might think my being shot was of greater inconvenience to him than me."
A more reasonable part of Childermass knows he ought not to feed this fire. Norrell will, as ever, operate under his own rule of law, and Childermass had never expected much of his bedside manner. But at present, he is feeling bitter himself, and would be lying if he claimed to take no pleasure in that anger being shared with Segundus. Why, what with him having taken a bullet for Norrell, he might be forgiven in having assumed that such accusations of disloyalty were to be spared!

Though Segundus offers up no reply, Childermass can see an even, flat sort of anger in his face. Which is precisely the sort one ought to be most wary of, not in spite of its quietness but because of it. Open resentment is obvious; one knows he will suffer the consequences of it sooner or later and can do his best to make himself scarce in the meantime. Coolness of temper, on the other hand, is an unpredictable thing, and Childermass is glad not to be on the receiving end of it upon this occasion.

He watches as Segundus thinks, a furrow splitting his brow.

"You're plotting," remarks he to the man, who startles to be caught. "Care to elaborate?"

With a shrug, Segundus raises his eyes to meet Childermass'. "Perhaps you had best not know," he replies. "Then you might truthfully claim ignorance, should anyone ask."¹

This foreboding proclamation wrings some amusement from Childermass.
"I am still going to know it was you when they question me about his missing inkpots."

Segundus grants him a sly little smile. He seems more relaxed in manner, now, having entered upon a less dangerous subject than before, despite the faltering trace of hesitance which dogs him still. But evidently, his thoughts are fast migrating to other matters. When he next opens his mouth it is to resume a conversation which Childermass has not partaken of.
"What do you think will become of her?"

Childermass waits for more, but detail is not forthcoming. "What will become of who?"

"Lady Pole," clarifies Segundus. "Has Norrell indicated what is to be done?"

Childermass shifts upon the bed to ease his aching back. It has been complaining mightily these past two days - and in all honesty, he can hardly disagree. He is weary of rest and itching to be up; regardless of Segundus' protestations, the dullness of recovery urges him back to more important duties than sleep.

"She'll be put away in a madhouse. I know not where. Why?"

Segundus bites his lip. "I suppose such a fate is to be expected, but do confess myself uneasy about the matter."

"Better than Newgate."

"And yet I disagree with their methods," says Segundus, leaning forward. "Most profoundly. You heard Mr Strange's account of the Willises, I believe? If the attendants to the King are as cruel, I have little faith in those for ordinary people - particularly having heard what goes on in Bedlam." He stops. "I have not forgot that she shot you," he adds quietly, an unreadable look passing dark over his face. "I do not think I shall forget it as long as I live. But nevertheless - she is sane, is she not?"

For a moment, Childermass regards the worry lines of Segundus' face. It is a face well-suited to concern - which is unfortunate, for Childermass would much rather keep that very expression at bay. "Her being sane won't mean much," he replies. "If there were not so many inconvenient and unwanted women as there are, half England's madhouses would go out of business."

Segundus remains undeterred. "Does that make it right?"

You are very optimistic about rightness, thinks Childermass. But this he does not say. Instead: "I suspect Sir Walter would appreciate the suggestion of someplace kinder and more discreet than the likes of Bedlam. But this," he says wryly, "comes with the condition of you allowing me out of bed."

Looking torn, Segundus purses his lips in unhappy reluctance. "It has been but three days," he says. "Would you not rest a while longer? I know you will insist despite me, but all the same..."

"If anyone needs to rest," deflects Childermass, "it's you." From the dark, bruise-like circles under Segundus' eyes, Childermass harbours doubts that the former has been doing anything much to rectify his lack of sleep.

"Yes. Well." Segundus looks down, notices that he is picking at his cuffs, and stops. "Dire circumstances and all that." Childermass suppresses the familiar urge to reach out and take those anxious hands into his own. He could - and would - have done so before, but now, with Segundus' feelings hanging over them, it would not be prudent.

"Go on, to bed with you."

This is, unfortunately, the imperative most likely to provoke argument amongst those it is dispensed to, regardless of whether or not it is warranted. Segundus makes no exception to this rule.
"But I am not so tired as that," he protests. "I-"

"-Segundus."

"Yes?"

"I will try very hard not to expire in your absence. Sleep, would you?"

Obligingly, Segundus goes, though Childermass holds no great conviction that it is with the purpose of resting in mind. He watches the door that Segundus has gone through for a moment, wanting against reason to call him back again - sentimental halfwit, you - then pulls himself up into a seated position, ignoring the complaints of his sore muscles and wondering when to rise from his sickbed.

Childermass has never had much fondness of convalescing. For one thing, his duties pile up ridiculously high when illness overtakes him, so that in the end it is more trouble to recover than to have worked throughout. And, whilst Childermass is not ungrateful for such care, it is unsettling, and it is his opinion that he fares much better when left to his own devices.
Anyhow, he thinks he ought to be well enough now to leave his bed. Later, with Segundus not being present to fret, he'll take a few turns about the cramped space of his room and perhaps attempt to dress himself.

And, not today, but perhaps tomorrow when he is up, there is the matter of Segundus to see to.

An ache, dull and all too familiar, is rooted within his chest. He doesn't want to hurt Segundus - he feels it is inevitable that he will. 

Shifting his head upon the pillow, Childermass whispers a spell to reignite his candle, which merrily sparks back to life.

He would give a great deal, he thinks, to be permitted to press a kiss to Segundus' forehead, his neck, the inside of his wrist and - slowly, deeply - upon his lips. He would like mundanity - to lie beside him at night, then see him in his bed by the weak light of morning, and to card an idle hand through his hair - speckled grey like starling feathers - and to hold his cool hand in their moments of solitude. He would like to listen to Segundus' ramblings and debate the dubious wisdom of Fenwick and speak without fearing that he has revealed rather too much of himself in the ease of his laughter and the readiness of his smile. In the lingering of his eyes.

And he would like to draw stuttering breaths from Segundus, to watch his face flushed up with pleasure, back arched upon the bed as Childermass takes him carefully to pieces. He wants to see the skin hidden beneath Segundus' layers, to have his eyes no longer confined to the nape of a neck and the glimpse of a wrist and the blush which creeps up that pretty face to brush the tips of his ears.
He wants it to be real. And he wants it to last. Oh, but he wants. When does he get?

Still, a nasty part of his mind dredges up that persistent pre-emptive guilt - a feeling that through this selfishness, he might well damn Segundus to this ghostly state.
God, but he half-wishes he had never known the conditions of Segundus' curse; it would have been so much easier to give in.

Childermass scrubs a wearied hand over his face. Laughs somewhat bitterly to the empty room.

What to do?

-

13th JANUARY, 1816.

-J.S-

-

And now, dear reader, I would direct our gaze to Mr Segundus, who a day or so later is keeping to (or, in other words, hiding within) the confines of his room and still feeling rather sorry for himself. 
He has good reason to, of course. Childermass is up and walking again and professes himself to be much better, which is a great relief indeed, but this blessing carries with it a curse - that is, the knowledge that sooner or later Mr Segundus will doubtless be cornered and rejected. 
He feels a gloomy certainty about the whole affair. Now that the creeping shame of it all (oh, to thrust such a declaration upon Childermass - so sharply, in such an outburst!) has got its hooks into him, Mr Segundus finds he cannot quite contemplate any other ending to it. 

He is, despite the upset, relieved to have gotten the secret out, for it had been gnawing at his mind like a mouse with a sack of grain. But he is not happy with the manner of its deliverance. Did he really have to blurt it out in such a fashion? He had imagined, he dully supposes, something calmer, more even. A conversation, not an argument, where tensions were not running high to begin with and both parties were in reasonable mood. 

As it is, it would appear that Mr Segundus has reacted to the almost-loss of Childermass by trying quite desperately to lose him again.

He swallows, hard, and forces himself away from the topic. But the thing is, you see, that contemplation of this predicament is the only thing sufficient to distract from the freezing air which surrounds him. For the cold builds up, when Mr Segundus is about. Lately, it has not been so bad, but the events of this week have left him shaken and much afflicted by a renewal of ghostly ailments - insubstantiality, transparency and, as stated, frigidity. It is a sudden, cruel undoing of the security which he has thus far built up about his existence, and Mr Segundus resents that his upset should punish him in more ways than just the emotional. All of this, in combination with the harshness of bleak, English winters, has led him to find himself shivering far more than he reasonably ought. 

He tries to rub some heat back into his arms, but knows this is futile before he has so much as begun. The cold radiates from his very core; there is little that can be done to negate it.
Mr Segundus sighs, but his breath is too visible in the freezing air. He lets out a sharp tsk of frustration and falls to pacing instead, so as not to gather overmuch frigidity about himself, as has happened this week past whenever he is stationary for too long. He could go out to disperse it elsewhere, thus avoiding the issue of cumulative cold - but Out likely means encountering Childermass, which means-

 "Segundus," says that very man, this interruption of thoughts making the former startle quite severely, "you could use this room as an ice-house. Come along to a fire."

Mr Segundus whirls around to see Childermass leant against the open doorframe. It is a strange sight, for a moment, and he cannot pinpoint why until he realises that Childermass does not lean upon his usual side, but instead against his good shoulder. He had not realised till now that Childermass had a usual side, but evidently he does. Did, rather.

 "I suppose," says Mr Segundus. "But what if the flames should fail for my presence?"
 Mr Segundus has not tested this. He is too wary of such a hypothesis being true. After all, candles will not bear his nearness at present, barely allowing him to enter a room before snuffing. Is it truly such a leap of logic to suspect that this condition may apply to larger fires, too?

 Childermass throws him a look which says, quite plainly, the flames aren't going to care. 

 "Yes," he says, "but someone must then light that fire again."

"Don't be a martyr; your lips are blue. If a fire must be relit," replies Childermass, "then so be it. After all, with all the candles you put out, I happen to have grown very proficient in such spells."

"But are you not still working? I should not like to detain you for too long; I-"

 "-I've a half day," says Childermass. His exasperation is tempered with some wry amusement - or not amusement, exactly, but some strange softer feeling which Segundus declines to contemplate, for he will only lead himself into false hopes if he does. "Come on."

His firm demeanour does not invite further excuses. If Mr Segundus were less polite, he might tell Childermass of his desire to be left alone, thank you very much - but as it is, he lacks much choice other than to oblige. And, crucially, he rather misses the man. He does not feel quite right avoiding him - it sets him at ease to see Childermass still here.

They test whether or not Segundus does put out fires, to which the answer is no, though they do sputter rather weakly if he comes too close. Then - reminding Childermass of all the daytime occasions in which he has been caught talking to himself, and the reputation which he is acquiring for it - Segundus suggests removing to somewhere other than Hanover-Square, and thus our pair come to find themselves within the nearest tavern, its fire built up to a roar and thankfully faltering only slightly for Segundus' entry.

Childermass has located for them a table in a secluded corner where he lays out his cards, frowning down at them like a disapproving schoolmaster, and nurses a drink. Segundus, still uncomfortable but no longer shivering, watches him uncertainly from the chair opposite.

He absorbs the bustle of those around them, taking in their conversation and laughter and the two men at each other's throats by the opposite wall.
The sounds of other people are, to Mr Segundus, a mixed bag of sorts. On his bad days, it is only something else which has been snatched away. On occasion, the impersonal nature of a crowd means he can quite easily imagine himself as just another man in its midst, even if the remaining degree of separation bothers him like a persistent tug upon his sleeve. Sometimes, tiring of Hanover-Square, this is something Mr Segundus seeks out, this tide of noise in which he may forget himself and be swept away.

He does not suppose that today is one of his good days. Nonetheless, Mr Segundus has been too long in the company of himself. He finds himself more settled for the nature of the earthly, familiar sounds about them.

Yet despite this, Mr Segundus is still on edge. Trepidation regarding Childermass' intentions aside, the man keeps throwing him silent glances. Mr Segundus is still a fraction transparent, apparently, though growing less so since the shooting. But truly, there is no need for worry. This week has been a trial and he would not have expected to come out of it unscathed. It is warming, yes, that Childermass should be checking upon him, but Mr Segundus wishes he would not look so often. It is making him nervous, and he breaks the silence accordingly.

"Wh-" It is the first time either of them have spoken since sitting down. His voice gets stuck in his throat and he coughs awkwardly to clear it. "What do you ask them?"

 "I consult them," says Childermass, turning over La Roue de Fortune, "about my next course of action."
And there, with stark firelit shadows licking at his crooked face and painting the walls about him, glinting bright in his lambent eyes, Childermass looks the very picture of a magician of old - the sort of wild, romantic appearance one might assign, in his mind, to the court of John Uskglass.

Pointedly not contemplating this further, Segundus ignores the flush creeping up his neck but does not bother trying to hide it. 
Childermass, he thinks dismally, knows well enough what my feelings are. 

Instead he tilts his head and looks upon the upside-down cards. He espies L'amoureux, Le Mat, the Eight of Wands, Two of Swords and La Lune amongst them, but as ever can make no more coherent sense of this than he can turn lead into gold. Yet he supposes, through his rudimentary understanding of the art, that all this must indicate some sort of crossroads.
 "And what do they tell you?" he inquires, having waited in vain for Childermass to elaborate.

Childermass does not answer immediately. Brow knitted in concentration, he looks at the cards some moments longer before making a frustrated noise and sweeping them back into the pack.
 "In truth? Nothing of any use."

So Childermass shuffles the cards and lays them out again and looks rather lost for some time. Having hit a dead end, he replaces them in his pocket and turns his full attention upon Mr Segundus.
He says, "They've affected to be disobliging today. However, I would be a very sorry fellow if I could not think for myself. And what I think, then, is that it is time to address the other day."

Mr Segundus freezes. He draws an unsteady breath.
"I do not- Really, I do not think," he replies - wishing his voice did not waver so, and knowing that such protest is in vain - "that it is quite necessary to do so. I know your answer already."

Childermass had been so silent - so shocked - at his confession. Had he wished to voice feelings of his own, he would surely have been more insistent upon it when they next met - but Childermass, likely reluctant to bring it up again, had simply let the matter go. And it is true that Mr Segundus' avoidance has been rather hindering any potential attempt to confess requited love, but the issue is that he severely doubts that this conversation can end in anything but a broken heart for himself - especially considering the unhappy look which has twice now crossed Childermass' face upon his own broaching of the topic.

Now Childermass leans forward. "John, I would not have you harbouring false impressions." 

Is it a little hurtful that Childermass should use his given name for this? Perhaps. Anyhow - Mr Segundus swallows, hard, and readies himself for the inevitable rejection. Arms folded about himself, gaze flickering away from Childermass to a damp patch upon the table, he nods unhappily, indicating that the man should go on.

 "As such," the man resumes, watching Mr Segundus very intently as if expecting him to flee, "I would correct you presently. Look, it is complicated. I must tell you that I-"

Then, Childermass' shoulders drop. He takes on a face of frustration and, looking as if he should like to groan, sits back again in his chair. Mr Segundus is rather puzzled until Childermass says, "Good evening, Lucas," with the air of one who thinks the evening in question to be entirely the opposite.

 "Evening, Mr Childermass," returns Lucas, unaware of his puncturing the moment. 
Mr Segundus is so utterly, blindingly glad of the interruption that he forgets to conceal his shaky laugh of relief from Childermass, who upon the registering of this regards him with a look that is conflicted, almost confused.

 "Oh," says Lucas, following Childermass' gaze and pausing. "Is- John, is he there?"

A pause from Childermass. Mr Segundus nods assent.

"He's here," says Childermass - gesturing to the seat next to Mr Segundus, so that Lucas turns to smile at empty space. 

Mr Segundus tuts at this pettiness and switches seat. "It is hardly Lucas' fault," he protests. "How could he have known?"

Disregarding him, Childermass turns to Lucas again. "What is it?"

 "Ah. Yes - I was with Davey, sir, just over there"- he points out Davey, who waves -"and we spotted you here, and-" 
(A pointed look from Childermass tells him to cut to the heart of the matter.)
"When we left, sir, there was a lady at Hanover. She was claiming to have knowledge of Vinculus' whereabouts."

 Childermass shakes his head. "She's not going to know. She just wants her sixpence."

"Still," presses Lucas, "oughtn't you to go? I thought you were still seeking him. She told me she would wait for you, but I do not know how long she intends to do so."

 It does not seem as if Lucas is going to go anytime soon, and so Childermass rises, looking chagrined, and says he will see her.
Pausing before he goes, he turns to Mr Segundus. There is a slight tilt to his head — an evaluating look in his eye. "Next time, then,” he says quietly. 

With Childermass gone, and that wretched conversation thus delayed, Mr Segundus makes use of his renewed ability to breathe and lets out a long, slow exhalation. He runs a hand through his hair and leans his crossed arms upon the tabletop, resting his head upon them for a moment. 
(Sensing that Lucas is still rather curious about his presence in the inn, Mr Segundus reaches out a finger. He nudges Childermass' abandoned drink an inch or so across the table and watches Lucas' eyes widen.)

When Childermass is definitely gone, Mr Segundus takes himself off in the opposite direction, meaning to absent himself from Childermass' vicinity for the time being. He is a little curious, he'll admit, but it is not as if this informant's news will come to anything.

(Ought he to be hiding like this? 
The answer, he thinks, is a resounding yes.)

He should probably get it over with - accept Childermass' friendship instead and go back as best they can to how it was. But this is, of course, easier said than done. Whilst he now resolves to allowing it to happen, should the subject be brought up, this does not prevent him from finding escape by other means, here in the form of avoiding Hanover-Square as if plague-marked.

All in all, Mr Segundus feels very heavy in spirit. Perhaps, he considers, he had been cut open and filled with stones as he slept, as was Red Riding Hood's wolf.

The sky above him is dark as treacle, the streets gaslit, and the gutters full of muck. It smells richly of coal smoke and the markets and the multitudes of people trudging through from dawn till witching-hour and dawn again. London as she always was, then. 
Mr Segundus wanders, half-lost, amongst all these people, each absorbed in their own self-contained lives, and thinks of the star-spangled heavens beyond these thickly veiling clouds. He imagines as usual that the cold is simply the chill from the air, which has set many others shivering too.

Mr Segundus walks the same paths he always has, and feels idly that there ought really to be indents where his feet have fallen, time after time after time, these same routes ten years over and not a scuff upon the stones to show it. It is a monotony he has grown used to, yet it reeks of desperation to escape such nothingness. 

For little does change - is it not so? He and Childermass have always been together, except for when Childermass leaves, and then Mr Segundus has occupied himself till his partner is back, bringing the light, and as ever Mr Segundus has smiled and inquired about his journey and the state of the roads, pretending he had not wanted what was beyond his reach, nor some sleepless nights wandered up to Childermass' bedroom door, desiring to enter in the man's absence, and stopt himself upon the threshold for fear of it being too far a step to take. 

Mr Segundus is very practiced in keeping up such pretences. He has maintained the act nearly all his life, keeping his eyes to himself and the noose from his neck. The noose is no issue, now, but his eyes are. When at heart one's world consists, despite what he may tell himself, of a single man, he would be an utmost fool to jeopardise such a thing. But risk it he has, and certainly things will change, and not necessarily for the better.

(Monotony can be soothing, sometimes, in that one knows nothing is going to alter.)

-

Later.

-

It is gone midnight, and still Mr Segundus cannot sleep.

Thinking back to a certain night in Hetherstone some years ago, he cannot help but imagine the warmth and bulk of another body within the sheets; he cannot help contemplating the pace of that person's breathing and how naturally his own might fall in line with this rhythm, were one so inclined to let it.

And is it any wonder, really, that Mr Segundus should feel cold and a trifle lonely when the very person he so desires has indeed been in his bed (or Mr Segundus in his, rather) before? And when he is able now to inquire delicately around the faded edges of that memory, a smudged sketch drawn out from the sleep-hazed half-remembrance of a rising, falling chest, and a rumbling laugh in the darkness, and keen, querying eyes glinting in a chink of silvered moonlight - yes, is it not wretched that he can draw such comparison?

Here would be Childermass' head upon the pillow, brow furrowed even in sleep; his long dark hair would be falling over his eyes just so. Perhaps Mr Segundus will turn over and John Childermass will be present; who is to say that he will not? Certainly he will not know until he checks, and Mr Segundus dislikes nothing more than the shattering of a fantasy so he allows himself to keep up this pretence - to stay still, that is, to let himself half-imagine this man with him now.

There is but a single flight of stairs between them, and yet it feels an infinite distance. 

-

14th JANUARY, 1816.

-

The next day, Mr Segundus is greeted by a scratching at his door and a faintly feline noise. When he pokes a head through to investigate, Lucas' cat looks up at him with wary amber eyes.

"Good evening," he says weakly. "However did you escape this time?"

Cat, who has been much alarmed by his enfeebled state as of late, dispenses with a reproachful mrrp.
So Mr Segundus laughs with a lightness he does not feel and steps out of the door fully, trying not to trip over her as she snakes between his legs. He sits with her awhile, then attempts to lead her nearer to the servants' quarters, whereupon she is soon snatched up by a wide-eyed Hannah who softly scolds her for getting out.

As Mr Segundus lingers in the hallways, he feels the cold air gather about him again with the dogged persistence of a shadow. He decides, wearily, that he may as well work up the courage to try the library, where there is sure to be a fire going in the hearth. It being evening, Childermass may still be present, but Mr Segundus hopes somewhat fervently that he will not be, or that the man will be in company, so as to avoid the possibility of another conversation.
It is not, you see, that he wishes to abandon Childermass entirely - no, if he wished to do that he would have removed himself from the house itself - but rather a matter of his upset being too raw as of yet to face exacerbation, which it almost certainly will should Childermass pursue the subject of Segundus' untimely confession once more.

Putting these anxieties aside, he walks to the library. It irks him that his feet make no sound against Hanover-Square's rugs and boards, but then this is a very old hurt, after all, only really resurfacing as a result of Mr Segundus' Poor Spirits and Despondency. He smooths the feeling over as one does a hair sticking out of place - knowing that in short order it will bother one again, but being unable to fix a proper solution for the moment.

Unfortunately, most unfortunately, Childermass is indeed in the library. His head is bowed over the writing desk, but he must sense Segundus' entry, for he looks up hopefully.

Freezing in place, Segundus flounders for an excuse. But the look upon Childermass' face causes the words to falter and die in his throat before he has stammered out so much as half an unconvincing clause.

 "Evening," says Childermass, breaking Segundus' paralysis. His voice carries an uncharacteristic uncertainty. It puts Segundus in mind of standing upon a frozen lake, never knowing which step will be the one to crack the ice.

Segundus glances back to the empty doorframe behind him and wishes he had never walked through, and regrets every single thing that he has ever said or done, and quite possibly sends a silent plea for the floor to swallow him up. "Good evening!" he exclaims, turning to face Childermass again with a too-bright smile. "Ah, I really ought to... to-"

 "-Would you-"

"-go," Segundus finishes lamely, meriting a weary sigh from the other man.

 "John," says Childermass, rising quickly from his chair and looking harried as Segundus begins to edge back towards the door. "For Christ's sakes, stop trying to run away. I've an admission to make."

After a pause, in which Segundus remains frozen - unsure whether or not to obey - Childermass raises an expectant eyebrow.
So Segundus bites his lip and, discarding with reluctance his dream of escape, consents to tread close enough for conversation, still hanging back a little out of caution. Even so, despite the nagging pull of worry, there is something small and bright - dare he call it hope? - kindling in his breast. 
"My apologies," he says, somewhat rueful. "I will hear you."

Childermass inclines his head in a nod. He seems to think for a moment, and then comes closer still - each footfall a jolt to Segundus' nerves - till Segundus is surrounded by the familiar scent of him, that of pipe smoke, old books and London smog.
He is only too conscious of what Childermass means to address, and much too aware of himself and their intimate proximity, wishing he could fold himself smaller to escape such piercing scrutiny as Childermass regards him with now - warm, yes, but frighteningly unreadable - and Segundus feels the suspense of it like a physical thing, a forceful wind which blusters and blows him between conclusions without sparing any care for the man caught up in its path of crippling uncertainties and fragile, newborn hopes.

A long silence descends. Shaky as he is, Segundus feels he may well be unravelling at the seams.

"Childermass," he says-

Childermass shakes his head. Chastised, Segundus falls silent. 

The grandfather clock is chiming eight in the hall - counting down these last fragile moments, he thinks - alongside the beat of his heart which, at present, feels more akin to the desperate wing-patter of a moth trapped in a jar than any ordinary, human thing. 

He counts the peals of the clock - five, six, seven–

At long last, Childermass begins. 
"You claimed," he says, "that I did not feel as you do."

"O-oh," stammers Segundus, fidgeting with his collar. It is too tight all of a sudden; the fabric is scratchy and agitating against his skin. "Did I?"

 "Aye," Childermass replies, readily discarding Segundus' feeble denial. His voice, always so steady and self-assured, betrays him now with the very slightest shake. Darkly disconcerting, his searching gaze remains fixed upon Segundus' face. And yet - and yet! - all this is not nearly so startling as what he says next. 
 "You presume that I do not reciprocate - that it has become necessary to avoid me for this reason. But I say, sir, that you are making undue assumptions."

The fire crackles and spits in the hearth. 
A scrap of laughter drifts up from the streets below. 
Someone's shuffling tread causes the boards above them to voice a quiet, creaking complaint.

The enormity of this threatens, almost, to swallow Segundus up, and as such it is all he can do to summon up another soft, barely audible ‘oh,’ feeling rather slow and stupid for his sheer wordlessness.

Childermass - still close, far too close - pauses, and frowns deeply. He looks a trace lost, yet no less intense for it. "In truth, I do not know how to put this. But you-" He reaches out, takes one side of Segundus' face in ink-stained hand, a thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone - oh, but Segundus scarcely dares breathe for fear of this impossible, impossible touch being retracted - and furrows his brow. 
"When you disappeared - the day that I was- shot..." Childermass lets out a frustrated sigh and trails off. "When you disappeared," he repeats haltingly, "and I was left staring at the place where you had been, the very world seemed to shrink."

Segundus swallows hard. 
Some frightened part of him has still not dispensed with the idea that this is not real - a dream, he thinks, with all the desperation of trying to shield oneself from later disappointment, from which he will awake to find himself cold, and aching, and alone. 

Minutely, though, Segundus tilts his head to one side, leaning the smallest amount into the living warmth of Childermass' hand - and really, truly, how could this be anything other than reality? Here are the lines of Childermass' face, and here is the once-broken crook of his nose, and there lies his hand, slightly grazed and scratchy from his fall of several days ago - all presented in perfect, unchanging clarity - yes, quite infeasibly, this is happening. 

His breath catches; a shiver runs through him.

Still gathering his thoughts, Childermass smooths a stray lock of hair away from Segundus' temple. And Segundus feels most terribly, fatally fond.

With his consideration concluded, Childermass says, low-voiced, "I do not think I could accept a world without you in it. I do not think I could stand the possibility of your leaving. And so- for fear of that- I never spoke one word of what I truly felt. For a long time I have concealed from you just how severely my heart is engaged, though-" the intimation of a smile toys at his lips "-I see now that I had little need of it."

 Segundus thinks that he, too, is smiling. Grinning like a fool, even. There is such vibrant happiness within him that, for a moment, he is overcome, bringing a hand to his mouth to stifle a small laugh of delight. He feels lighter than air - and, conversely, much more solid than he has been for some time.
Belatedly finding his tongue, he says, "I am glad to hear it, John. Very much so.”
He is still starved for words, and as such this does not encapsulate the depth of his emotion the slightest bit, but Segundus has faith that Childermass will understand. He generally does.

And, with this, a pressing question comes to the fore of his mind. “You would- Do you propose a partnership, sir?"
It comes out tremulous, no louder than a murmur, as if the mere raising of volume might taint the sacredness of this moment, fracturing its glass fragility—

And Childermass hesitates.

Segundus feels it like a shock of cold water down his spine.
 "John," says he, fighting a burgeoning sense of dread. “Do you?"

"The question is," replies Childermass, weariness writ deep in his features, "whether I ought to. There are the terms of your disenchantment..."

"I do not care," Segundus returns, fierce and somewhat breathless. "Truly, I do not."

It is not that Segundus has never hoped, in his heart, that someday he might be restored. It is, you see, that this imposed ghostliness - this curse - has governed such a large portion of his life that he cannot stand the thought of it intruding even further. 
There is no point to restricting himself, hoarding the scraps of hope allowed him until even the simple act of loving is wrapped up in the vague threats of an impossible bargain. 

It is this resolution which gives him the courage to object as he does when Childermass shakes his head and says resignedly, "I will not be your fated one. You must know that."

Segundus raises an eyebrow. "The only thing that you are not, John Childermass, is not listening to me. Hear this: I do not care. It is my prerogative; it is my life to forfeit, and were I to win or to lose it over anyone, I would want that person to be you."

 "And yet I am not a good man," states Childermass, unheeding. Gaze flicking momentarily away, he drops his hand from Segundus’ jaw (though no sooner has the latter come to miss the touch than this hand comes down to rest upon his jacket lapel, a warm and welcome pressure against his shoulder). "I am rough, on occasion callous. I am derisive, dishonest, secretive and self-serving. In one way or another, I have thieved and dissembled for the whole of my life."

Having already voiced his disinclination to abide by the terms of his enchantment, Segundus finds himself confused. "As if I had not the measure of you already!" he exclaims. "You cannot seriously think to succeed in scaring me off, sir." 

Registering Childermass' continued tension, Segundus almost shakes his head in bafflement, but reminds himself to be patient. 
"Come," he says, more gently this time, "I am not expecting you to change. Indeed I should be most disappointed if you did. But let me phrase my query more simply, then, since you are determined to misunderstand. Do you love me?"

 Childermass, still seeming a little lost, looks at him for a long while. He does so in the same queer, darkly intent manner as earlier, which is no longer so unpleasant a scrutiny - in truth, now that Segundus knows the meaning of it, it is rather thrilling.
 "Aye," answers he. Segundus sees the air rush from his chest in a great, silent sigh of release. "I do. I have been yours," Childermass admits, "for a very long time."

Segundus has to force himself to take a breath before he asks a second, equally bold question: "And would you be willing, then, to let me kiss you?"

 A laugh escapes Childermass, that quiet, rumbling sort which warms one down to his roots. His eyes flicker down to Segundus' lips. 
"Ah. Now that I would."

 "Then that is all that I needed to hear," Segundus says softly. He places a hand upon Childermass' chest - just over his heart, fingers finding purchase in the worn kersey of his waistcoat - and, with the briefest hesitance, rocks up onto the tips of his toes to close the distance between them.

At first it is nothing drawn-out, merely a brief, chaste brush of lips. When Segundus cautiously withdraws, it is only by inches, and something melts inside him to see Childermass regarding him with something very open indeed - almost raw. Surprized, in his way, as if one can be surprized by a thing he has been told to expect. 
Emboldened, Segundus cannot help but kiss him again. And he feels, to his gratification, Childermass smiling into his mouth and deepening it, tilting Segundus' jaw towards him and stealing away the very breath from upon his lips, each moment healing a fraction of the hurt harboured in Segundus’ bones. 

He relishes this scarce instance of touch, sweet as the prospect of sleep after the most tiresome of days. 
It feels like something they have circled around this whole time, never quite reaching but almost - almost - achieving. It feels right.

Due in no small part to Segundus' meandering hands, Childermass' hair is coming out of its tie. For a moment Segundus contemplates it before reaching back and letting it down, ribbon fluttering soundless to the floor as wild hair falls about Childermass' face in a ragged black curtain.
Falling a moment later from where it has come to tangle in his hair, Segundus' hand trails down Childermass' neck, smoothing the high collar against the heat of his skin—
"Oh," he mumbles, and pulls back a little. "I'm not making you cold, am I?"

In response, Childermass only huffs a silent laugh, his breath ghosting across Segundus' face.

"It is a serious question," he insists, as Childermass places a line of kisses along his jaw in a manner which is really rather distracting. He angles his head so as to give the man better access.

"No," says Childermass. A moment later, he hums and reconsiders. "Well, aye."

"What"- Segundus' breath hitches as Childermass turns his attention to untying his cravat -"John, what is that supposed to mean?" 

“You," returns Childermass, "are worrying too much. It may be so, but I do not care either way."

"Hm. May I suggest," says an amused Segundus, taking Childermass' hands from his neckcloth to forestall progression in this respect, "that we take this out of the library. Should Mr Norrell walk in, I presume you have little desire to explain."

"You'd find it very entertaining, I'm sure." 

Segundus finds himself laughing. After a moment, Childermass snorts and follows suit.
Then he holds out his hand. Segundus takes it and, pressing a kiss to his knuckles for the simple reason that he can, twines their fingers together.

1. From February through May, 1816, Hanover-Square entered upon a great state of confusion. Mr Norrell's notes were wont to disappear entirely, then to be found some days later in unexpected places, despite the servants' protestations that this drawer or that lampshade had already been checked. Furthermore, Norrell complained with frequency of having heard mice (of which he possessed a mortal terror) in whichever room he happened to be in. Mice which, of course, did not exist, or else had nibbled away at enough of his books of magic to be able to cast spells of invisibility themselves. Understandably, Norrell was much put out of humour, and grew steadily more frustrated by the day. This particular mischief was a short-lived episode - Lucas White theorized that complaints amongst the servants must have tipped his alleged ghost off regarding the 'dash'd inconvenience for the rest of us' and that the phantom was thus persuaded to turn to subtler methods within the fortnight.

Accordingly, this ghost (or 'John,' as Lucas came to call him from 1816 onwards) persisted in other manners. Now, Gilbert Norrell had always been plagued by a persistent chill, but - after the stolen papers and invisible mice had ceased - this grew ever worse, and increasingly it seemed that no sooner had his tea been poured than it grew stone cold (a serious concern for any Englishman). 
It seemed, too, that not one person could persuade Norrell's candles to remain lit for any reasonable period of time. Given the man's love of reading, this was especially inconvenient in the darkness of winter. Despite Norrell placing charms of longevity and all manner of wards against magical interference upon the wax, the problem continued for a good long while. (Curiously, the servants did not appear to suffer their own candle-related grievances.) 
In addition to this, Norrell felt the unshakeable sensation of being watched. Initially, the magician suspected Jonathan Strange, and penned a brusque letter informing him in no uncertain terms that he was to stop this ungentlemanly behaviour. In a peculiar turn of events, however, this missive never found its intended recipient. It appears instead to have been intercepted by John Childermass, amongst whose surviving papers the letter has now been found. Upon the back of the sheet, someone (likely Childermass) has written 'Your doing, I assume?' A shaky, near-childish hand below it has made out a wobbly reply - 'A baseless accusation, my love,' to which the first person makes a scribbled-out joke about the other's shameless transparency, then the dry remark, 'An unshakeable defence. I stand corrected.'

Numerous other annoyances plagued Norrell. But by the end of May, they had at last tapered off, leaving in their wake a Mr Norrell who had learnt no lessons and felt no guilt for whatever offence he had caused the phantom. He had, however, grown very vexed indeed, and eventually that petty besieger of his nerves must have felt satisfied enough with the outcome. return to text

Chapter Text

MARCH, 1816.

-J.S-

-

 "—not sure I agree with that, John - after all," he is saying, "was it not Pevensey who first proposed the theory of converging rites? She would have known, surely, that it was unwise."

 Childermass tuts. "Tell me, when has that ever stopt anyone? It did not stop you."

 "Well, quite - but she must have been more sensible than that! I maintain it; she would not have walked into a trap so blindly, with so little preparation."

To which Childermass looks at him with wry expression, tilts his head to one side and says one might think so, aye, but he's known sensible people to do the most illogical things.

 "I hope," Segundus says musingly, "that my milliner does not consider himself and his fol-de-lols exempt from such a judgement."

In the low light, he watches Childermass cast his eyes heavenward. "Your milliner will not, at least, be so foolish as to lose himself in Faerie. Have no fear on that front."
He continues: “I am sure, after Pale’s exploration, that an expedition of her own must then have appealed to Pevensey. Who would not wish to see such sights for themselves? I would not be surprized should she have overestimated herself; many do."

Their voices grow more and more hushed as they approach the bedrooms. Once they get to Segundus', they leave off debating the voluntary nature (or lack thereof) of Francis Pevensey's disappearance - not exactly an urgent disagreement, the event having predated them both by some three hundred years. 

It is late, and as ever Childermass has walked Segundus to his door, though Segundus knows every inch of this place and each creak of its floors by heart now; indeed, he finds himself avoiding the loudest-complaining boards out of habit alone, regardless of his noiseless steps.

When Segundus bids him goodnight, Childermass presses a kiss to his brow. Folding him into his arms, drawing him closer, Segundus reflects that he does not wish to part just yet.
"You could sleep here, you know," he says, finding himself emboldened. (He is grown tired; this is slow, half-touch, just as treacle is half-liquid, surrounding himself with the warmth and presence of his lover without exhausting himself further.) "Or... Or I could stay in yours, to save you the trouble of sneaking out? I suppose that is more practical."

There comes a considering pause, in which Segundus sleepily stifles a yawn. He adds, "We need not, of course. If you are better rested when alone."

Childermass' hand is warm at the nape of his neck. A thumb smooths upwards into Segundus' hair, pausing just by his ear. He hums, and replies, "It's not exactly large, my bed, but you are very welcome to try."

So, quietly, they make their way up to the servants' quarters and Childermass' bedroom. Childermass changes, and Segundus strips to his shirt and follows him into bed, sheets whispering about as they make themselves comfortable. Some part of him, already asleep, thinks it very considerate of the blanket to settle atop him tonight, rather than under and inside.

The bed is not built for two, no, but Segundus does not particularly mind. It means, after all, that Childermass' body remains curled up against his own, breath warm against Segundus' neck and an arm draped over his waist. This is a very agreeable state of affairs. Contented, Segundus finds Childermass' hand and holds it in his. 
He is very comfortable, and very drowsy, and in consequence quick to drift off, much as he wishes to hold on for longer and commit all this to memory.

Segundus knows little more until he stirs in the night, slowly coming into consciousness and finding himself a little disoriented by his surroundings. He dimly registers that it has begun to rain. Untroubled, he closes his eyes. 

A little later, he opens them again to discover a sliver of moonlight falling over the sheets, its bright arch disrupted by rumpled bedclothes and the outline of another body. As the haze of half-sleep departs, he connects Childermass' presence to the warmth at his back - as the pieces come together again, remembrance washing over him, he turns his growing smile into the pillow.

Hearing a rustle of movement, he turns over to find Childermass awake. Segundus whispers a greeting into the semi-darkness, duly returned by his lover - goodness, but is it not a novel thing to think of John Childermass so?
He smiles again and closes the (admittedly minimal) distance between them, partly because he can, and partly because he is feeling so especially fond that it is really the most natural thing to do. Though Segundus' intention is to do so but briefly, he finds himself reluctant to break it off and Childermass, in deepening the kiss, seems to agree.

Brushing fingers over Childermass' temple, lazily tracing the curved shell of an ear, Segundus cradles the side of his face in one hand. Seeking more, he shifts closer. Soon Childermass follows suit, closing arms about him. This leaves them pleasantly entwined, which is much to Segundus' liking, though he likes it yet more when Childermass turns attention to his neck and collarbone, dragging out sparks.

If it happens, at some point or other, that aimlessly wandering hands take on more purpose, no longer to be contented with cradling faces and roaming idly over cloth-covered skin, then that is little of our business. And if it should happen, too, that those touches drift lower, then that is meant even less for our eyes, and accordingly naught more shall be portrayed.

-

Loose-limbed and hazy, admiring his lover's form in the silver light, Segundus awaits his return to the bed. Once Childermass is beside him, Segundus lays his head upon his chest (taking care to mind his bad shoulder). Childermass begins to stroke a hand through his hair, and Segundus makes a drowsy noise of content, his eyes drifting closed.

Some moments later, Childermass exhales in slight amusement and says, "Perhaps you are right."

"Oh, good," says Segundus, indistinctly. "You have seen sense. May I ask what about?"

"Pevensey did not tell anyone that she was going."

Segundus laughs. "You see? It cannot be that she went of her will."

-

Come morning, Segundus wakes to the sound of birds, squinting against the pale light of an early dawn. In the corner, at the washstand, there stands a vague dark shape. Segundus shifts his face slightly upon the pillow to look. As his eyes adjust to the day, it resolves itself into John Childermass splashing water on his face from the basin. His hair is held haphazardly back - several shorter pieces are drifting from the tie. Sunlight falls over him, glitters in the water, is rendered all the brighter for the person it lands upon.

Drying his face and setting aside the flannel, Childermass turns to Segundus, smiling slantwise to catch him watching. "Sleep well?" he asks.

Segundus smiles back. Still tired, it takes him a second or so to sort thoughts into speech. "Yes," he manages. "Yes, I slept very well. What of yourself?"

 "Quite the same," says Childermass. Beginning to dress, he pulls the nightshirt over his head and replaces it with his day one. "And yet I found," he continues, "that somebody woke me in the night, so I cannot say how restful it truly was."

 Propping himself up on his arms now, Segundus rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "I think you will find, sir, that you were awake before I."

The corner of Childermass' mouth quirks up. A moment passes before Segundus takes heed of the earliness of their waking and asks, "Where are you going at this hour?"

 "Spitalfields," replies Childermass. "I've engravers to see."

 "Oh," says Segundus, who had quite forgotten this errand. "The pair who have done the"– he yawns –"forgive me - the Roads?"

 "The very same." Childermass sits back on the bed for a moment, doing up the buttons of his breeches at the knee, and looks over at Segundus with an eyebrow arched. "Coming?"

 "Of course."

-

-J.C-

-

On the way, Segundus stops to watch a dunnock take flight from park railings, turning his face to the sky to observe it going. He squints slightly in the sun as a breeze bestirs his hair, caressing his creased brow, and Childermass is struck by a considerable surge of fondness.

It is an overcast day, and inclement, the sun being undecided thus far upon whether or not to shew her face. They have been caught between showers and cold light this morning, though the vivid rowan and juniper berries littering the green rather make up for the ashy heavens. The mud underfoot does not - but then this is something all Englishmen must resign themselves to accepting.

By the time they come to the engravers' dingy, dirty house and dingier, dirtier street, the sky has gone gloomy-grey and the clouds have begun again to spit drizzle. Having been sent to spy upon Strange's visit, Childermass makes himself into a shadow in the doorframe. He makes Segundus into one too, just to hear him laugh.

 "I did not think that was possible," Segundus remarks in astonishment. "For me, that is." Despite this surprize, his voice comes out whispery and muffled by the magic. His wavering, diluted shadow can just about be discerned against the wall. "I wonder; do you think my shadow is visible?"

 Childermass shrugs, or perhaps only intends to shrug (being a shadow is a hazy, half-formed affair, and not very conducive to communication). "You're asking the wrong person," he reminds Segundus. "I haven't the slightest. Stand somewhere obvious, then we'll see."

Segundus hums, considering. "I thought the point of the shadows was to hide."

 "It's Norrell that wants secrecy. Yet for that, I believe we would need to break in, which (as I think you can agree) would be needless."

"Why do we wait, then? We may as well knock on their door."

"You'll see," says Childermass, vaguely. "I think you'll find your patience well rewarded."

The rain worsens. Presently, a carriage comes to a stop before the house. Out of it steps Jonathan Strange in mourning dress, frowning at the street about and cursing to himself when he steps into a puddle of mud and slurry. 
Beside him, Childermass senses Segundus lighting up at the sight of the man. Childermass has kept this particular from him till now; he has had the suspicion that Segundus will find his joy over Strange's presence made the keener for its surprize.

Childermass holds in a smile as Strange perplexes his footman with talk of drawing lessons and shadows. It is all a very long-winded way of saying that he has chosen a poor hiding place. So when Strange calls out, "Childermass! Is that you?" he steps out of the shadows without preamble of his own, sketching an ironical bow. Strange's footman blinks.

At this, Strange nods, but looks dissatisfied yet. "And who is it you have with you?"

 "Me?" Segundus chances, after a pause.

Childermass looks to Segundus. Strange frowns.
"Hm!" he says. "There is nobody. I thought-" He cuts himself off.
 Childermass raises an eyebrow, but Strange only waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, it is nothing, I'm sure. Come, man! Come in and see what you were sent to see. I make no secret about it."

Letting the shadows fall away from Segundus too, Childermass obliges. Gleeful in manner, eyes brightened with a hint of the old spark, Strange inquires as to the situation at Hanover-Square. He will be wanting to hear of Norrell's reaction to The Famulus, his second great act of rebellion, and Childermass can most certainly satisfy his curiosity in this respect. His very presence here is, after all, down to Norrell's fear over Strange's articles and book. 
(Somehow, it feels like a child's query, fuelled by the boyish need to poke and prod and vex. But there always was a little of a child in Strange; for a gentleman to be, by birth, above the concerns of common folk, is rather an impediment to maturing.)

Once Strange's footman has impatiently persuaded the timid girl at the door to let them in, they make their way into the engravers' house. It is just as gloomy and every bit as unclean as the street it perches upon - not a fact which Childermass supposes the engravers to know, their windows being so grimy that they cannot possibly see much of the outside world.
Well, perhaps it is not such a loss. Spitalfields is no inspiring sight.

Sketches scatter the tables, are tacked onto the ceilings and floors - Segundus darts about, inspecting each one in great interest before his attention alights upon the next, rather like a bee in a flower field. Continually, he comes and goes between them and Childermass, Strange and the engravers, posing the occasional query about the King's Roads, most of which Childermass dutifully voices. (Segundus, excitement tempered with sympathy, asks almost as many about how Strange is faring. Childermass is not asked to offer Segundus' condolences to Strange, but it feels a near thing.)

 It is as Childermass asks one of his own questions regarding the Roads that Strange shews him his ironic smile and replies, "I do not know. What is your opinion, magician?"

Magician. In times past, Childermass has not felt the need to consider himself as such. He is a magician, in theory, being somebody who does magic - but since he keeps his magic secret, he performs it neither often enough nor with sufficient impressiveness to feel himself deserving of the title. The likes of Lanchester, for instance, concerned themselves with greater feats than the warming of rooms and the cleaning of spilt ink. It is… blasphemy, of some sort, to regard Pale and Belasis as his fellows.
But then, Childermass keeps such things secret for the sake of Norrell's sensibilities, and he is still displeased with the man, and on the decision of a moment does not object to Strange conferring the title upon him.

(Segundus huffs. "I have only been saying so for nine years," he reminds Childermass.)

Every now and then, Segundus produces a thrilled exclamation or two and entreats Childermass to come and look, when he is able. There is a person in this background, just emerging from behind a ruined pillar! Why, there are a great many shoes on this particular bridge; whoever might have left them behind? Was it ritual, perhaps - an offering of some sort? Segundus wonders if–

 "-Quite alright, Childermass? You seem distracted."

Wincing, Segundus mouths an apology.

It is something of a balancing act, dividing attention between - well, Childermass hesitates to differentiate between Segundus and the living, though it is the convenient distinction to make. Yet Childermass has never much minded it. Most of the time, Segundus is careful not to be talkative enough to distract. He is talking more today, yes, but this is no surprize - Segundus is still entirely enamoured with Strange and his magic, and it would be concerning were he not doing so. Hoping to convey that Segundus need not apologize, but needing to do so without puzzling Strange, Childermass nods minutely at his ghost.

 "Simply thinking," he says, in reply to Strange's query. "I wondered if you had a theory regarding which peoples traverse the Roads. Their use is not heard of England - in our time, that is - yet I cannot help but notice a person in this engraving, or at least the shadow of one." Passing the picture in question to Strange, Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Artistic licence, sir, or somebody you saw?"

Strange, lighting up, proceeds to explain. Drawn by the discussion, Segundus wanders closer to listen - but it is as he does so that Strange just so happens to make an expansive gesture, his arm going directly through Segundus' head. The ghost casts a rather indignant glance at Strange for the benefit of Childermass, who masks his smile with a dry cough.

Soon Segundus is at his side, a hand lighting upon Childermass' arm in greeting. He has taken advantage, since their becoming lovers, of being unseen. It is freeing to have their secrecy be so much less of a concern, though partly queer, for Childermass must continually remind himself that Segundus is indeed invisible. Yet a little queerness never caused anybody any harm, and Childermass is glad of what casual touch this affords them.

Before they leave, Strange poses a question of his own to Childermass, one that brings a sideways smile to the latter's face. Is it not time, Strange says, is it not time that Childermass came over to him? There need be none of this servant nonsense.

Segundus will have, of course, strong opinions on the matter, but Childermass is surprized to find him remaining quiet, waiting to see what is decided. Perhaps he can tell that the answer is to be no.
Childermass has respect for Strange as a magician, yes. And it would be a fine thing to work so openly upon magic. And yet it is not sustainable, is it, to leave without need a steady, paid position of twenty-six years for as haphazard a man as Strange?

Besides, to accept would be to become Strange's pupil. Childermass has pride enough that he will not have his own learning attributed to another - in theoretical matters, at the very least, he could very well be teacher. In terms of practical magic, he has had a great many years to acquire skill, and the benefit of Segundus relaying the content of Norrell's tuition. 'Tis true, Childermass may not be so innovative as Strange, but this is a matter of disposition, not something to be altered through lessons.

And need it be said? If Childermass is to side with Strange, the more popular of the magicians, who is left to advise Norrell? Certainly Lascelles must think himself up to it, but in that he would be wrong. No - should Strange take prominence by Childermass' allegiance-shifting, there will only be the former's opinion to go by on magic, and that is no way to do such things. One cannot be too cautious, but neither can he be rash - the best solution, in Childermass' thinking, is to allow both modes of thought to exist and hope that some will have enough sense to tread a middle path.

So he declines. Strange takes it with good grace, and Segundus looks puzzled but not surprized - this confusion will dissolve later, when Childermass explains what reasoning he has left unsaid, though he anticipates minor dissent. There is something in Segundus' eyes now which says, Norrell would never call you magician, you know.

By the time they set off again, their business being concluded, the drizzle has ceased. The shivering sunlight attempts feebly to shrug off its damp, heavy blanket of clouds.

So the skies are lighter, and so are Segundus' steps.
“Missed him?” Childermass inquires.

“It has been a while.” After a brief pause, Segundus looks to him and says, “I did not know you spoke French.”

Childermass raises an eyebrow. “Not very well, as you've seen.”

Giving a quiet laugh, Segundus takes his arm. “Come, I thought you sounded more fluent than that.”

“You did not hear Forcalquier ask if I were Dutch?”

“Oh, your accent cannot be helped. And besides," he remarks, "I do not think you will have cause to go to France anytime soon.”

"No. No, I suppose not."

Chapter Text

9th to 10th of FEBRUARY, 1817.

-J.C-

-

Today is clouded-over, with all things gone damp and grey. Earlier Hannah had come in from an errand, generously mist-beaded, and (as Lucy handed her a cloth with which to dry her face) pronounced the weather about as cheerful as a funeral.

Yet this afternoon, Hanover-Square is characterised not by sombre, dismal sentiment, but instead harried disarray - this being the natural consequence of Mr Norrell's sudden decision to set out for Hurtfew. The master, you must recall, is a man of routine with no great fondness of travel; they are used to at minimum a week of notice beforehand. Yet present circumstances, these being the proliferation of magic throughout England and the swift approach of Jonathan Strange, have urged Norrell to make that decision rather more swiftly than usual. With Lascelles gone to receive Drawlight's news of the other magician, Norrell has been left in paroxysms of anxiety, and so by extension has thrown the whole household into the same. 

Sat at his writing-desk in the library, Childermass shuffles his cards. Any can determine Strange's whereabouts; that much is clear as day. Night, that is. The thing with night, though, is that one can quite easily tell when it has fallen, yet - like black swiped over a canvas - darkness muddies the finer details within. So it is with Strange's situation, quite unfathomable to anyone. 

It is plain to see where he is, yes. But when is he to arrive? How will be make his way here? What are his intentions? How will it end? Childermass has asked his cards, but no satisfactory answer has been returned him - all moons and towers and wheels of fortune, shadowed by the occasional visitation of death. 
Tell me something I don't know, he thinks, chagrined, and sets them back on the desk for the moment.

He looks up in time to notice Segundus coming in. "Good afternoon," he says absently, having espied Lucas at the nearest table. 

The footman, oblivious to this address, is packing books. Norrell has, after being taken aside by a voice or two of reason, consented to let Lucas proceed without hovering supervision, provided that Childermass is present. (Although it is not as if Childermass has been keeping a particularly close eye on the man; it is a laughable thought that Lucas, with all his years in Norrell's service, would treat the volumes with anything less than utmost respect.)

Spotting Childermass next, Segundus smiles. 
 "Afternoon," returns Childermass, nodding back.

Puzzled, Lucas looks over his shoulder at him. With a silent oh of comprehension, he realizes he is not the one being addressed and turns back to his work.
Meanwhile, Segundus regards the disarray in the library with an impressed air. "The whole house over is in disorder," he notes, looking over Lucas' list. "I must say I can hardly envy anyone trying to put things to rights again.”

 "Surely you have seen worse, after Spitalfields." 

(To comment on the engravers had, perhaps, been unthinking. It is a delicate subject. Last year, they had argued over the suppression of Strange's book, then implicitly agreed not to bring it up again. Further disagreement could only come to nothing - the the issue was out of Childermass' power to remedy, regardless of whether or not he had wished to.)

Still, Segundus only laughs and comes over. Leaning on the back of Childermass' chair, he looks down at the desk in interest. "I suppose I have," he replies, his unhurried manner making stark contrast to the urgency which has descended upon Hanover today. "What are you doing?"

 "Managing correspondence," returns Childermass, briefly holding up a letter for inspection.
¹ "Reading cards." He feels Segundus' hand settle upon his shoulder, thumb stroking idly, and adds, "I ask after Strange."

 "And how goes it?"

"How goes it?" Childermass shakes his head. "Poorly. I expect they know as little as I."

With a small sigh, his ghost says, "I am not so sure that anyone knows. Least of all himself, if rumour is to be believed."

 There being many, many rumours concerning Strange, Childermass laughs. He cannot resist. "What, that he killed Mrs Strange? Grew himself into a giant? That there is nowt left of him - only magic in the shape of a man?"

 "You know full well what I speak of." Segundus pauses, and Childermass sees in his mind's eye his brows together, face fixed in thoughtfulness. "I still do not know how far I ought to believe it. He seemed to me too sensible to seek out such a state."

 "Did he?" asks Childermass, dubiously. He looks over his shoulder at Segundus, who flushes a little at his raised eyebrow and reasserts that yes, Strange very much had. "He fed Sutton-Grove to a donkey, John." 

 "I can little fault him on that front; I say I must have fallen asleep upon Prescriptions and Descriptions at least a dozen times."

Not exactly a defence of sensibility, that. Merely a mark of Sutton-Grove's skill as an entertainer.

"You have also heard about the Neapolitans."

"I can hardly give credence to wartime hearsay," returns Segundus. "Anyone would have exaggerated, if only to make much of a magician in the army."

 Childermass gives way to Segundus' assertions, these being infallible by dint of stubbornness. Let him believe Strange rational and measured, then, rather than impulsive and inclined to overconfidence. It makes no difference to the man's present madness.

They talk a little longer, but soon Lucas turns to give Childermass a warning glance, gesturing with a flick of his head to the door opening behind him.

"Hullo, Lucas," says Dido. "Been haunted much today?"

Lucas stammers a little, clearly caught between desire to dispute the tease and his inability to reveal Segundus. Then, looking put-upon, he sighs. "No. Not at all."

 "No ghoulish shrieks? Rattling chains?"

"I never claimed anything of the sort!"

 "Well," says Childermass, "you must be glad of going away. The ghost won't follow on to Hurtfew Abbey, I'm sure."

 Dido laughs, but Lucas only casts him an unimpressed look. "Will it not," he says flatly.

 "'Course not," Dido replies. "Not tied to Hurtfew, your ghost, is it? Mr Childermass," she says, turning to him, "as you're here, I was wondering – if you've a minute, would you please check with Mr Norrell what this says?" She hands him a list, Norrell's crabbed handwriting upon it quite illegible. "If it is something important, we ought probably to find out, but I don't dare disturb him at present."

 Fair enough. Mr Norrell has sequestered himself in his study for the past few hours, overcome with anxiety and irritability and performing all sorts of magic (by no means interruptible). This is nothing unusual, of course, but lately Norrell has resented intrusions more than ever and Childermass cannot blame anyone for appealing to himself, who will at least not have his head bitten off for being there.

The day passes in this vein, and they continue to await Lascelles all the while. It is Norrell's wish, he the most apprehensive of all, that the house be kept in readiness to depart as soon as this occurs, and as such none of them are able to go to bed. As night progresses, Childermass chivvies a fair few dropping servants to bed regardless, and though Davey had been reasonably chipper he has told him to go also. The last thing one wants, after all, is for his coachman to fall asleep on the road, and if it delays their leaving then so be it.

Unfortunately, Childermass cannot do so for himself, knowing the likelihood of his being missed soon enough. As the small hours of morning grow longer, he spends some wearisomely protracted length of time trying to keep himself awake. He opens a window for the benefit of the cold, sharp winter air, which ought to have kept him alert but has rather failed, the effect being that he comes to awareness an hour later with his head on the desk.
When asked about it, Segundus apologetically admits, "No, I did not wish to wake you. Forgive me - I thought you could do with some rest. I would have roused you should you be needed, of course, but it is ridiculous to say that you ought to be kept from your bed entirely."

Segundus has been rather more annoyed by Norrell's order than Childermass. In younger years, Childermass had been much more accustomed to evading sleep, accompanied either by Joan's unruly gang of thieves, or harried (on occasion bloodied) sailors, in howling storms or else under prolonged fire. He has since grown used to a rood over his head, and has had the luxury of no longer having to stay up by necessity quite so often, but though this has made him less guarded against sleep, it does not erase his once having been so used to scraping out what hours he might. 

Yawning wide, Childermass feels his jaw click.
"It's fine," he says, scrubbing a hand over sore eyes. "Wasn't for long."

He looks to the window. Outside, lit up by the streetlamps, snow has begun to fall.

Knowing that to be still will make him only more inclined to doze, Childermass gets up and sets himself to greater activity, checking over Brewer and the packing, and talking with confused and worried but mostly grumbling servants, and being called over to Norrell with increasing frequency as the man grows ever more anxious for Lascelles' return. 

Segundus, despite his assertion that Childermass ought to rest, has insisted upon staying up alongside him and trails after. His gait is grown clumsy, stumbling by the point of sunrise, but he will not have it when Childermass tries to send him to bed, protesting stubbornly that he cannot oblige him with everybody else awake and the house so very busy, so nervously on-edge. Besides, he would feel guilty for doing so.
He manages until eleven, at which point he is forced to admit that tiredness is fast superseding most else, and thus Childermass is finally able to persuade him to go.

It is six in the evening when Lascelles at last arrives, wild and excited about the eyes, markedly impatient to be gone. In passing, Lucy remarks to Childermass about the curiousness of it - the gentleman has simply gone to the carriage to wait, not requiring washing-water or refreshments or anybody at all to attend to his particular needs, ordinarily so many in number. 

Sensing imminent departure, Childermass goes to seek out his ghost. In the end he locates Segundus in his little attic room, curled up in his bed in a dead sleep. He is fully clothed as if he had, somehow, still not expected to sleep, or was entirely too tired to remember so much as his shoes. 
Childermass rouses him, although - not one for waking - Segundus simply turns his face half-into the pillow, making an indistinct noise of complaint.
"Time's it?" he mumbles.

With an accompanying creak of the bedframe, Childermass sits on the bed beside Segundus. "Half six," he ventures. "I expect we'll be off in an hour or so."

"And Lascelles?"

"Just returned."

Segundus shifts, turning his face to Childermass, and sighs. "Oh dear. And I was just beginning to wonder if we might have given up on him. Goodness, but it is cold! - I take it we have a pleasant journey ahead of us."

"Most certainly."

"Through the wind... and the snow..."

"Preferable to sharing the carriage with Lascelles."

Reaching up lazily, Segundus takes Childermass' hand. Amusement is writ large upon his face. "Myself, I do not believe I could stand to ride a mile in this weather, regardless of what poor company I might evade. But then, I never did like to ride. You may count yourself fortunate, at least, that you need not spend hours on end with a leg half-inside Norrell's."

"I've been spared that particular joy, aye."
It is a cramped little carriage - a well enough fit for Norrell and on occasion Drawlight, both being small men, but not so ideal for three persons, even if that third should be non-physical.

A pause. Segundus regards him pensively. "Do take care on the ice, John. I imagine it will be much too easy to take a fall today."

Childermass tells him not to fret. Brewer's carried him through worse. But will Segundus be warm enough?

Segundus is rising now, but pauses with a frown as Childermass asks this. "A sight warmer than you, I should think! No, I shall be perfectly all right - will you?"

In response, Childermass merely shrugs. Whether or not he handles the snow well is, he imagines, irrelevant. They have every reason to hurry the journey - his own comfort can hardly be at the forefront of anybody's minds, what with the very real, present threat of Strange's pillar of darkness.
As soon as they have exited the servant's quarters, the bustle of Hanover-Square surrounds them once again, an overlapping mixture of bodies rushing past, boxes carried out, calls and queries echoed from across rooms and corridors. In short order, all is ready, and - having to make for the carriage - Segundus bids him farewell for the moment.

As he follows out on Brewer, Childermass casts a brief glance back at the house, bothered by a nagging feeling. The air feels unsettled, unsteady as if England should be in the midst of shrugging it off like a too-thick coat. By the time he sees this place next, what will have become of the two magicians? What of magic?

-

11th of FEBRUARY, 1817.

-J.S-

-

Childermass does not object when Segundus leaves Norrell's carriage and rushes after him into Faerie. This is, of course, only because there are others about. The moment they are out of earshot, Childermass brings Brewer to a halt and says, grave-faced, "Turn back. You know I cannot bring you; it is too dangerous."

Segundus blinks. "Too dangerous! You cannot expect me to return for that, not when you yourself are going in."

 "John," says Childermass, entreating. "I cannot take you with me. You know I cannot." 

"I will be well," Segundus promises. "It is you I worry for." Sensing little effect to his words, he takes Childermass' hands in his. "You will not lead me in, but nor can I let you go alone. It seems, however, that we are both here, and as I do not think either of us are about to leave, I believe a compromise is in order. Don't you?"

 After a long, long moment, Childermass lets out a breath. "You'll be careful? And do as I say?"

 "You have my word."

They make their way further in. Soon, the road - a dirt track in appearance, yet not in feel - turns to something more oppressive, and they pause.
Before them stands a statue, a statue of a woman, a serene, slit-like smile carved wide into her stony face. In her upturned palms lie an eye and a heart; rainwater and foliate fragments pool about their macabre forms.
Beyond her crouches the bulk of a forest, thorny and dense - the sort of deep, dark wood, in fact, with a liking for swallowing up fairytale children (and, occasionally, spitting out the bony bits too sharp to chew).

 "Foreboding," mutters Childermass, something wry in his voice. Segundus only grimaces.

Brewer will not go past this point, and thus Childermass dismounts and ties the horse to the statue. His saddlebags hold a brace of pistols, kept on hand to guard against highwaymen, and he draws one out before proceeding, though both of them doubt the utility of bullets when levelled against the fae.

So it is on foot that they walk deeper into the road, taking care to keep the other close beside them. I say deeper, not further, for I do not believe this road ought to be described in such simple terms of distance. The trees, after all, close about them like the jagged maw of some hungry beast - there is little doubt about the country to which this road leads, little doubt at all; no English cobble and limp wet grass could ever emulate the sheer living, breathing energy of these woods. 
Segundus feels himself watched, only not by eyes. He looks back, troubled by the prickling at his nape, and sees nothing, no-one. His breath turns to vapour in the frozen air. 

He is generally more present in Faerie, he thinks - it had been much the same at Lady Pole's ball. Not entirely restored, no, but enough to leave footsteps in the snow, enough to feel endangered.

Presently the ivy-tangled, rough-hewn stone of a tower reaches up before them. Moss and age creep through its crumbling foundations like rot. There are shapes before it, made eerie by their utter stillness in a place so alive, but these are too far to make out properly. Furthermore, Segundus is not sure he wishes to.

They walk on, but Segundus stops short at a pool upon the snow, vivid against the melting floor. There is something dripping from above, something bright and sharply metallic. Something Segundus does not like to put a name to.
 "John," he calls quietly, keeping his eyes trained upon the floor. He hears his lover's wary tread, watches his mud-flecked, snow-powdered boots entering the periphery. "I see- Here, this is blood. In the trees, is there—?"
Answering his own question, Segundus casts his gaze up on impulse.
 For a moment - but it feels much longer than a moment - Segundus cannot see, cannot think. He grapples blindly for Childermass, any part of him to steady himself with. He barely registers it when he catches up the man's wrist in a bruising grip.
 "Oh God," he hears himself saying, as if from far off. "Do not look."

 "Too late for that," Childermass murmurs. Segundus summons the strength to look up, to see him turning to survey the trees, in which— 

 Segundus averts his gaze and swallows, hard. He is finding it difficult to breathe.
 "We should leave," he says, just about managing to convert fear into words. "Let us go, and- and lie if you must, if Norrell will want a longer report - but please, do not stay."

 "I am of much the same mind," replies Childermass, his brow furrowing deeper in concern as he looks at Segundus. "Come, we are going."

They begin to make their way out. Now, Segundus is so immensely, blindingly relieved to be gone that he almost does not hear the twig when it cracks behind them. But hear it he does, and so cannot help but turn back. If something is here to threaten them, Segundus believes he would much rather look upon it than be pursued by a creature unseen. It feels entirely possible that they are hunted; the quiet of this unearthly place has made him feel like nothing more than a mouse sized up by a cat, stilled and waiting to pounce.

But as, I am sure, runs contrary to my reader's expectations, he finds his heart sink to discover that the perpetrator of the noise is nothing of the sort. Rather than a clear-cut reason to run, it is something to make one remain, the one thing Segundus has no desire at all to do. It is a pale-faced soldier - one of England's, by the looks of his dirtied red coat - pacing listlessly in the little clearing before the tower. The scarlet of it catches at a memory, snagging painfully like a low-hanging branch at a tangle of hair.

 "Wait," says Segundus, turning Childermass about to look.

 "Ah."

 "Should we not talk to him?" he asks, much as he dreads the thought of another moment lost to this awful place. "I do not think we can leave another here."

Childermass sighs. "No. No, quite right."

 Segundus goes ahead of Childermass. It is not strange that the man fails to register his approach - but it certainly is when he does not notice Childermass' either, not truly.

One held captive in Faerie might react with hope, or interest, or melancholy, upon meeting with his fellow men. But the soldier shews no such emotion; indeed there is little at all to be found in his expression. His hollow, staring eyes are more those of the dead than any other. In exhaustion, he sways where he stands, like the gentle movements of a willow in a breeze. 
Dull-voiced, he intones, "I am the champion of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart." There is something stiff and wooden to his words, uttered like a script learnt by rote. At last, he fixes eyes on Childermass. "Have you come to harm my Lady? Will you duel?"

 The world slips sideways a fraction as Segundus catches a glimpse of a pistol, loosely held in the soldier's powder-burned grasp. Old blood in his nails, cracking away from the skin.

 "No; I've no quarrel with your Lady. Besides," Childermass says carefully, "I am a servant, and expected presently by my master. I will not and cannot duel."

 "Oh," replies the champion. He seems disinclined to converse any further; Segundus feels the dizzied relief of it like the withdrawal of choking hands from his neck.

"These people," says Childermass, casting his eyes up in a gesture to the trees. "Did you kill them yourself?" 

 "Some of them." The soldier closes his eyes, trying to summon up memory, though Segundus is not confident that enough of him remains for such an attempt. At length, he resumes, "The one before me, he took some also."

 "And how did you come to take his place?"

 "I do not know," comes the man's disinterested reply. His trigger finger twitches. He looks to Segundus. "Will you fight?"

 "I am already dead," says Segundus, this being the most insurmountable barrier to the act. "Could you leave here?" he tries. "If you so wished."

A shake of the head.

 "We must beg leave of you, then," says Childermass.

To this, the champion only shrugs his shoulders. He does not much seem to care.

So Childermass turns and goes, though after a few paces looks back to be sure that Segundus has followed.
The walk back is spent in silence. Neither are much inclined to talk. Segundus feels very far-off, gripped by a queer numbness after all he has seen. All he hears is the whistling of wind and the breaking up of snow underfoot.
When at last they emerge out of the wood, and Childermass greets Brewer in some relief, it feels like a long-held, collective breath has been let out between them.
 "How are you?" he is asked, very quietly.

Segundus shrugs uncertainty, thought it feels too light a gesture for the burden weighing upon his shoulders. He hedges, "As well as I can be, I imagine. I have had enough of Faerie for a lifetime."

 "I am sorry," says Childermass. "Very sincerely so. I should not have gone in." 

It is not his fault, and Segundus tells him as such. Indeed, it had been Segundus' decision to accompany him, and he thinks he is glad to have done so, even if he would rather they had not at all. (He could hardly, after all, have let Childermass go alone.)

But still Segundus is subdued, and miserably confused. "I do not see," he says, a moment later, "why they should delight so in the morbid. It is pointless, utterly. I know they are creatures of caprice, and one can hardly expect them to be civilised, but–" He breaks off with a shudder. "Oh, those poor people."

In time, they emerge from the road, coming to England: blank winter skies, frost-damp ground, familiar voices debating whether or not John Childermass is ever to set foot on earthly soil again.
Segundus is grateful in the utmost to see other people, rather than the queer not-quite-silence of the woods at his back. He might even be glad of Lascelles, if only for the (albeit unpleasant) normality represented by his person.

As their group sets off on the last stretch of the journey to Hurtfew, Segundus finds himself thinking. He had spent so very long convinced of the general neutrality of fairies, but only since experiencing it for himself, all those years ago, has he quite grasped that in the hands of a race so empowered, indifference to humanity (and even affection) can be quite as bad as open hatred. 
He supposes there will be much work to be done, now that the fairy roads are open. It would be foolishness not to guard against more dismal fates of the sort.

Chapter Text

14th FEBRUARY, 1817.

-J.C-

-

In his alarm, Segundus does a great deal of protesting as Lascelles backs Childermass against the wall, but falls quite still and silent when the knife traces its jagged and sharply painful line along his cheek. It is as if a collective gasp has gone up about the room; he feels the eyes of Norrell, Lucas, Segundus, held upon him in trepidation, not daring intervene.

Childermass does not spare it much attention - he has his opening, now, he’ll be damned if he misses it -- ah, there! His hand closes about a box, gilt edges and cool porcelain; he draws it out with the steadiness of old habit and hides it away before Lascelles, still shaking with the hissing, spitting anger of the refined gentleman, can notice a thing. Childermass may be out of practice, but at least Lascelles proves an easy mark — likely too absorbed in his own false victory (and the others too shocked by the blood) to contemplate the possibility. 

As soon as he has Norrell’s dismissal and is out, Segundus is over him all a-flutter. 
“Why, that… that…!” He dispenses with a word unfit for paper. “Oh, how is it? I hope not very deep.”

“Shallow,” says Childermass, though it is quite deep enough to be a damnable inconvenience. Stinging, too, from the lingering citrus on the knife. “It’ll bleed awhile, is all.”

As they make their way up to his attic room, Segundus tells him, “I brought your book, though I am afraid I had not the strength for pen and ink too. Will you be able to get them?” He hands Childermass his memorandum book, occasioning some relief. Childermass had not thought to take it, forgetting in the heat of the moment, but this has surely saved a great deal of trouble. 

“No, I can’t go back there now,” he says, and inclines his head. Smiles, too, till the very good reason to avoid this makes itself known. “Thank you.”

“I imagined so. I may try a little later as we are leaving, perhaps?” He looks at Childermass queryingly, though his fretful eyes keep drifting to his cheek. His voice is shaking.

“Don’t push yourself,” warns Childermass, pressing the swiftly dampening clout harder against the wound. “I’ll do just as well without.” It crosses his mind that they ought not to be talking so openly in the corridors, but what does it matter? They will be gone soon. 
He does wait till they have achieved some privacy, though, to resume, “I picked his pocket, by the by.” 

He draws out the little box. It is of curious, bluish-lilac colour - queerly, heartache suggests itself to his mind. (Segundus exclaims, a little hushed and wondering, that it is quite similar to his own. Might it be of magical provenance?) 

Childermass opens it. His eyebrows draw high as he realizes the meaning of what lies within, and Segundus startles in almost the same instant, looking up at him in great surprize. “Lascelles came by this?” he asks, perplexed. “How?”

Childermass shakes his head. “I’ve had my suspicions,” he says grimly, “that Drawlight was waylaid on his return. T’would explain it, if he received this from Strange.” 

He packs up his life: not much, in all. 

Despite his efforts, it occurs to Childermass that he has grown attached to the place, as one must after so many years. Regardless of refusal to settle, he will feel its loss nonetheless, its reminder like the gap left behind by a knocked-out tooth. He has slept enough nights under either of Norrell’s roofs to outstrip any other lodging, and day-after-day felt the same slant of sunlight into the morning-room, greeted the same faces and same duties. 
The creak of boards and draughts in the cold months were once as familiar to him as old friends, though perhaps made strangers by the well-built house of the London years.

Segundus keeps his silence, and Childermass is glad; he finds himself utterly wearied by it all. Yet even as he cannot manage conversation, he does find himself eased by the other's familiar presence. What would he do without this constancy?

He peers into his cracked mirror, dull with tarnish, and winces; he’s certainly no pleasing sight at present. He washes his face, but the flow of blood does not abate. By the time he takes his final leave of the bare attic room, it is growing tacky against his skin again, itching and flaking away where he rubs hard at it. With irksome discomfort, scarlet is soaked stiff and damp into his starched collars. No point in changing, though. He’ll only ruin another shirt.

On their way out, to the stables, he hears a murmur or two and happens to look in at the library, a sliver visible through the door cracked just slightly open.
Childermass pauses there, observing Norrell, that head bowed over the basin. Seeking Strange, he thinks. The tired, drawn man lets out a noise of frustration and straightens up a little. He looks a little lost, a little reminiscent of when they had met, with Childermass fresh off the ship and Norrell young, but pinch-faced and anxious as ever, catching Childermass’ shirtsleeve as he dipped into his pocket. 

Norrell sighs, mutters something to himself. He begins to make motions over the water again. 

At the threshold, Childermass says not a word, and moves on before he can be seen. 

-later.-

It will not, he concludes, be possible to reach the Lady’s madhouse before tomorrow. The property is fairly distant, nearer Sheffield than York, and he has a letter from Sir Walter which needs forging if they are to see the lady at all. Segundus has reminded him, too, that he will - quite reasonably - be refused admittance upon arriving in the small hours with gore all down his face. So, with this in mind, he takes them to an inn by the roadside.

The inn is a ramshackle, dishevelled sort of building, with a few scattered patrons and a tired barmaid whose eyes widen considerably to see him.

"Pardon my appearance," says Childermass, in lieu of greeting at the bar. "I made the acquaintance of a highwayman on the way here."

 "Really?"

 "No. A room, if you please." 
He has been trying to only move the one side of his face, but the cut stings vociferously nonetheless.

The barmaid does not reply immediately. Hesitating, she eyes up the jagged line of his wound with a long look, giving himself and his bloodied clothes a wary once-over. "Sir," she begins, visibly steeling herself, but Childermass cuts her off.

 "I've not been fighting," he says. "I have no pursuer." Trying to school his voice into something less pained and weary and impatient, he adds, "If you think me dangerous, I shall not argue, but it is dark and I would rather not travel much farther. May I have a room?"

After a long, considering moment, she nods.

-

-J.S-

-

Segundus goes up to the room with Childermass, yet finds himself queerly restive. Not wishing to disrupt the other, who is at present absorbed in making up a false letter of consent so as to visit the Lady, he takes himself downstairs instead, where he may fidget and pace to his heart's content.

The matter is, you see, that a thought has got its claws into him, and quite resolutely refuses to let go.
It had never been feasible to try for resurrection while Childermass remained a servant - they should inevitably have had to part ways were such an attempt to succeed. Segundus had not supposed he could stand that outcome, having grown so used to the man's presence, and had few misgivings about putting it from his mind at that time. But now, with Childermass no longer tied to the household, and him being quite decided that Norrell had been his last master, it has all at once become a possibility.

Yet regardless of opportunity, Segundus is gripped by indecision. One might assume, quite reasonably, that he - as a ghost, and one thoroughly tired of such meagre half-existence - has thought very deeply in the past as to what action he might take. In truth, Segundus has been afraid to ever contemplate it in too much depth. It would be worse, he has told himself, to raise his hopes in vain. And yet this resolution has been to little effect: he now knows not what to do, and is in possession of raised hopes regardless.

Lost, Segundus sighs to himself. He draws his life from his breast pocket (an unceremonious location, but a practical one) and opens the greyish box. A well-worn motion, this. He has been wont to look upon it whenever matters have grown too much to bear - a strange, teasing promise of what is not, but nevertheless could be - and it still inspires the same, small twinge of homesickness that it has from the very first.

Tilting his head, he turns the precious pearl over in his palm, regarding its queerly familiar sheen. For something purporting to mean as much as it does, the thing is frighteningly small. Segundus half-wonders what would happen, were he to drop it, and replaces it with a shudder. He has always been very careful to keep it safe - losing it to a mere fumble, the work of a moment, would be a cruel joke indeed on the part of fate.

But he does not close the lid, not yet.
After all, some part of him is still very tempted to take his chances now. 

In terms of those chances, Segundus has at least thought on it enough to think Childermass as likely a candidate for fated love as there might be, though the arbitrariness of the term bothers him still. He has considered it at length: not only is Childermass the only one to see him with any regularity, but has Segundus not also found himself more solid, more lively about him - moreso, even, since their partnership first began? Is that not some sign, he wonders, that they might have this? It must mean something, surely - and perhaps he is grasping at straws, here - that his enchantment should loosen a little in his presence.

There is little way to know whether one's love might last, nor how true it is, especially when blinded by present affection, but what Segundus can know is that he has grown to love the man over such a length of time, and found himself so very at ease beside him, that it is hard to imagine any other in Childermass' place. 

But still, is now truly the time? Is it not too soon, following Childermass' dismissal with another upheaval? On the other hand, though, does the right moment truly exist? Will he spend his years forever awaiting it, never daring try?
Segundus snaps the lid shut, tearing his eyes from the pearl. Before he can implore himself to think better of it, he gets up. He will go to their room, he decides, and ask Childermass his thoughts - the man must have some advice, surely, even if that answer is a request to delay.

That said, Segundus does not know if he ought to listen to such a thing. He suspects that were he to delay, to lose this present, short-lived courage, he might never swallow the pearl at all. It is, after all, the easiest option to put it off, and Segundus has little wish to grapple with the uncertainty of this gamble. After so long, will he know how to live? And yet, to live - oh, to live - what a prospect! Does that not make this worth it after all?

In the end, Segundus elects not to seek Childermass' advice. It would be cruel, anyhow, to ask him to chuse, when he knows this to be an object of concern for the other. No, Segundus will simply inform Childermass of his intentions. Provided the latter has no objection, they ought to get it over with soon. It will not do to leave the question hanging of when and where to do it. It is something they have put off for long enough, and impatience and anxiety both are driving him on immensely.

Of course, Segundus is afraid, terribly afraid. But all the same, he desires to conclude this insubstantial episode of his life with a want so severe that it tugs on his every thought.

It has been long enough, has it not?

-

“Ah, there you are,” says Childermass, looking over warmly as Segundus steps over the threshold (barely minding, for once, that he must go through the door in order to get there). He has changed his shirt for a clean one. His countenance remains ashen-grey and bloodless, but the bleeding has stopt, at least - when Segundus enquires, Childermass says this’ll be due to Teilo’s Hand. There is a small, fingerprint-smudge of ink on his temple, which Segundus smiles to notice as the man gestures. 

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been injured worse before.”

“I meant…” He hesitates. “I did not quite mean that.”

Childermass shakes his head. “Ask me tomorrow, perhaps. I’d rather I didn’t think about it now.” Intending to change the subject, he raises an eyebrow. “What brings you here? You look like you’ve something to say.”

Segundus draws breath. “I have been thinking,” he begins, then falters.

“Go on.”

“I have been thinking about the fairy - the first one. I rather wonder if it is time to”– oh, but how to put this? –“to see about my resurrection, so to speak.”

“Oh,” replies Childermass, after a slight pause, apprehension having led him to retreat into reticence. He puts down his pen.

“Not today, necessarily,” Segundus adds hastily, sensing Childermass’ hesitance. “I only… I wished to say that I am decided, or as decided as I might be, that I wish to try. But do not be alarmed! I do not propose to do anything just now, if you should not be up to it.”

Tilting his head to one side, Childermass gives him an assessing glance. “But that’s what you’d rather, aye? For it to be sooner than later?”

“...If you have no objection,” he says, shifting nervously.

Childermass shakes his head. “No. No, of course not. But you are quite certain?” he asks, with forcibly casual air. “You have thought on it enough?”

Somehow, Childermass’ cautiousness now has the opposite effect upon Segundus, who finds himself inexplicably emboldened by it. 
It is a reckless decision, of course. Incredibly so. Segundus could very well be wasting the sole chance he has at returning to life. Should this prove to be the wrong choice, there will be long, long years before his passing on. 
Nevertheless. Raising his chin, he regards Childermass very directly. “As certain as I could be.”

With a nod, Childermass turns away to screw the lid back onto his inkpot (carefully, lest it knock over as had occurred a month ago - he has been over-cautious since). When he looks back, Segundus observes that his eyes are dark liquid in the low light, their sharpness diffused. He is struck by a powerful fondness.
“Well, then. No objections,” says Childermass, rising from his seat at the little desk. The boards creak as he crosses the room to meet Segundus (lingering by the doorway still) and leans against the neighbouring wall. “When did you think to try?” 

Segundus bites his lip. “I do not know, but I shall most certainly lose my nerve if I put it off for too long.” Finding the bed beside him, he sits a little heavily upon it, just about containing his small noise of surprise when it complains squeakily of his doing so. He withdraws the box from his pocket again, turns it over in his hands. 

For a moment Childermass merely watches him, but then he comes to join Segundus on the mattress. 
“I have not told you,” he says quietly, “and I think I should - I truly am glad that you would take your chances on me.” Something about him is curiously fragile, in this moment, and Segundus has the vague impression of cupping the thinnest, finest glass in his hands. 

“I do not think there could ever be any other.”

This does not seem to reassure Childermass a great deal. He is holding himself too stiffly, and shifts under Segundus’ gaze.

“I do not say so merely because I do not know any other. Will you trust that I do not chuse this blindly?”

He lets out a breath, a huff of tensed amusement. “Forgive me, John. When you’re ready, then.”

Segundus takes out the pearl, watching it roll about in his palm. He absently traces its surface and struggles, briefly and intensely, with the sudden conviction that this is a poor decision. 
There will never, he reminds himself, be any way of being more sure of it than he presently is. 

So he places it upon his tongue, feeling inclined to be reckless, and swallows. A queer feeling comes over him as he does so, a wash of magic crowding the senses like some overstrong perfume, or a sudden flurry of movement and colour. Overwhelming, somewhat, but not so much as when he looks up at Childermass and beholds the man’s troubled countenance. 

“We shall be quite well,” says Segundus, softly, attempting to shew a more confident face than the roiling of his insides would suggest. He means to reassure, but his own heart is rattling in his chest; has there ever been something he so dreaded and wanted all at once? He is almost glad that there is no going back from this point.

“Aye. Aye, of course,” agrees Childermass, halfway wincing as he speaks; it's plainly as unreflective of his own feelings as Segundus’ assertion.

Segundus reaches out, taking his hands into his own to still them. “Regardless of what should happen,” he says, “I am yours.”

And Childermass nods, but does not look altogether eased. He takes in breath to say something, falters, and stops. 

“Do you think,” Segundus starts, at the very same instant as Childermass begins to ask, “What if—?”
They freeze and regard each other, for the space of a heartbeat fleetingly, ridiculously, awkward. Childermass quirks a smile at him: then, all at once, something stretched taut between them breaks, and they start to laugh.

“Come here,” says Segundus, as it fades, and still grinning pulls Childermass into a kiss.

He has wondered what the qualifications are for this, but when the disenchantment takes hold he feels it upon an instant. It would be impossible not to - to miss the heat and vivacity, the solid stability flooding back into himself.
There is a residual ringing in his ears. He feels so very heavy. But oh, oh, is this what it is like? He has quite forgotten the way in which everything, every sense, is made bright, potent, real, such that the memory of but a moment ago feels tired and wan by comparison, other than the cold (the strange absence of which is quite startling). How has he ever managed to forget?

He lives. 

He knows Childermass must feel it too - from the unsteadied catch of his breath, from the way he draws back and, brimming with some many-faceted emotion, takes Segundus into his arms and holds him tightly, and Segundus recalls, euphoria given wings in his heart, that no longer need he conserve his strength, no longer will he sap the warmth of others, no longer caught in that strange, almost-there, not-quite-so state; he has control over his thereness, touch will come as easy to him as breathing, never again will he walk through a door, or a table, or a wall, and feel the queer sharp stab of resulting melancholy which has plagued him all these years—

He lives.

“I told you it would be well,” he murmurs, and feels an answering puff of laughter against his skin, a kiss rough with stubble pressed to his neck.

They lie down together, still twined in embrace, the linens disrupted beneath them. With a subtle start, Segundus considers that Childermass would never have known him alive before now. Not that it should make a great deal of difference, where Childermass has always seen him and lately held him - but it is such a strange thought that so much of his life should have been taken up by half-existence. The breath snags in his throat; he feels around the great shape of a sob; he finds he cannot cease to smile.

(He lives. He lives. He lives.)

He smooths his hand over the tangled hair at Childermass' nape. How queer to lose this incalculable burden! Segundus has exchanged lightness of body for lightness of heart; the relief is crashing over him like waves at high tide, himself almost fit to drown beneath.
To be seen, to be known—

“I am glad,” murmurs Childermass. 

And truly, truly, there are no other words for it.