A.N: Hello, I've been a fan of this story and particularly Childermass' character for a long while now so I thought I would venture a little fic about this fellow. This should run parallel to JS&MN. Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated .

Chapter One

The snow had rested bitter and grasping over York Minster, the scene however was peaceful in a fresh blanket of snow and it was worthy of a painting. The visible stars sparkled alongside the moon who oversaw the night's events under her silvery pallor. It was a haunting, bewitching night, yet as John Childermass waited, he considered how the scene felt like it was holding its breath. Something was to happen here tonight, he knew that well enough. His stomach wanted to be filled with more excited urgency than his chilled, tired yet determined frame expressed, but at this point he could not. Was he unsure whether Norrell would live to his word? Perhaps. Norell could flip one way or another dependent on his convictions and this would be his foray into England knowing about his abilities as a magician. So, with the contract in hand, Childermass leant against the wall of the Minster and awaited the first sound of the scurrying feet and whispered voices of those from the Friends of English Magic Society they had lured here.

What followed has gone down in history, though for a while it was confused amidst gossip and speculation. Men bore witness to the powers of Norrell, no washer women, only doubting men who were made to see. With this done, signatures and believers to boot, Childermass' task for the night was complete. He should ride back to Hurtfew immediately and report to Norell. However, after waiting in the cold and seeing the reactions of the doubters, he decided to remain in York a little longer. His stomach now struck up and rumbled in need of food and though wearing a great overcoat, his body needed warming before riding back to the Abbey.

The Inn he knew well enough, its keeper knew him too on the rare yet remarked occasions he had ventured in. The fellow in question, Isaac Wessle had realised early that John Childermass was a secretive sort and yet a generously paying sort and so taking advantage he allowed the latter to dine privately in a small back room near the kitchen. It was neatly furnished this room and with a generous though not frivolous fire. And now as on a handful of previous occasions, Childermass was shown through to this spot by Wessle. With his needs regarding food and drink taken in hand, Childermass removed his large overcoat and pulled the chair closer to the fire to warm his bones, rubbing his hands to regain the feeling within them.

As he leant back feeling relaxed, he allowed his eyes to drift shut. The purpose of this was not to steal a few minutes to doze; rather he honed his memory and senses together to recall all those cries and scuttles from inside the Minster. Back in his days as a thief and pickpocket, memory and skill were immeasurable to him and now as the world appeared to be about to roll into a new era, he wanted to remember every second of how it began. This was not about Norrell to him, but about a change in the fabric of magic and England herself. To forget one drop of what he would witness, would be to drain the ocean.

As his eyes were still replaying the sounds of those doubters and the crisp snow sullied with their footprints, he felt a pair of hands sink into his hair and begin to drag the dexterity of their fingers across his scalp. Back and forth they worked, gently circling and occasionally scratching a little in a way that was hypnotic and heavenly and he allowed a deep sigh to escape his lips. These fingers were skilled and should have been known to all of England as the hands that could will the secrets from the most oyster like of mankind. One minute under such ministrations as he was experiencing now would give up any secret he was sure. Childermass let out a low, deep murmur of contentment under these hands and his mouth fully relaxed into the chair. How long she worked at unknotting the physical care the last hour had put upon him he was not sure, it can only have been delicious minutes that seemed like endless hours. As the fingers flexed out and then drew back together near the base of his ears, a soft, familiar voice said.

"Your vittels are here."

At once those fingers withdrew quickly, but with a quick reflex of that of a thief, he seized one of her wrists. His eyes were open now and he was aware of every inch of space between them. The wrist he had caught neither flinched nor yielded, the owner merely stood still awaiting what would follow. His eyes traced the hand which showed signs of toil but as he well knew was always spotlessly clean right down to the finger nails, then to the wrist he held. The arm which was wrapped in a dark blue sleeve was scrutinised by the inch, then her shoulder, the curve of her throat and at last her face.

Her dark green eyes fixed on his and he remembered what those people out there always had remarked about them. These eyes he was told were lovely but untrustworthy, such things were even uttered by Wessle himself. Encased in the emerald iris was her dark pupil and as a pairing this gave her gaze a sharpness. People claimed they were too deep, too difficult to gauge, this was foolishness of course. As what so many saw as untrustworthiness, he saw as a knowing intelligence, it was not intimidating in any way to him but nor was it to be disregarded.

"Should I venture a question?" She asked in a tone that was neither harsh nor soft but so matter of fact in both its meaning and its warmth he could almost offer a smile. Her head gestured to the steaming plate with its generous slice of pie at the table and the tankard of ale. He remarked it from the corner of his dark eyes but remained looking at her and when she returned her own gaze to him, he shook his head.

"You've not much time then, best get this eaten."

She disappeared whilst he ate the majority of his meal, he wasn't hurrying for the sake of updating Norrell, the man had had him standing out in the cold after all. But still, time was of the essence and he was not to dawdle either. One his final few mouthfuls she returned and stood behind him, her hands choosing to rest on his shoulders and she exchanged any words with him from above, rather than facing him.

"Somethin' is about to change." He remarked normally, knowing she would have no idea about what he referred to yet understanding his meaning completely, she was contrary like that. Norrell's life and Childermass' part in it had a black veil drawn over it. Not even this woman so close to him was aware and yet, when Childremass spoke of change, she knew it had great bearing. He often considered this is why some thought her deceitful, she always knew and deep down, that unsettled people. Yet there was enough of her own mystery to build such foolish ideas in people too. She had ventured down from further in the North but no one could be entirely sure where. At times when she had spoken hurriedly, Childermass noted strong inflections of the North East buried in her smooth tones but it had splintered from the years she had moved around Yorkshire.

The skill he had just been privy too was known around here to, at times she had utilised those hands to help a lady unnerved and in low spirits following the birth of her baby, or the child suffering from night terrors down the street. The rumour that began was that she had learnt this imperative skill to soothe with living her father. It was said he was a heavy drinker and her learnt gift had the means of sparing her his fists when he was riled with drink. Never for all the time he had known her had she ever spoken of her past, Childermass imagined she had spoken to no one at all of it. These rumours were like rain however, they would form from nowhere and fall where they pleased, but she was sheltered from it because she did not care.

Childermass was a little different from the varying gossips and strangers she encountered, there paths had crossed at odd moments in the street over the years. Even before Norrell he had witnessed her and he knew more than many. On one autumn night he had seen her allow a man to pay for a root to her lodgings and her body when she was likely no more than fifteen. He perceived this a handful of times more over five or six years (she being some years younger than he) and he saw her change from an adolescent girl into a worldly wise young woman of the area. Though at no point did the word whore come to his mind any more than the word thief came to hers. It had been a thing needed in occasional moments of necessity, it had never been her calling. Childermass did not judge her for it, for he did not care about it, the future was the thing, this night had shown that. Yet right now, being in her atmosphere was the thing, the feel of her hands on his shoulders, her chin brushing slightly against his hair. Placing his fork down, he rested one of his own large hands atop of hers, sandwiching it between his thin shoulder and his lean paw. Her presence offered more comfort than at any other point in his life. It was a strange sort of honour when his once thief's hand rested atop of her skilled one.

"I'll have to be headin' back soon, Rosie." He said with a groan of impatient reluctance, the type that communicated the way his eyes would otherwise painfully roll. The hand slipped from where it was held and traced down his shirt sleeve as she circled to the side of him and stopped atop his own wrist. Her dark blue dressed showed signs of a very light smattering of flour on her cuff which he did not see before, it was rather like the stars across the dark sky of earlier. She somehow had the night written as much on her sleeve as it was written on his face and seeming to sense this, she moved the hand from his wrist to cup his cheek.

"Ready to return to the Abbey with your monk." She quipped lightly. "A little warmer than before and a little less starved."

Her lilt rolled smooth and clean, no devious notes in it at all, her words spoke of neither ignorance nor fancy education. He was a plain spoken man, yet she had the way of a diplomat or philosopher sometimes in the way she spoke. But now it seemed there was a teasing edge to her voice that sparked that hidden part of him that held the animal. As though sensing the invitation, she moved and sat upon his knee, her back melding against his chest and his cheek pressed close to hers so she could feel every hair and bit of stubble tickling her skin there. His hands spanned out and could almost encircle the expanse of her waist. She was thinner beneath him he noted than when he had last visited and he took a moment to wonder how ragged she was being run. Yet still she had coaxed out the animal with her playful tone a moment earlier and so his fingers now massaged her waist in small circular motions.

Childermass' fond feelings for her meant she was a secret to be kept, they both enjoyed a shared universe of clandestine meetings, not because they had reason to be ashamed, but merely that it suited them. In the past they had been acquaintances and then friends, when those lines blurred into deeper intimacy, a bond was formed that endured the sporadic intimacies they shared. Of late he had barely had much time to visit yet she did not seem to remark on the period of absence whether great or short. Outside of here she was her own force, spinning on her axis in the revolving world.

His hands moved higher up her waist and rested at the underside of the curve of her breasts and her head still relaxed against his though his breathing he knew was gaining weight. As if seeming to ignore his movements, she moved her head after some moments to look at him and brushed away the hair from his cheek as though it was irritating her. His hands remained were they were, expanding again below her breasts to lock her in place but he looked at her somewhat darker eyes.

"What you're doing doesn't match what you're saying Mr Childermass." She said bluntly and he wasn't sure if she slid herself back a little on his knee deliberately but he emitted a growled sigh.

"No I suppose they don't." He remarked and he increased his grip on her though not painfully and pushed her body a little further onto him. "But don't give me any of this mister business."

"John." She laughed lightly, his name almost sounding like a question on her lips yet it was not meant that way. It seemed she was still in a playful mood.

"Rosie." He mimicked her tone and with that she twisted her body suddenly so that his hands slid a little down as her own gripped his shoulders again. That flush of delicious want expanded from where her lips met his through his entire body and for a short while he allowed himself to be its slave, yet both knew better of it. Rosie wasn't young anymore (though she had not yet reached thirty), but her life experience whatever it was had taught her patience. Childermass' restlessness increased all the more now and his duty and his need raged in him as they kissed. It was she that slid off his knee and released him so that he could return to the importance of what he had to impart to Norrell. In that way she was good for him, for she knew the road he travelled was important to maintain, whatever its destination. It was with deep affection that she occasionally withdrew herself from his arms or even his space for this to benefit.

She helped him with his coat more as a means of keeping them both from the distraction of each other than anything else, but yet he still took her waist in his hands again and pressed his lips madly to hers for some minutes more. This time his grip was vice like and his want evident and though the timing was against them, he would at least have this for the time being. Rosie did not argue, for indeed she was as mad for him. When he pulled back to speak his rasped, frustrated breathing filled the space between them and those deep green eyes observed him with their keenness and spirit.

"I'll come again soon, maybe tomorrow or the day after. What's happen'd today…" He paused a moment and considered. "Things can only change now… so I'll have to come again soon for otherwise, it could be longer."

These great matters he alluded to meant little to Rosie, she did not know and therefore could not imagine or offer a response. All she knew was that her daily life continued as always with her little purposes here and there until he would come again. If that was to be sooner then so much the better but she could survive without him. That is in truth what made her even more of an importance to him, for he loved her in as deep a way as man can, yet could not often impart it.

"I'll bring a blanket through next time." She murmured against his lips, as she allowed him to kiss her again, her brief betrayal of want for him made him groan.

"Next time I'm here, I'm not being with you on any blanket." He promised and he felt her shiver. Childermass' hands pulled her closer to him by the waist for a moment so that he could burn every bit of her in his mind, though he knew her so well already. Then he gently released her and stepped back as a many truly tempted only could.

Childermass left her then and stood out in the cold of the street for some minutes as he re-accustomed himself to the steeled reality that was the rest of his life without her. The other, if in truth bigger part of his life, the magic and England. To return to Norrell for whatever was to come in this field meant he had to temporarily exorcise all thoughts of her and the coldness of the night did just that. Norrell would be up he was sure, impatient in his quiet self importance and Childermass often wondered if he ever used his gift to look to the life of his trusted servant. But it was a thought soon lost as he pulled himself onto his horse and started the journey back.