"Lord Wickhammersly said that he would keep the dancing short."
Childermass saw the former Lady Pole[1] start at the sound of the voice like a naughty child and nearly drop the book she held in her hand.
Childermass almost smiled, remembering having to ferret out another magician who had the very bad habit of sneaking off from parties to find a book. A wave of sadness nearly smothered the fond memories, but his wry humor managed to emerge intact from it in short order. A least this particular magician[2] was a great deal prettier than his former master.
Emma Winterowne turned, color high in her cheeks, though from embarrassment or peak, her companion did not know.
"His lordship is too kind, but he need not coddle me. I am perfectly capable of enduring a little dancing."
Yes, thought Childermass, which is why you are hiding from it in his lordship's study. However, he kept his silence; he knew better than prod that particular wound.
"His lordship is trying to be courteous."
Over the years, as Emma Wintertowne drummed up support for Starecross Academy from the quality in London, her hosts had noticed a peculiar habit of disappearing as soon as the musicians began the first reel.
Besides being an amiable sort, Lord Wickhammersly also had particular interest in keeping his two magical acquaintances pleased. His daughter Honoria was to attend Starecross within the next year. This celebration had been planned as a congratulation to the young girl, as well as an attempt on the part of her father to show his wholehearted approval, despite the upturned noses of some in the Tonne.
He knew he should return immediately to the party, now that his message had been delivered, but Childermass lingered for a moment in the calm. Such gatherings wore on him.[3] Usually, guests at these functions treated him with a sort of haughty politeness, uncertain how to behave towards a former servant who had emerged as one of the most powerful and best-known magicians in England.
He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth coming from the well-tended fireplace rather than from the press of so many bodies. The odor of old books and tobacco smelled like home.
A comfortable silence descended on the two, the only sound the muffled strains of a waltz[4] coming through the heavy oak door.
As circumstances threw them together in their support of Starecross, what had been a sort of unspoken truce had developed into something resembling a friendship between Childermass and Miss Wintertowne.
After all, once someone has accidentally shot you in an attempt to assassinate your employer, your association with her can only improve from there.
Childermass knew others shrank from the lady's blunt opinions and her sharp humor, which often bordered on the morbid. These, however, had been the very traits that had eased their relationship from wariness to a mutual respect. Being the reluctant show-pariahs and oddities of London society also helped.
A low hum began to follow the tune of the waltz, breaking the quiet of the room. When Miss Wintertowne glanced at him in surprise, he realized that the sound originated from him. He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat.
A moment passed.
"If you wish, Mr. Childermass," she said seriously, though the sparkle in her eye belied the tone, "to join in with the dancing, do not let me prevent you."
To his surprise, he felt something impish within him rise to meet the mischief in her eye.
"Now, Miss Wintertowne, I have more than able partner here."
Something like panic passed over her face. He turned back to the door, and took possession of the barren coat rack by the door and brought it to the center of the room.
A laugh escaped Miss Wintertowne's lips before she could stop it, clapping a hand over her mouth after it had already fled into the room. Childermass nearly startled at the sound.
She usually reserved her rare smiles for Mrs. Strange, John Segundus and Mr. Honeyfoot. She was not one to smile for the sake of smiling, or because she was expected to. But laughter? He did not think that he had any memory of a true laugh. A chuckle, maybe, but not the deep, honest thing that had just issued from her.
He found that he wished to hear it again.
Hoisting the coat rack up, he placed one of its long arms on his shoulder in mimicry of where a lady's hand should go.
"Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure of this dance?"
"Miss Fipps, perhaps? There is a marked resemblance."
"Now, tut!" the older magician said in mock-scolding, and then shrugged, "But there is some truth in that, so Miss Fipps it is."
Childermass's feet began to move in the distinctive "1-2-3" step of a waltz, dragging the rack with him as he went. Despite the utter absurdity of the scene, his expression remained serene and serious.
A helpless giggle escaped his audience's lips and he smirked in satisfaction.
Just as he began to contemplate how he could execute a spin without doing himself or his "partner" injury, the band played the last notes of the dance. As the sounds of applause filtered into the room, John placed his partner in front of him and executed a gallant bow. Miss Wintetowne added her own polite applause.
A new tune began, slower and more soulful, though its beat still marked it as a waltz.
He addressed his silent partner, "I am afraid, Miss Fipps, that I do not know the steps to this particular dance, so I must abandon you to a more able partner."
"It's an Irish waltz."
He turned to find Miss Wintertowne quite close behind.
"It's very much the same, except you lift your feet on the 'three'," she executed a little hop to demonstrate.
He arched an eyebrow at her instruction.
"I wouldn't want you to disappoint Miss Fipps, after all," she responded to his unvoiced query.
Taking up the coat rack again, he attempted to imitate her demonstration, and received a sharp blow to his knees from "Miss Fipps" for his efforts.
"No, no, here," the coat rack was was promptly removed from his hands and placed off to the side. A soft hand replaced the hard wood, and the other placed itself on his waist. Childermass tensed in surprise to find Emma Winterowne in his arms.
She was pale and he felt her trembling slightly under his hand. He almost said that she did not have to show him, that she did not have to put herself through this. Part of him knew that she did have to do this and that she would never forgive him if he stopped her.
With a gentle inclination of his shoulder, he took the lead.
The first few steps were clumsy. Childermass was unfamiliar with the dance held himself too stiffly and Emma's nerves made her stumble slightly. After several moments, however, Childermass realized that she would not shatter if he made a misstep. His partner had survived much.
As he became accustomed to the movements of the dance, he began to enjoy himself. The movements resembled more the jigs and reels of his youth than the smooth, imported steps of the modern fashion.[5] He also turned his attention away from his own steps and focused instead on the young lady.
Her gaze was leveled at his chest, but her eyes were unfocused and far away, a furrow between her brows. The warm glow of the fire burnished the premature white in her hair into a gold. Noticing his scrutiny, her eyes slid up to his face.
"You'll excuse me, sir," she said with droll politeness and only a slight tremor in her voice, "it has been many months since I have danced."
At that moment, Childermass felt something warm and heavy plummet from his chest into the pit of his stomach. Oh. Oh, he thought, that cannot possibly prove well.
Yet he kept his own voice even, as he returned, "You dance very well for it."
He received a slight smile. That warm falling returned. Now stop that (said the little man to the avalanche).
Her gaze began to grow vague and pained again, drawn away from the present by the past. Childermass responded by throwing her out in a spin. When she returned, she did not smile, but her expression had lightened. More importantly, she was with him again and free of Lost Hope.
If he at a later date had been challenged to give an estimate how long the dance had lasted, John Childermass could not have given one with any accuracy. It felt like only moments at the time, but when he reflected on it it seemed an eternity.
Eventually, the music slowed to an end, and applause erupted in the other room.
Emma looked bewildered, as if she had not expected it to ever end at all. Something like pain tightened in her companion's chest. They stood for several heartbeats still in position, as if to begin another dance.
Miss Wintertowne finally drew in a long breath and stepped away from him. Childermass resisted the urge to clench his fists and keep the warmth of her there for just a few moments longer.
She executed a low curtsey, one far too formal to give a servant.
"Thank you, Mr. Childermass, for the dance."
"My pleasure, Miss Winterowne."
She searched his face. What she found there seemed to satisfy her, for she smiled softly up at him.
For a long moment, they stood gazing at each other with frank appreciation. Here, away from the rest of world, they were free to do so.
But reality will exert itself, despite everyone's wishes. A loud knock sounded at the door.
With only a quick glance at each other, they seemed to reach an agreement. The two stepped apart, and, as if they had rehearsed it for months, slid smoothly to opposite ends of the room. Emma sat on the divan where she had earlier lay the book. Childermass installed himself against the side of the fireplace in his usual diagonal posture.
So, as he entered the room, Lord Wickhammersly was greeted with a perfectly proper scene. The young lady enjoyed a book, while her companion stood at a respectful distance, gazing into the fire and stuffing his pipe.
Their host cleared his throat and the lady looked at him inquiringly.
"I wonder, Miss Wintertowne, if you would explain the curriculum of Starecross to Lady Dillinger. She appears to believe it consists of gazing into crystal balls and sacrificing chickens on hideous pagan altars."
His lordship was not so crass as to give an outright "all-clear" to his guest, but instead held out his arm to attend his guest.
"It would be my pleasure, sir," the lady replied, standing. She turned to Childermass and gave a polite nod towards him.
"Thank you for keeping me company, Mr. Childermass." She had the look of someone with a shared secret and it lent a certain puckishness to her face.
Childermass gave a curt bow, imagining his own expression mirrored hers.
She strode across the room and took the offered arm.
Childermass lit the pipe as the door closed again.
Well, then. This was a complication.
[1] The annulment case of Sir Walter Pole and Emma Pole (née Wintertowne) had provided much fodder for talk in London. In lawyers' circles, it provoked discussion by its invocation of an ancient law which stated that no man or woman may enter into vows while under contract to a faery, as they technically were not in possession of themselves. The lady's mental state at the time also came under scrutiny. And of course, the waging tongues of society gleefully skewered the characters of both parties, though sympathy generally lay with "Poor Sir Walter."
[2] Despite Miss Wintertowne best efforts to avoid magic altogether, it seemed to have wound itself so tightly about her that she could not escape it. Many times, she would invoke it unknowingly with disastrous results. She instead resigned herself to its study and being an example for her cause of using it responsibly.
[3] Mrs. Strange had asked him to attend this particular party when she heard he was going up to London. To help drive the wolves from Emma as she had so succinctly put it.
"Emma Winterowne," Childermass had replied, "Hardly needs protection."
"No," Arabella had agreed, "But it is always nice to know that you have it all the same."
[4] His lordship's fondness for the scandalous German import had caused quite a stir when he first introduced the dance into his house. Wickhammersly's response was simply that it was difficult for there to be any impropriety when there was at least three yards of fabric between the dancers.
[5] John Childermass had been fond of dance and music since his youth. While under his mother's employment, he often organized his younger fellows into a sort of cotillion when music played in the tavern downstairs.