A faint candlelit glow flickered on the walls, casting brief pools of light onto the staircase. Hannah tentatively placed a foot on each step as she ascended from light into darkness. Little warmth was provided from the dwindling candle and Hannah felt herself give an involuntary shiver when she reached the final step; one that shook the very ridges of her spine.
What was it her Ma had used to say? Something about how a sudden shiver was said to be from someone walking on the place that was to be your grave. [1]
Hannah shook her head as if to rid herself of such morbid musings. From the corner of her eye, she caught a slight movement amongst the shadows around her. Without even willing it, she found herself expecting him to appear, the familiar musky scent of tobacco and horses almost tangible. Hannah whirled around, the candle flickering; she was alone. Again, quite unwillingly, she felt her heart sink ever so slightly. Her straying thoughts may well have consumed her, were it not for the sudden cawing that echoed in the darkness, rousing her from her motionless. With a start, Hannah made her way to the attic with some haste. [2] The attic-turned-servant-quarter was mostly sparse, with little possessions aside from the two beds and Hannah's small trunk. It was shrouded in the black of night too, and she kept her candle alight.
Her footsteps were gentle upon the floorboards as the familiar tug of fatigue crept over her. She sank onto the woollen blanket before slowly resting back into the stiff mattress.
Between the rafters overhead, Hannah could discern the bruised sky through the glass roof. Flecks of snow mottled the glass, blocking out more light as Hannah gazed up. She quickly stifled the yawn that made her jaw shudder, lest she woke the snoring housekeeper, whose own bed was only a few yards away. [3]
Rolling onto her side, she attempted to make herself comfortable, smoothing her hands along her nightdress-only to find that it was her scullery apron. Slightly ashen at the thought of almost falling asleep in her uniform, even if there were no witnesses, Hannah tugged out the nightdress from beneath her pillow and blew out the candle. The darkness formed an opaque screen, and she quickly slipped her nightdress on over her undergarments.
Settled properly in bed now, Hannah tried to ignore the briar-like scratch of the blankets against her arms. The darkness stole over her, weary eyelids draping shut. In the instant that she was to fall asleep, a thought suddenly came to mind; as they are prone to do when one is on the edge of slumber. This would be the first Christmas in seventeen years spend without the company of Mr Norrell's other servants. In the stillness she heard the echo of Dido and Lucy's whisperings as they anticipated the midnight mass bell. Her lips spiralled into a fond smile: how she missed them keeping her up now! For all their frivolous behaviour during the Christmas season, Hannah could not deny the absence that she felt for them and her other fellows from below the stairs of Hurtfew Abbey and Hanover Square.
Yet there was one who she missed more than anyone: who had known her longest of all, who kept her secrets as she had his.
John Childermass.
Hannah knew that he was far from Yorkshire-she'd heard rumours at the market of two men, one whose body was a book and the other tasked with deciphering it. From the description she'd heard of the two, the latter Hannah was certain could only be Childermass; she knew well that he could not resist the lure of magic. It was interwoven into his destiny, a fact that she'd long accepted. Still, Hannah could not deny the ache that made her insides curl and twist like decaying leaves at the undeniable likelihood never seeing the man again. She had grown so used to Childermass and his shadowy ways, the knowing smirks, shuffle of those queer cards of his, the minute quirks in his facial features that she could translate into his unspoken words. Now he was but a memory: one that her mind lingered upon too long.
A small smile momentarily lifted her spirits at the recollection of Childermass' gruff, Yorkshire tinged pronunciation of French as he had read the cards aloud to her. The lure grew steadily stronger again, tugging at her consciousness, inescapable now. Hannah felt herself succumb, her thoughts a whirlwind that grew hazier. As she fell to dreaming, another guttural caw pierced the night, the sound ringing in her ears...
[1] The saying comes from a folk legend, and in medieval times burial sites were often pre-determined. Thus, many spoke the saying with the belief that someone genuinely was walking upon their future grave.
[2] Whilst living on the streets, Hannah had once woken to find a bird nestled in her hair, that then proceeded to peck at her. Needless to say, she has feared birds ever since.
[3] Despite the deceiving snores, Mrs Jones was an incredibly light sleeper and could be stirred by the slightest of noises. She also had a foul temper if disturbed in the night, as Hannah had regretfully discovered during her first fortnight.