Author's Note: Good heavens, it's been a while, hasn't it? This chapter did not want to get written, but it's finally here. Special thanks to bigtime for the review that finally kicked me out of my writer's block. I really really appreciate it; I've missed this story, and my Georgie-girl.
I'll probably have more to say here once I've gotten some sleep (it is way past my bedtime), but for now, enjoy!
December 1812
"Aunt Georgie! Aunt Georgie!"
She turned, just in time to scoop up the seven-year-old and spin her up into the air. "Oh, there's my favorite niece!"
Anabell groaned, and rolled her eyes. "Aunt George, I am your only niece."
"That hardly makes it any less true!" She lowered the girl back to the ground with a sigh. "My, but you are getting big! You will be as tall as me soon!"
The girl's eyes widened. "Do you really think so?"
Georgiana put her hands on her hips, pretending to study her only niece. The Erquistoune women were all just barely approaching average height—all except Georgiana, who had towered over them from an early age, and then refused to stop growing. Anabelle was likely doomed to her mother's, aunt's, and grandmother's fate; but her father, Paul Kirkland, was a large man. There may be hope for her yet. "Yes," she declared, "I really think so. Are your parents inside?"
"Da and grandpa and uncle Peter are out at billiards, but ma and the ladies are inside with the twins."
"My da is with them?" she asked, surprised. "At billiards?"
"Grandpa's getting much stronger!" Anabelle chirped, grinning. "But he promised not to play, he just wanted to go along."
"Well, that is certainly good news! We should probably go in and give Grandma a hand with your unruly cousins, then, shouldn't we?"
Bell grinned and took hold of her hand and tugged her toward the door, and George let herself be pulled along with a laugh. The carriage was being unloaded by Charles, who had worked for her family for as long as she could remember—he knew to leave her trunk in her room, that she liked to put her things away on her own.
She had not been home since the past Christmas; some of the furnishing and hangings were different, but the house was otherwise just as she had always known it. She and Anabell ran along the hallway, feet skipping over the floorboards that creaked and groaned out of pure instinct, and they barrelled into the parlour, laughing. As predicted, the boys were indeed rough-housing when they got in, and they practically flung themselves at her, together crying, "Happy Christmas, Georgie!"
"Happy Christmas, boys!" she echoed, kissing the tops of their heads, and hugging them both tightly.
"Aunt George! Aunt George!" they called in unison, "Who am I?"
She crossed her arms, tapped her index finger against her chin, and took a step back. A matching set of wicked grins, freckled faces, gleaming brown eyes, and wild, red hair stood before her. She could spot the differences, of course: Tom was a little bigger with a thinner nose, and Michael had more freckles and a wider smile. But they prided themselves on being indistinguishable, so she pointed to Michael and said, "You are Tom," and pointed to Tom, "and you are Michael. Obviously."
They answered, in unison, "Obviously," and ran off, laughing at their own cleverness.
"You should not encourage them, Georgiana."
She hid her sigh behind a smile, undoing the ribbon of her capote. "I have missed you, too, ma."
"Those boys will be no worse off for a bit of spoiling, ma," came Margaret's gentle voice. "Come here, Georgiana, let us see you!"
Grinning, she went and embraced her sisters. "Happy Christmas, girls!"
"Happy birthday, Ana!" Maria called. "But, my—are you ill? Why do you look so pale?"
She laughed. "Do I? I assure you, I am quite well. It is only that wretched London weather—I feel I have not seen the sun in ages!"
Margaret eyed her suspiciously, but said nothing; and mother beckoned her over. "Come here, my girl, and let me kiss you!" Ana laughed and bent over to allow her mother to put her hands on her cheeks and kiss her forehead. "Mercy, girl, are you still growing?"
"I think maybe you are shrinking, mamma."
"Och, if I get any smaller than this, I'm like to disappear!"
They all laughed, and Mag called, "Georgie, come, have some tea and tell us of your travels."
Oh, how she'd missed this, sitting in this room with a cup of strong, honey-sweet tea, surrounded by her mother and sisters and the laughter of her niece and nephews.
Yet there was a part of her that could not let go, could not give in, that looked upon these pale, freckled faces-faces she loved so very dearly-and knew that she did not truly belong among them and never would. That part of her looked down into her lap, and saw only that her hands were dark against her mother's delicate porcelain teacup, darker still than the tea inside it.
She knew her family loved her, that they saw beyond her skin to the person she was inside. But, sometimes, she could not. And always, she wished they did not have to; that both the skin and the woman who wore it could be equally worthy of love.
The Fire within her knew that that had once been true, that the Children of the Sun had lived with pride and power for many ages, and they would do so again. Georgiana doubted she would ever see such a time, but she took solace in the knowledge that the Fire would, inside the heart of some other Host, burning on into a future beyond anything she could imagine. And they would think of her, and remember, both Fire and Host, the way she thought and remembered all those hearts that had burned before hers. A hundred, a thousand years from now, her sorrow would not be shared, but remembered.
But here and now, safe and sound in her parent's home in Charlotte-square, her favorite (if only) niece helped herself into Ana's lap, tired of chasing after her rowdy cousins, and began to doze against her chest, and Ana wrapped her brown arms tight around the pale girl and let the love she felt silence that angry, wretched part of her, at least for a little while.
The night was crisp and cool, the skies clear, the stars bright. Normally, she loved nights like this, the chill air against her heated skin, but tonight it only made her feel restless and confined, knowing she could not escape any further than the house's backgreen. Still, it was better than being inside right now, facing down more of the same talk that had driven her to London and the Stranges in the first place.
Upstairs, in the bottom of her trunk, a loosely-bound and somewhat incomplete copy of Pevensey's Eighteen Wonders hid quietly, awaiting her. She had glanced through it briefly before leaving Soho-square, and knew the contents did not much interest her; but the controversy regarding the author's gender did, and she had been thrilled at least that it had made John Childermass think of her, and that he had been willing to sneak such a valuable text to her before she left. She wished to read it, if for nothing else than to think of him, and distract herself from the miserable thoughts being home had brung. But she could not bring herself to pass through the parlour to get there, not yet, not without saying things that would not be forgiven, and so she found herself swaying lazily in the swing beneath the oak tree, glaring out at the night that taunted her with its perfection.
"There you are, Georgie-girl."
She jumped, so lost in her own thoughts that she had not heard the door open, but did not turn. "Sorry, da," she murmured. "Just needed some air."
Dr. Erquistoune crossed before her, settling into the bench a yard away. When she and the girls had been children, he and ma had sat there, for hours sometimes, pushing them in the swing. She doubted the old ropes could take such strain these days, nor father, with his white-streaked hair and the cane he'd only started carrying in her absence this year. Still, the smile he gave her was the same as it had always been. "She only pushes because she wants the best for you."
Georgiana sighed deeply, screwing her eyes shut for a moment before she allowed herself to answer. "I know, pappa."
"Do you?" His smile faded, and he twisted the cane between both hands. "I will not be with you forever, my girl—"
"Don't say that, da; you've many years yet—"
"Perhaps, Georgiana. Perhaps. But even you can see that I'm like to be gone before you are ready to settle, and all I have will pass to Jonathan Strange."
"I know, da. But we have talked about this, Jonathan and I, and—"
"Of course you have, my girl. And I've no doubt he will attend to you as best he can. But think, Georgie-girl. This war will be over soon, and he will return to England, and he and his dear wife will be interested in having children of their own, and then, what? He loves you, Georgiana, but a man must look after his own, first and foremost. He will always choose them over you, he must."
She bit her lip and turned away; she would not argue with her father, but nor would she let him see how deeply his words hurt her. Of course she had considered such things before; but she could settle herself, at least, on the knowledge that she knew her cousin better than that, knew that Jonathan Strange would never willingly neglect her. Absently, perhaps—he might easily get so caught up in his studies that he forgot himself responsible for her finances, but Ana was hardly the sort of woman to allow propriety to keep her from reminding him.
"I am sorry, Georgiana," her father was saying, "but a husband could provide for you far more than a cousin ever could. And with the sort of dowry we could give..." He sighed again. "We only want your future to be secure, and for your burdens to be easy. You are not our daughter by blood, Georgie, but by choice."
She blinked away tears at his words; but that hard, bitter part of her refused to stay silent. "By your choice, da. Not hers."
"Maybe not at first," he agreed, softly, somehow unbothered by his daughter's cruel and thankless heart. "When I brought you into our home, she did not understand. The things she called me, the way she railed..." He shook his head. She had always suspected her mother's resentment, but father had never acknowledged even an instant of it, until now. But he looked up, and met her eye. "The first time she held you-the first time, Georgiana-I knew she loved you, as I did. Please, believe me, that has never changed."
"She just wants to see me married off," she grumbled, knowing she sounded childish but unable to stop herself.
"She just wants to see you happy," he assured, and cracked a crooked smile. "Despite her terrible choice of men, marriage is what did so for her."
Ana chuckled, just a little, but shook her head. "And you, pappa? How would you like to see me?"
Cane in hand, he rose and stood before her. "Happiness has suited your sisters well, but you, Georgiana, have always been...unique. A blind man could have seen how well you loved your Gavin. The happiness he gave you was too short-lived, but even so... Even so, I could see you were not satisfied."
She bit her lip and turned away, unable to hold his gaze.
"Some people are destined for happiness, my Georgie, but others deserve...something more. Something harder." She felt his hand come to rest atop her head, and his voice grew soft. "My own dear sister found what she thought happiness, but all was taken from her, and she was lost to me. I could not bear to lose you, too. I would see you satisfied, with a husband who would stoke the fire within you, and never douse it."
She looked up then, met her father's eyes, terrified of what she might find there, a knowledge that he was not to know. But they were only the same blue-grey eyes she had always known, the same kindness, the same affection, the same intelligence-but no more. "And what of dowries, and my future?"
"Well," he laughed, lifting his cane and pretending to look at it thoughtfully, "perhaps you are right, and I have many years yet. If you tell your dear mother I said so, I shall deny it thoroughly, but promise me, Georgiana: black or white, rich or poor, you keep whatever man can give you more than happiness. Promise me that?"
"I promise, da. I will."
"Good. Now then, I believe I heard something about your famous spice-cake? Shall we go investigate the kitchens?"
Even growing up, the sisters had had their own rooms; but they had never let that stop them before. Now, as grown women—two of the three married and mothers, with bedrooms prepared for them to share with their husbands—all three girls piled into George's bed as they always had, at least for the first night they were together again.
Georgiana had been styling her own hair for as long as she could remember; but, even from a young age, her sisters had been determined to help her care for it. To this day, there was no one else that she trusted to help her but Margaret and Maria.
This was what home truly felt like—sitting up in her own bed, Mag and Mar removing her hairpins and combing out her curls, smoothing cocoa butter through her hair and then wrapping it all in a satin scarf—no, this was what Heaven felt like.
Maria had snuck a bottle of claret up from the cellar, and even Margaret had some, and they all fell against each other, laughing and telling all of the stories of the past year that mother could never know and were far too scandalous to ever entrust in letters.
"He didn't!" Ana cried. "He couldn't! Good old Peter, with all his charm?!"
"I swear it!" Mag howled. "My husband told that old windbag exactly where he could put his earhorn."
"They haven't returned to the church since!" Maria hissed, refilling their glasses with the last of the wine, and they laughed until their sides hurt and the glasses were empty again, and they fell onto their pillows grinning, and George's heart felt so full she thought it might burst.
"And now, dearest Georgiana," Margaret crooned, draping an arm across her sisters. "Enough about our ridiculous, predictable husbands. Tell us all about the many fascinating London men you have encountered!"
She barked another hearty laugh, her side twinging in pain. "Fascinating? Good heavens, I could hardly say if I've met more than one!"
"Ah!" Maria rose up on her elbows, grin and eyes wide. "But there is one?"
"What! Has someone truly managed to turn our George's head?"
She could feel her cheeks begin to flush, but shook her head. "I would hardly go that far. But I do suppose I have found one man to be worthy of some interest."
"Oh!" Mag's grin grew to match her sister's. "You must tell us all!"
"I... Well, I... He is...a magician."
"What, Mr. Norrell?" Mar scoffed. "I thought he was old, and stodgy!"
"What!" George croaked, shaking her head fervently. "No! Certainly not him!"
Margaret frowned. "Well, it is certainly not Jonathan; so if not Norrell, who else does that leave? There are naught but the two magicians in England."
Georgiana grinned, reaching across and taking her sisters' hands in hers. "England has been lied to," she whispered. "Magic is nothing like how they write about it. It is everywhere, living, thriving under the skin of everything you see and hear and feel."
How long had she dreamed of talk like this, of the ability to speak of magic with her sisters, to share with them all she knew?
"It is like father's surgery; if you can just get beneath the skin of the world, you can see what makes it work, see how everything is connected, where everything comes from. Anyone can do magic, if they can only learn to reach past the skin of the world."
Mag squeezed her hand between both of hers, and asked in her steady, soft voice, "You mean like how the fires always follow you?"
George shot up, pulling her hands free from theirs in her surprise. "What?" she hissed, staring hard at her oldest sister, too watchful for her own good. "How long have you known?"
Margaret frowned, and looked to Maria, who merely shrugged and said, "We've always known, Georgie! Any room is warmer when you're in it, any fire grows bigger when you're near, any candles burn in your direction. Even I saw that."
Georgiana stumbled off the bed, pacing a circle over her rug and shaking her head, incredulous.
"It is alright, Ana," Margaret called, soothing. "We were never bothered by it. It was just another thing about you that was different. For me, at least, it was not until Jonathan started writing of magic that I began to suspect there was anything more to it!"
"For me, as well," Maria agreed, nodding.
"But you were still our sister," Mag added. "And you still are, and you always will be, Georgiana."
She stopped pacing with a sigh, and looked up at the bed, at the two women upon it, at the way they matched: short and plump, with thin noses, blue eyes, pale skin dusted prettily with freckles...but their hair, just a shade or two lighter, was red enough to match her own, and their smiles were the same smiles she'd known all her life.
She laughed, and shook her head. "I am just like Tom and Michael, aren't I? Not half so clever as I think myself."
"Nothing gets by our Mag," Mar said sweetly. "That's why the Good Lord trusted her with twins. Now, get back in this bed—it's colder without you."
Georgiana laughed, and climbed back in between them, let her sisters wrap their arms around her and hold her there, safe and sound.
"Now," Margaret murmured, with just a hint of Maria's mischief in her fond grin, "tell us more about this magician you love."
"Good heavens!" she laughed, shaking her head. "Am I in love now? I certainly had not realized! This magician I am fond of, is as much as I would say."
"Whatever you say," Maria sang, "only one man has ever made you blush like this before. He is handsome, then?"
"It is not like that!"
"Of course not," Maria teased, grinning now, "but is he?"
Georgiana rolled her eyes. "I suppose so," she grumbled, and Maria giggled. "But I greatly doubt you would consider him so. He is like a character from one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels."
Maria groaned and rolled her eyes. "Oh, George, but you are predictable."
"That is all very well," Margaret said, soothing her sisters' annoyance and disappointment both, "but what is he like?"
"He is..." Ana trailed off, trying to think of some way to describe John Childermass, some way to explain such a man, some way to express all that he meant to her. "He is..." she tried again, but could not come to it.
"Oh dear, Georgie," Mag murmured very softly, "you are worse off than I thought."
Maria laughed heartily, and Ana grabbed at a pillow to hide her face.
"It is not like that!" she grumbled through linen and down. "He is only a very peculiar man, and I know not how to describe him! I am not in love again!"
They let her stew in silence for some moments. She screwed her eyes shut, and breathed as deeply as the pillow would allow. When she had calmed (and how did they know? Were they truly so attuned to her moods as she had always believed, or were they merely watching the state of the fire?), they tugged the pillow free of her grip. Mag kissed her forehead, and Mar her cheek.
"Gavin...would not begrudge you this, Georgie," Maria said, with Margaret's gentleness. "Above all, he would want you to be happy. That was all he ever wanted."
Ana kept her eyes closed a moment longer, thinking of her father and the things he'd said beneath the oak tree. "I want..." She took a breath, felt the stirrings of the Fire in her chest. "I want to be more than happy."
