May 1817

Tea with Segundus's landlady went well— far better than Segundus could have expected. Mrs. Sparrow received them in her charming drawing room. She served them tea herself, though she surely could have had her footman do it, and she watched them all with clever brown eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. Not a single strand of her iron-grey hair was out of place, nor had Segundus ever seen one to be. She was a woman who valued order, he knew— order of her person and order of her world— and she was one of the lucky few who had the means to impose her will upon her demesne. Sipping hot tea and nibbling on dainty tea-cakes, Segundus and Childermass explained the nature of their mission while she watched them across the spindly-legged, white-ash table. (Mrs. Sparrow did not believe in tablecloths. Segundus had tried to talk her into it, but she informed him that she had not listened to her husband on the matter, nor any of her sons and daughters, and she did not intend to listen to him either.)

"The Johannites claim to be followers of the Raven King," Childermass said, delicate teacup held between careful fingers. "Magic is inextricably linked to the Raven King. Their devotion may draw his attention, and I cannot say with certainty that his attention is a boon. Therefore, we must investigate for the sake of the future of English magic."

Mrs. Sparrow leaned back in her chair, which creaked ominously. "Well, that sounds quite serious."

Childermass nodded with great solemnity and took a bite of a tea-cake.

"I feel for them, you know," Mrs. Sparrow said. "Poor fellows. To be put out of one's work is a dreadful thing. Still, I suppose it is inevitable."

Segundus could feel Childermass's whole body stiffen slightly beside him. "Inevitable, is it?" said Childermass.

"I suppose it must be. The Machine-Breakers cannot hope to accomplish what they seek to by destroying machinery and setting fire to factories. One cannot halt the forward march of progress, especially through such methods." Mrs. Sparrow's eyes fixed upon Childermass. "I fear I've offended you. My apologies."

Childermass offered her a wry smile. "Mrs. Sparrow, if I were offended by everyone who expressed an opinion contrary to my own, I would become so bogged down with indignation that I would cease to function." He took another bite of the tea-cake and chewed thoughtfully. "Is it progress, truly, when men are put out of their livelihoods and machines fill the workshops instead?"

"I expect so," Mrs. Sparrow said with a slight frown. "The workshops can produce much more than they did before, as I understand it."

"But is that progress?" Childermass leaned forward, tea-cake entirely forgotten. His eyes were intent upon Mrs. Sparrow's, and Segundus felt as though he were immobilized between two great forces pushing at him from either side. Even Vinculus was paying attention. "Or is it merely modernity masquerading as progress?"

"I fail to see the distinction. Progress and modernity are inextricably linked."

"Vinculus here is proof against that, I should think," Segundus interjected. Both Mrs. Sparrow and Childermass looked at him in surprise, as though they had forgotten that he was there. "He represents a great deal of progress in the study and practice of English magic, does he not? And yet he is an artifact of a king of an earlier age. He is quite the opposite of modern."

"I believe I take your meaning," said Childermass. "Though he has been rewritten, he remains the Raven King's Book. A progress in magic, yet undeniably the antithesis of what modern magic stands for."

Vinculus nodded in agreement. "I never held with Mr. Norrell's ideas, myself."

"The Johannites are followers of the Raven King," said Segundus. "It seems to me that they would care more about protecting their livelihoods than about being modern." Childermass half-smiled at him, and Segundus felt himself go warm to the tips of his ears.

"But modernity will come for them, whether they will it or no!" Mrs. Sparrow exclaimed. "Just as it shall come for us all."

"That may be so," Childermass said. He too leaned back from the table. "And it shall be a great tragedy if it does."

Their audience with Mrs. Sparrow concluded shortly after, as Childermass cited the pressing need to secure transportation to Duffield. Mrs. Sparrow waved them off with many heartfelt wishes for Segundus's good health and the promise that she would not rent out his room while he was absent. Segundus hefted his valise, which he had filled mainly with books and a few sets of clothing as an afterthought, and they set off down the street to the nearest coach service.

"It rather seems to me," Segundus said as Childermass steered their steps, "that you want the Johannites to win."

Childermass did not react. He had the training of a servant, though, and was adept at controlling his reactions; Segundus could not be sure what thoughts he might be concealing. "I suppose I feel some kinship with them," he said. "They have been stripped of their ability to practice their crafts through no fault of their own, and they feel as though destruction and vandalism are their only means of justice. It is a feeling I am familiar with."

This revelation surprised Segundus. He had known of Childermass's low birth and shadowy past, but not the effect it had on the man. "Do you wish to aid the rebellion, then?"

Childermass was silent for a few long moments as he led the small group through the narrow winding streets of York. "I do," he said finally. "And I do not. What I wish is not important. It is a dangerous time to be a Johannite. I do not believe they will appreciate the results their particular methods will win for them."

"Ah," Segundus said. He did not quite know how to respond.

They did not, in fact, need to rent a hackney coach. As luck would have it, Segundus ran into Mr. Honeyfoot (in the most literal sense— they collided on the street, as neither were watching where they were going: Segundus had been arguing with Vinculus, and Mr. Honeyfoot had been contemplating the nature of clouds) outside of a bookshop. Mr. Honeyfoot was feeling somewhat recovered from his illness, he said: recovered enough to be about on the street, but not quite enough to attend meetings of the Learned Society, excitable as they had become of late. Segundus quite understood and informed his dear friend of where he would be going.

"All the way to Duffield?" Mr. Honeyfoot repeated. "You must allow me to lend you the use of my coach."

"No, I could not take your coach from you, not with you in such a state," insisted Segundus.

"I would not have you go to any difficulties on your journey."

"And I would not deprive you of your own hired man!"

Such it went for some time, all in the middle of a busy York street. Vinculus grew bored, Childermass grew impatient, and Mr. Honeyfoot and Segundus grew increasingly frustrated with each other.

"My dear Mr. Segundus," Mr. Honeyfoot said, running a hand through his greying hair in agitation. "You will either take my coach or I shall go to every rental service in York until I find the one you used and demand that they send me your bill."

After such a threat, Segundus could do nothing but acquiesce. "Very well," he said. "But only for the journey there. I do not know how long I will be gone. I will sort something out for the return. And I shall pay for your coachman's expenses myself."

Mr. Honeyfoot gave a tired sort of laugh. "I suppose we can compromise on that. Have a very safe journey, my dear fellow, and do write."

As the day wore on, Segundus's enthusiasm regarding the coach waned. Vinculus's company became grating around the time they passed through Selby, and he felt trapped within the coach walls somehow. He longed to be out under the open sky, though it was covered over with a heavy layer of clouds. Even opening the windows and sticking his head out wasn't enough, and Childermass, Vinculus, and Bradshaw — their coachman — laughed at him when a gust of wind caught the wide brim of his hat and swept it away. They were obliged to stop and allow Segundus to chase after his wayward hat. Afterward, Segundus sulked within the confines of the coach and did his best to read the periodicals he had been neglecting, though he found he could not focus.

Childermass rode ahead of the coach, so Segundus caught only glimpses of him. Still, from what he could see, Childermass looked very dark and forbidding astride his magnificent horse. He looked magical, like something out of a Romantic novel. How could he have ever forgotten this man? Segundus wondered, not for the first time. Suddenly, he was overcome by curiosity to know more of this strange shadowy figure who rode in and out of his life, turning it upside down each time like the worst sort of Gothic hero. Who was he, truly? What manner of man was John Childermass? When they stopped for the night in a public house in Leeds, Segundus made an offhand suggestion that he might like to find a horse for himself in the morning.

Childermass frowned as he packed his pipe. "I thought you were pleased with the coach."

"I am, mostly," said Segundus. He cast about himself as though the age-worn walls of the pub might have an explanation written on them that would please Childermass, or perhaps one of the other patrons chatting quietly nearby might get up and whisper the correct answer in his ear. He found no such easy explanation, however, so he was forced to answer for himself. "I find myself in need of… well, country air, I suppose."

"That wouldn't be a slight against me, would it, Mr. Segundus?" Vinculus said. "Because I assure you, I bathed just last week."

"You stood out in the rain for an hour," said Childermass. "That doesn't count as a bath."

"Longest time I ever took to clean myself," Vinculus muttered.

Childermass lit his pipe and took a few puffs. "Well, if it is not down to the pungence of your traveling companion, what is this about?"

Segundus had difficulty putting his particular desire into words. He thought that his notions of wandering across an English moor on horseback might sound ridiculous if spoken aloud, and he suspected that Childermass would have told him to stop reading Mrs. Radcliffe's novels. As though there were something wrong with novels! He supposed Childermass had never read a novel in his life. Besides, Childermass himself was a magician who wandered English moors on horseback, so he'd know better than anyone what it was like. Segundus did not want to presume. "I thought we might talk about magic, sir," he said after a moment of hesitation.

Childermass exhaled smoke and did not speak. He seemed to be waiting for Segundus to continue.

"I had some questions about this… sensitivity to magic we seem to share," Segundus said. He felt rather guilty. It was an invention— but now that he thought about it, he found that he did indeed have questions and more than a few concerns.

"You may ask your questions now, if you like." Childermass gestured with his pipe.

"I would prefer to discuss it tomorrow. I am feeling rather worn out." That at least was not an invention. Segundus was indeed tired from a long day of travel with a dreary companion, and he found more and more often as he aged that he didn't travel as well as he used to when he was younger. At the moment, he felt rather like a plant that had been taken out of its home in the earth and carried off to be resettled elsewhere. Now he lay, roots exposed, waiting to be placed in welcoming soil once more. He was not a sturdy moor-plant, he supposed, but something more delicate. A rose, perhaps, or an orchid. He wasn't sure if he liked the comparison and abruptly grew cross with himself for making it.

"Are you sure you will be comfortable enough on a horse?" Childermass asked.

"I do know how to ride," Segundus said, annoyed.

"I never said you did not."

"You suggested it."

Childermass sighed. "Not on purpose."

"But you—"

"Please, Mr. Segundus," Childermass interrupted. "It has been a pleasant enough day. Can we not ruin it with arguing?"

"I am not arguing," Segundus muttered. To add insult to injury, he could feel his hair, limp from a day of travel, coming out of its carefully-combed style. He had yet to find a mousse strong enough to counteract the strange effects magic had on him. Normally, he could keep it tamed beneath a hat, but that wasn't an option at mealtimes. His hair drifted about as though carried by the wind. Childermass tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile behind his pipe, and Vinculus didn't even bother trying but grinned openly. Segundus brushed a disobedient lock of hair out of his eye, and his annoyance mounted into full-blown irritation. He stood. "I am very tired. I think I shall go upstairs."

Childermass slid Segundus's room key across the table. "Be up early. We will need time to find you a horse in the morning."

Segundus's hair was starting to draw glances. He snatched the key and hurried upstairs to his room. The lock gave him a bit of trouble, and he had to fumble with the key for a few moments before he could get it to turn. His room for the night wasn't large, but it looked comfortable enough. Someone— a maid, perhaps— had been in earlier to light the oil lamps along the walls. The vine-patterned wallpaper was slightly stained in places, and the bed looked lumpy and a bit narrow, but Segundus supposed it would be good enough for the night. A stern-looking woman watched disapprovingly from a portrait as Segundus untied his neck-cloth and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and he thought for an absurd moment that he ought to cover her eyes. He did not realize until he had stripped himself down to his shirtsleeves that he had quite forgotten his jacket downstairs. His pique reached a new height, and he paced back and forth across the narrow room— setting the floorboards creaking, but he supposed the patrons in the tavern below would not mind too much— debating whether he wanted to go downstairs to fetch it.

No, he decided. It would still be there in the morning, and he found that he could not bear the thought of seeing Childermass's mocking face. As soon as he made the decision, his vexation drained away, leaving him feeling empty and weary. He sagged into the armchair, his head low. Faint sounds of chatter and lively laughter drifted up from downstairs, and for some minutes, Segundus found that he did not even have the energy to move from his seat. Eventually he bestirred himself to remove his boots and stockings. Just as he began to unbutton his shirt, a knock sounded on his door. It was so quiet that at first Segundus thought it must be coming from across the hall, or perhaps that he had imagined it, until it sounded again, almost as faint as the first time.

Segundus stood and was at the door in just a few strides. It had no peep-hole, so he opened it a crack. He expected a footman or a housekeeper of some sort, but instead, he saw the slouched and dark form of Childermass.

"I brought your coat," Childermass said. "You ought not leave it."

"No," said Segundus. He opened the doorway fully and took the proffered coat. "Thank you."

Childermass looked beyond him into the room. "Will you be comfortable here?"

"Comfortable enough," Segundus said.

"Good."

In the flickering light, Childermass's eyes looked as dark as the night sky, and Segundus found that he could not look away. He felt very naked, partially undressed as he was, feet bare against the worn-smooth floorboards (somehow, his bare feet made it all the worse). He was not used to being looked at the way Childermass was doing, as though Segundus were an object of fascination and delight, as though Segundus were desired. Not desired, in such a sense— Segundus felt his ears heat, and he quickly turned his thoughts in a different direction— but wanted. Valued, perhaps. Segundus could not remember the last time anyone had looked at him in such a manner.

He shifted uncomfortably. "I think I will turn in."

"Aye," Childermass said. "I will see you in the morning, then."

Segundus nodded, and Childermass turned and strode away silently.

Segundus performed his nighttime routine in a daze. He kept picking things up and forgetting where he put them down, and he almost went to bed without removing his breeches. It took him longer than usual to put himself in order, but finally he was ready. He crawled between the bedsheets with a heavy sigh. The bed was indeed lumpy, he found to his displeasure, though the sheets smelled clean, and he found no indication of bedbugs or mites or any other member of the group of pests that often inhabited such beds.

Despite his weariness, once he was actually in bed, Segundus found that he couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned on the lumpy bed for what felt like hours, staring up at the ceiling-boards above him or at one wall or another. He had blown the lamps out earlier, but the moonlight streaming in through the window was more than enough to illuminate the clock face on the far wall. The hands seemed to move too slow and too fast at once. Segundus felt as though the night's hours slipped away from him while he lay sleepless, yet when he looked at the clock again, he was surprised to see that so little time had passed. He thought briefly about ringing for warm milk or chamomile tea, but he didn't want to cause a fuss.

In the late hours of the night, all alone in his dark room, Segundus's thoughts strayed down the path he had kept them from earlier: desire. It was not a topic he often allowed himself to dwell on, but he found he couldn't help himself now. Did Childermass… desire him? It had almost seemed so, in the moment, but Segundus couldn't be sure he wasn't simply imagining things. Segundus did not consider himself a risky man, and he wasn't prepared to take any chances with something of this importance unless he were absolutely certain. He had never heard Childermass speak of a wife, and pretty women in the street never turned his head. In fact, he wasn't certain if Childermass felt any desire at all.

Did he desire Childermass? The man was disobliging, vexing beyond belief, and the possessor of many bad habits. His hair was always unkempt, for example, and his hands were weather-roughened and coarse from his horse's reins. And Segundus should not have thought about Childermass's hands, because now he was imagining those same hands upon his body, and his own hands in Childermass's hair. He thought of how Childermass might look if his clothes were rumpled and his hair mussed, not from travel or work but from such activities as mutual desire might lead to, and he felt his body respond to the images in his mind.

Segundus was struck by a bolt of intense guilt. Not over his feelings for another man— he had long ago learned to separate morality and legality— but because the man was Childermass. His usual imaginings (on the rare occasion he allowed himself to indulge) were nameless, faceless, more sensation than substance. He felt as though he were doing Childermass a disservice by allowing him to appear in fantasies that he was quite sure Childermass would object to.

But he wasn't sure Childermass would object, was he? What if he did not? What if Childermass had similar fantasies? Segundus couldn't presume he might feature in Childermass's nightly imaginings, but perhaps some other man did. Then, at least, Childermass would understand. For a brief, electric moment, he allowed himself to pretend that Childermass didn't object, that Childermass was, in fact, quite eager.

Segundus groaned and gave in to desire.

Afterward, he felt a lingering sense of shame, as though he had betrayed Childermass in some way. It was not fair to him to use his image in such a manner, and Segundus resolved to never do it again. Finally, finally, he felt himself sinking toward slumber. His weary limbs grew heavy, and sleep took him not long after.

The shame followed Segundus about the next morning like an unpleasant perfume. He found he could not quite look Childermass in the eye. His responses to Childermass's questions and prompts were more curt than usual, and by the time they were finished with breakfast, Childermass had given up any attempts to engage him in conversation. They sought out a horse for Segundus in a stony silence, Vinculus trailing behind with an air of annoyance and confusion.

"You are quite sure you don't want to ride in the coach?" Childermass asked as a sleepy-eyed groom saddled an equally sleepy-eyed gelding. "Bradshaw assured me that his coach is the most comfortable model on the market."

Bradshaw, standing nearby, nodded fervently.

Segundus bristled. "Would you prefer that?"

"It is up to you," said Childermass with a tiny sigh.

"Well, I do not want to inflict my company upon you if it would not be welcome!" Segundus flushed when he remembered the exact type of company he had inflicted upon Childermass in his imaginings last night. "Perhaps I ought to ride in the coach if I am so disagreeable to you, sir."

Childermass threw his hands up in despair. "Just get on the bloody horse and let's be on wi' it."

Thus chastised, Segundus got on the horse.

March 1817

One cool, rainy morning in the middle of March, Maggie received a letter from Mr. Oliver Hastings. This was not an unusual occurrence, as they corresponded regularly and often saw each other on the occasions when Maggie managed to slip into the village on some errand or another, but Maggie was thrilled nonetheless. Milly was not there to tease her for how she smiled, for governesses did not eat with servants. In any case, there was no time to open it, for as soon as it was handed to her, a bell at the back of the servants' hall rang. The family had arisen, and it was time for the day's work to begin.

The letter weighed heavy in Maggie's pocket all day. She thought about it while stripping bedding from beds. She thought about it while blacking mistress's shoes. She thought about it while dusting and mopping and cleaning and throughout all the menial chores demanded of a housemaid. She scarcely got a moment to open it, but the thought of doing so, of taking the time to read the words penned so carefully by her handsome admirer, cheered her greatly and buoyed her through the day. Not long after the family had gone to bed and the last of her chores were complete, she was able to partake in the happy tradition of visiting Milly's cottage after dark for coffee and good spirits.

"Open it!" Milly urged her, gesturing eagerly with her coffee-cup. "You must let me read what he has written."

"He is my admirer, not yours," Maggie said, smiling. "If you want to read pretty words of affection, find one of your own."

Milly returned her smile, though Maggie detected a hint of bitterness in it. "Ah, there is no hope for me. No man wants to marry a governess. I shall die an old maid, penniless and alone. My only hope for happiness is through you. So please, open it and let us see what Mr. Hastings has written!"

"You are worse than a schoolgirl," Maggie chided her as she broke the wax seal.

"If I am, it is because you keep me in the cruelest form of suspense!"

Maggie laughed at that and scanned the letter. It contained all the pretty words of affection she could have hoped for, and more besides; despite his station in life, Mr. Hastings was a well-read man. Maggie handed the first page, full of pleasant trivialities, off to Milly to sigh over. Her smile froze in place, then slowly turned into a frown, as she read and re-read the rest of the letter.

It was a matter of moments before Milly noticed her changed mood. "Maggie? Whatever is the matter?"

"It is my sad duty to inform you that my work with the saddle-maker is soon to be decreased or even stopped altogether," Maggie read aloud. "He has purchased a machine that he says can do the work twice as fast and twice as well as I. My work with the cobbler will fortunately continue, and I may take up work at Yew Tree Farm. My friend Peter Ainsworth has agreed to hire me as he too has lost his employment as a weaver at the textile mill and has returned to his family farm." The letter went on to detail the sort of work he might be expected to undertake on the farm. Maggie scanned the next paragraph until something caught her eye. "Listen to this— The country has changed much in the past several years, and it is evident that it will go on changing. The return of the Raven King has caused much turmoil in London, and lords and ministers are anxious to protect their power and their wealth. As you know better than anyone, my dearest Maggie, being a Yorkshirewoman yourself, John Uskglass has always been a symbol of revolution, and that makes the lords uneasy."

"Revolution!" Milly repeated. "Surely he cannot mean—!"

"There's more," said Maggie. She continued to read. "Ainsworth has convinced me that something must be done to secure the livelihoods of men such as ourselves— and women such as you. For if machines can replace us, how long will it be before you, too, can be replaced? We are meeting tonight at Yew Tree Farm, just outside of town. I invite you to join us and listen to what Ainsworth has to say." Maggie set down the letter. "Well! I wish I had opened it earlier. I hardly know how to respond."

"How mysterious," Milly said. "You must go! I only hope it is not too late."

Maggie glanced at the letter again. "Must I? This sounds dangerous. What if he's getting mixed up in that Johannite business?"

"Then these men need a sensible woman's voice to set them aright." Milly hesitated. "But your Mr. Hastings is correct. The world is changing. Perhaps too fast for some and not fast enough for others, but either way, I think you should hear Mr. Ainsworth's thoughts."

Maggie nodded, her mind made up. "I shall go there directly." She tidied up her coffee cup and buttoned herself into her long wool overcoat and was nearly out the door when she paused. "Would you like to come as well?"

Milly tilted her head, considering. "Not tonight, I think," she said. "I was not invited, and they may distrust a stranger. Perhaps you could speak to Mr. Hastings about extending an invitation to me if they meet again, if you would not mind."

"Certainly."

Milly flashed her a smile, and Maggie quitted the small cottage without further ado.

Duffield at night was a different town. What were familiar and friendly shapes and shops in the sunlight turned into looming barrows and gloomy shadows under the frigid light of the half-moon. Maggie had not thought to ask for a lamp, but she knew the way through town well enough that she managed not to stumble too frequently on the cobblestone roads. Most of the windows in town were dark, and Maggie fretted as she hurried across town that she was too late. Such was the life of a servant, she mused— to start work too early and to stop too late. She was grateful to her brother, of course, for finding her honest work, but sometimes she wished she had the all options for employment men had. Perhaps Milly and Miss Wollstonecraft are on to something. These thoughts carried her down the yew-lined lane to the eccentric little farmhouse where she hoped she might find Mr. Hastings. Fortunately, a few of the windows glowed with warm lamp-light. Maggie picked her way across the muddy yard, raised her hand to knock on the door— and hesitated.

Maggie knew she was standing in the middle of a crossroads, there on the porch of the farmhouse. Her own little path, the one she had chosen decades ago, lay out behind her, dull and unremarkable. She knew where it led— she could be head housemaid, maybe even a housekeeper or a lady's maid in time. There was still time to stay on that path, to turn around, to go back to Duffield Hall and hope that her life might continue on uninterrupted.

But there was another path before her as well, which she might choose if she so desired. She couldn't be sure where it led, except forward into a changed England where she might be something more than a housemaid.

You are not a coward, Margaret le Roy, she told herself firmly. Do not let the world leave you behind.

She knocked firmly on the door.

A murmur of voices sounded from inside, and the door opened just a crack, revealing a sliver of an unfamiliar man's face and a mop of red hair. "Miss le Roy?" he asked.

Maggie nodded. "Mr. Ainsworth?"

"Aye." He opened the door fully and gestured for her to step inside. "I didn't think you'd made it, but Hastings never lost faith."

"Stubborn man," Maggie said fondly as she entered.

Ainsworth led her through the hall to a cozy dining room. The stone walls were lined with wooden shelves, darkened with age and bearing pots, pans, dishes, and jars of mismatched size and color. A cheerful fire burned in the large brick fireplace, and a tea service, as mismatched as the rest of the cookware, sat in the middle of the table. Hastings stood when Maggie entered, earning him a chuckle from Ainsworth and an unfamiliar man with hair the color of wheat-chaff who sat at the table, but he smiled at her easily enough and without embarrassment.

"Care for some tea?" Hastings asked. "Or Ainsworth has beer, if you'd prefer."

"Tea is fine," Maggie said. She sat and accepted the cup that Hastings passed her.

Ainsworth introduced Maggie to the man at the table, whose name turned out to be James Goddard. "He worked at the mill with me," Ainsworth said. "We lost our jobs on the same day."

Goddard leaned across the table and offered his hand for a handshake. Some of Maggie's surprise must have shown on her face, for his wide mouth stretched into a grin and his pale eyes twinkled.

"Don't tease her," Hastings grumbled. "She's not used to your rapscallion ways."

Goddard laughed at that. "Sure, I'll be nice."

"Keep it down, the lot of you," said Ainsworth. "My wife is asleep."

Maggie stifled a yawn. "As I should be. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Ainsworth, but if you don't mind, I'd like to hear why Mr. Hastings has summoned me here late at night."

"Yes, of course." Ainsworth sat and took a sip of tea, then stood again and paced, as though he had too much energy to constrain himself to a chair. "I've already talked with the others about this—"

"We weren't sure if you'd show up, begging your pardon," Goddard interrupted.

"Quiet, man. As I was saying, because it's late and Goddard and Hastings already know what I'm going to say, I won't take long. Hastings keeps abreast of things, and he says that craftsmen like us are losing their jobs, all across the country." Ainsworth paused and looked to Hastings, who nodded in agreement. "Lords get rich off their investments in the mills and factories, while men like us are given our walking papers and thrown out on the streets with no plan, no money, and no future. Men are angry, and for once, they're angry at the right people." Ainsworth stopped his pacing and took a deep breath. "The world is changing. England may be on the brink of a revolution, with the Raven King returned and civil unrest in every major city, and I for one am in favor of it."

His speech left Maggie dumbstruck. Hastings had mentioned the possibility of revolution in his letter, but that had not prepared Maggie for the shock of hearing that his friend might actually desire one. "And what do the two of you think, sirs?" she asked when she found her voice again.

"I am in favor of it as well," said Hastings.

"As am I," Goddard said. "There we go, that's three for revolution. Motion passed."

Despite the situation, Maggie couldn't help but giggle. "So you are proposing to become Johannites, then?"

Hastings sighed. "I'll be the first to admit I have no great love for the Raven King. Unlike Ainsworth and yourself, I feel no great loyalty to him, traitorous as that may sound."

Maggie raised an eyebrow at Ainsworth, who shrugged. "My mother was from Newcastle," he said, and Maggie nodded.

Hastings continued as though he hadn't noticed the interruption. "But the Black King is undeniably a force of change. Things are changing now whether we will it or no, and we need to make sure some of it's in our favor. The lords don't listen when we go before Parliament to talk about the working-class men who can't even feed their families. The factory owners don't listen when we ask for higher wages, and then we lose our jobs anyway. Mistress wouldn't listen to you, Maggie, if you told her what you tell me of how you ache every day from working yourself to the bone. So we make them listen the only way we can: by threatening their power."

Ainsworth began pacing again. "You must understand," he said, "we don't want destruction for destruction's sake, as has been said of Johannites in the past. I don't suggest we go out at night and burn down the mill in hopeless defiance. If we are to be rebels, we must approach rebellion with the goal of shaping a better future for ourselves and all men like us."

"We've all got a choice, Miss le Roy," Hastings said, his dark eyes intent on hers. "We can hope that things will get better on their own, or we can make them better ourselves. What'll it be?"

This, then, was where the path from crossroads led, toward a world where Maggie didn't have to wear herself out polishing the silver or scrubbing the floors until she was no more than a mess of aching limbs; toward a world where working men's lives were not lived in uncertainty and instability and her Mr. Hastings did not have to worry about how he was going to provide for his daughters; toward revolution.

Maggie took a deep breath and nodded. "Sirs, I have a friend you really ought to meet."