May 1817

"You wanted to talk about magic?" Childermass asked later as Leeds faded behind early-morning mist.

"Did I?" Segundus startled out of his reverie. "Oh, yes, I suppose I did."

Childermass frowned. "You are miles away today. Is this about last night?"

Segundus whirled around to face him so quickly that he almost fell out of his saddle. "Last night?" he asked over Childermass's stifled laughter. "Nothing happened last night. What on Earth do you mean about last night?"

"With your hair," Childermass said. His smile slowly faded. "It seemed to upset you."

"Oh. Yes. I suppose it did, rather." Segundus settled back in his saddle. Wretched thing— the seat had some sort of embossing that caused his breeches to chafe, and the cantle was entirely the wrong shape. "I did not realize you cared."

Childermass huffed a mirthless laugh. "So that is how it is going to be, is it?"

"I cannot think of what you mean." Segundus stared resolutely across the moorside. The land was hillier here than around York, and mist clung to the hollows of the earth. The overcast sky promised rain that day. Segundus only hoped it might be later in the evening, after they'd already stopped for the night, but he didn't expect his wish to be granted. Perhaps he might get more use out of Bradshaw's coach after all.

"Very well, then," Childermass said, so quietly that Segundus could barely hear it over the sound of the coach-wheels and horses' hooves. "If you are regretting coming with me—" Segundus's face radiated heat so brightly he was shocked Childermass did not notice "—then I hope you know you may leave at any time."

"I would not abandon you, sir," said Segundus.

Childermass looked over at him, a slight frown on his face. "No?"

Segundus shook his head firmly, though he was surprised at his own resolve. After all, he owed Childermass nothing. Less than nothing. In fact, Childermass was likely the debtor between them. He wanted to hang his head in shame as unbidden images came to his mind of the ways Childermass might repay him.

"I am glad to hear it." Childermass didn't look very glad. He looked thoughtful, almost pensive, and he did not press Segundus further for conversation.

They rode on for another few hours in almost-silence. The sun never properly broke through the clouds to burn away the fog; even as the day wore on, the morning chill didn't dissipate. The time for luncheon approached. Segundus wanted to press on to Darton and eat in a public house there, but Childermass insisted that they must limit their spending.

"This journey will be expensive enough as it is," said Childermass as they passed through a long hedgerow. It was too early for the John's-Farthings to unfurl their blue-white petals in the shade of the hedges, but their vines and glossy leaves made a thick, dark green carpet along either side of the road.

"What do you suggest?" Segundus snapped. "Shall we subsist on tree roots and moor-flowers?"

"I have made some sandwiches. They should still be good."

"After being carried about in your saddlebags for a day and a half?"

"Well, I wrapped them up." Childermass had a mulish expression on his face.

Segundus, who was so used to cool disregard and high-mindedness from Childermass, rather enjoyed the idea that he could vex the man as much as Childermass vexed him. Though Childermass hadn't been so disdainful in the past few days, had he? a small, insidious part of his mind whispered. He didn't know what to do with Childermass's newfound regard for his well-being, though— Childermass had noticed things about him, and he was not used to being noticed. It just seemed easier to bother Childermass a bit, perhaps to get a rise out of him.

Segundus felt his ears heat once more and wondered if his monthly budget might stretch to accomodate a new hat, since he seemed determined to burn two holes in this one.

"After all," Childermass continued, and Segundus realized that he had missed a portion of what Childermass had said. "There will be another pub, but my sandwiches will not last forever."

"Perhaps I don't want your sandwiches!" said Segundus, still stung by the comment about money and anxious to cover his embarrassment. "Perhaps I would rather eat a good meal prepared by a professional chef."

Childermass scoffed at that. "You would not find a pub in Dalton with a chef more professional than myself."

"I was under the impression you were more of a steward— or perhaps an enforcer— for Mr. Norrell. Do you have chef's training?"

Childermass gave Segundus a look that suggested he was being very stupid. Segundus was familiar with such a look, but he didn't appreciate it. "I do not."

They put it to a vote. At first, Vinculus was on Segundus's side, but then Childermass informed him that he would be paying for himself, and his tune quickly changed. Bradshaw claimed that he would be perfectly happy eating in a pub or in the driver's seat.

"He is in my favor, then," said Segundus.

"He is just as much in my favor as in yours," Childermass retorted. "We are stopping." He muttered something to the tune of "impossible man" as he dismounted. Segundus briefly considered making a fuss but decided against it.

Segundus was overruled, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy the sandwiches. He made up his mind to be displeased with them, no matter their quality. He reluctantly dismounted with a wince. He had not ridden in months and could tell his muscles would be stiff and aching that evening. Childermass was watching, though, so he did his best to walk as normally as possible.

They set up luncheon under the shade of a large oak tree just a few paces from the road— rather, they sat in the place where shade would have fallen if the sun had been able to make its way through the thick cloud layer to cast a shadow. As it was, the light was much the same beneath the branches or not, and the ground was damp. Bradshaw had a couple of horse-blankets in the boot of his coach, which he kindly distributed. He also offered around a bottle of ale, which Vinculus eagerly shared. The pair seemed to be getting on quite well, to Segundus's surprise.

As much as he hated to admit it to himself, the sandwiches were good, if a bit stale. Segundus ate one that was ham-and-cheese and, after much prompting from Childermass, another that was roast-beef-on-buttered-rye. Segundus himself had not brought anything to wash down the sandwiches, so he was obliged to drink from Childermass's waterskin. He was a rather poor traveller, he reflected to himself as he patted at the water he had managed to spill down the front of his jacket, much to Childermass's amusement. He had not thought to pack food or waterskins, his shoes were ill-suited for riding, and he was gathering a great number of aches in his back and legs.

"We have made a good pace," Childermass said as they ate. "We should arrive in Duffield tomorrow evening."

"So soon?" asked Segundus, surprised. "I thought it would take another half-day, at least."

"I mean to press on. I want to get to Sheffield today, or near enough."

"But that is thirty miles from here!" Segundus said with dismay. "We would not get there until nearly ten at night."

"The 'orses would be none too pleased," Bradshaw agreed. "I'm with Mr. Segundus."

Vinculus only shrugged. "Makes no difference to me," he said. "So long's I'm in the coach. It makes a nice change from having to go about everywhere on me own legs. I could certainly get used to riding in a coach."

"Don't," said Childermass. He stood abruptly. "We ought to get on." He looked almost as though he were going to offer his hand to pull Segundus to his feet, but Segundus stood— muscles protesting— before he had the chance.

"Thought I'd ride in the footman's seat," Vinculus said to Bradshaw as he hitched the horses.

"Don't see why not," said Bradshaw.

Childermass grumbled. "The coach was your idea in the first place," he said to Segundus as they set off once more.

"The coach was a loan, and a horse for Vinculus would have cost us," Segundus said. "And he is carrying your luggage too, you know."

"Only because you insisted on it!"

"Well, we cannot very well dispense with it now, can we?" Segundus shifted in his saddle. "We are already this far."

Childermass turned back to look at the coach behind them just as Bradshaw erupted into a bout of raucous laughter at something Vinculus had said. "No, I suppose we cannot."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, and Segundus wondered again at Childermass's changed attitude. The man still bickered and criticized and took every opportunity he could to be difficult, but he also paid attention to Segundus, and not only to find fault. He coaxed Segundus to eat more— Segundus had always been thin, and the ghastly business with Lady Pole only made him more so— and he noticed when things upset him. And then, of course, there was the moment that had occurred the previous night… But Segundus did not allow himself to dwell on that. He had misinterpreted, that was all, and he had allowed his imagination to run wild, and he felt immensely guilty. He should not act as though he might ever tempt the affections of a creature such as Childermass.

"You still have not asked me your questions," said Childermass, interrupting Segundus's train of thought.

That was another wonder. Childermass sought out Segundus's conversation, as though he wanted to talk to Segundus or hear his opinions. It was extremely out-of-character; at least, out of the character of the version of Childermass that Segundus knew. He was certain that his version was not far off from the truth, but perhaps there was more to him than met the eye.

"Sir?" Childermass prompted, and Segundus realized he hadn't replied.

"No, right," Segundus said. "I have not." He paused. "I suppose my questions may be rather vague. I was never very good at asking the right ones."

Childermass smiled his uneven smile at that.

"I suppose I am concerned about, well, great feats of magic," Segundus continued. "Not that I might ever do any myself, of course! But I am sure others will at some point."

"And you are worried it might affect you the way Lady Pole did?"

Segundus nodded. "That is about the shape of it. I hope to be around magic and magicians for the rest of my life, and I could not bear it if I must keep myself away from the important discoveries."

"I do not think you shall have to," Childermass said after a moment of consideration. "For several reasons. Firstly, Lady Pole's enchantment was peculiar, and I certainly hope we shall see nowt-o'-th'-sort ever again."

Segundus shuddered. "We are of one mind on that topic."

"Secondly," continued Childermass. "It is my belief that we were so strongly affected because magic had not yet properly returned to England. It was a foreign substance out of place in its environment."

"I do not see why that should matter."

Childermass glanced at him. "Do you not? Now that magic has returned, it is part of the land. It is in the air we breathe and the water we drink. It is no longer foreign, it is everywhere."

"And we have gotten used to it, do you mean?"

"Something like that. It has settled, shall we say, like a river going back to its usual course after bursting a dam. I expect that we may still be affected by the constant presence of magic— much as your hair has already demonstrated— but it should not be as debilitating as it was at Starecross."

"Damn my hair," Segundus muttered.

"I do not see why," said Childermass mildly. "You are a magician, sir, and you have every right to be as eccentric as you please."

"You can be very poetical, when it pleases you," Segundus said. "Why do you not do it more often?"

"Few things inspire me to be poetical, as you put it." Childermass looked for a moment as though he were about to continue, but he said nothing more.

"Well," said Segundus after a brief, awkward pause. "I believe you should seek out situations that inspire you. It would be a waste of talent not to."

Childermass gave him an odd look. "Do you like poetry, Mr. Segundus?"

Segundus opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, but he was struck by the thought that Childermass was asking two questions at once, and he had only the vaguest idea of what the shape of the other one might be. "I appreciate the Romantics," he said. Let's see what he makes of that!

"I see," said Childermass after a pause. "Well, I must say, the only poet I can stand is Lord Byron."

"Ah, Mr. Strange was acquainted with Lord Byron!" Segundus exclaimed. "How unfortunate that you never got the chance to meet him."

"Indeed," said Childermass. Segundus saw him watching very closely out of the corner of his eye, but he refused to meet the dark gaze. "And what of Count Platen? Have you read any of his works?"

"I'm afraid my German is rather poor," Segundus confessed. "And he seems to have a disdain for the Romantic poets that I cannot move past."

"I understand. I don't enjoy his works myself, but I thought you might. I myself prefer novels—" Segundus turned to him in surprise "—such as those by Beckford or Lewis, or anything that references mythology. I'm rather taken with the Greeks and the Romans."

Segundus furrowed his brow. "I cannot say I have come across many novels of that type. As far as novelists go, I prefer Mrs. Radcliffe, or indeed Miss Reeve."

Childermass gave a tiny, almost imperceptible, sigh. "I see," he said once again. Forgive me. I thought—"

"Thought what?" Segundus asked when Childermass didn't continue.

"Nothing. I thought nothing."

They did not make it to Sheffield that night but were obliged to stop a few hours distant. One of Bradshaw's horses threw a shoe, so he and Vinculus were forced to dismount and walk alongside the coach. Bradshaw suggested hitching Brewer and Segundus's borrowed gelding to the coach, but Childermass snapped that Brewer was not trained to pull a coach, and so they limped on slowly to the nearest village. The clouds had cleared in the late afternoon, driven south by the harsh wind. Segundus did not envy the Southern counties which would no doubt bear the brunt of the rainstorm. The sun had set some time ago, and stars winked into existence by the handful as the small group made their plodding way down the road.

"I will ride ahead," Childermass said as a few lamplights came into view down the road. "And make bookings for us at an inn."

"I will go with you, if you don't mind," said Segundus.

Childermass shot him an odd sort of look but raised no objections, so they kicked their horses into a canter. Segundus shivered as the wind cut through his threadbare jacket.

"Why did you agree to go to Duffield with me?" Childermass asked abruptly as they sailed over the darkened road.

Segundus's motives were difficult to articulate, even to himself. "I felt… stationary, in York," he said after a moment of deliberation. "My plans for Starecross were not proceeding—" he glared at Childermass, but the infuriating man didn't seem to notice. "And I felt I needed a change of pace, so to speak." Childermass made no response. "Why did you invite me?" Segundus asked, feeling uncharacteristically bold. "There are many magicians more skilled and better-travelled than I. And don't give me that twaddle about sensibility. There are any number of sensible magicians you might find in Yorkshire if you bothered to look for them."

That got a reaction. Childermass looked over at him, a brief look of surprise flashing across his face, before turning his attention to the road ahead once more. "I do not believe there are many more skilled magicians than you," he said into the wind. "In fact, I regard you as one of the most skilled magicians in England."

It was Segundus's turn to be surprised. "I had not thought you regarded me at all."

"Then you are wrong, sir, for I hold you in very high regard."

Segundus's stomach flipped over. Surely Childermass couldn't mean what it almost sounded like he meant. He meant only that— that Segundus was well-regarded in the magical community, which was true enough, he supposed. Or possibly he thought Segundus a decent and steadfast sort of fellow, which Mr. Honeyfoot had himself expressed on many occasions. These were both perfectly reasonable and charitable interpretations. Segundus did not allow himself to hope for anything more. Hope was for his betters, for those more deserving than himself. He must content himself with what scraps of happiness he may find.

Childermass was looking at him again. Segundus could feel the weight of those dark eyes, nearly black in the night, and he once more had the sense that Childermass had said two things to him at once. "I hold you in a similar regard," he found himself saying. "Though you have been very cruel to me. You were the ruin of my hopes and dreams, you know."

"Aye," said Childermass. "I know. Yours and many others. I did not enjoy it."

"I should hope not!"

"But I was particularly…" Childermass paused. "Affected, shall we say, by putting you in such a position."

Segundus was not sure how he should respond to that, so he did not for quite some time. The village lights grew brighter, and the air grew colder. "I do not see why," Segundus said eventually.

"No, sir," Childermass said, so faintly that he was barely audible.

They slowed their pace as they approached the village. A carved wooden sign with white-painted lettering proclaimed it to be Wortley. There was only one properly paved street; Segundus could see that the others were cobblestone. The whole place looked scarcely larger than Starecross, and he didn't suppose that more than a few hundred people lived there. The stones of the buildings had a sad look to them, as though they had seen far too much in their long, rocky lives, and wished now to sleep. A few trees stood here and there. They were twisted and gnarled things that seemed to shift at the edge of Segundus's vision. It was late enough that most of the windows were dark, and the only light came from the street-lamps and the half-full moon above.

To Segundus's relief, the windows of the Wortley Arms were still brightly lit. The building itself was squat and built of brown and grey stones, and all three of its chimneys streamed smoke into the air, making the sky hazy.

A surly-looking ostler slouched his way over as Childermass and Segundus approached, but his mood brightened considerably once Childermass tossed him a coin. "Give them a nice mash," Childermass instructed as he dismounted. "They've had a hard day."

As Segundus swung his leg over his horse's back, the various aches and pains of the day made themselves suddenly known, and his muscles seized up. He lost his grip on the pommel and would have fallen to the ground in an undignified heap if Childermass had not suddenly been behind him. He was a warm, solid presence at Segundus's back, and his arms caught Segundus about the waist with a surprising strength.

"Careful, sir," he murmured, close enough for his wiry beard to scrape Segundus's ear.

Segundus couldn't help the shiver that ran through his body, and he felt his face heat at his reaction. If Childermass noticed, he gave no indication. Childermass lowered him to the ground, but his legs could barely hold his weight. "I have not ridden in some time," he managed to force out through teeth clenched against the pain.

"I can see that," Childermass said. "Why you insisted on it is beyond me." He hauled one of Segundus's arms around his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around Segundus's waist once more. "Expect a coach with two horses before too long," he said to the groom as he half-carried Segundus toward the front door of the inn.

The innkeeper looked up with a surprised expression that quickly turned alarmed when they entered. "Good evening, sirs," he said, coming out from behind the low wooden bar counter. "Are you quite alright?"

"Mr. Segundus here is rather a poor rider, I'm afraid," Childermass said. "But he's not injured." Segundus was too focused on not groaning aloud and collapsing to the floor to second Childermass's statement, so he nodded instead. "Do you have any rooms available?"

"Aye," the innkeeper said. He brushed his hand over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. "Two rooms. Up a flight of stairs, though. Will that be a problem?"

Segundus would have liked to say that yes, it was very much a problem, he would rather stretch out on the flagstone floor than try to climb a flight of stairs, but Childermass spoke first. "Not an insurmountable one. We'll take them both." He fumbled with his free hand for his coin-purse and slid over the fare. The innkeeper passed him two keys, but Childermass shook his head. "Keep one. We have two companions joining us: a ragged-looking man in a brown coat and an old hat, and our coachman, who wears livery. Their names are Vinculus and Bradshaw, and they should be here before too long."

The innkeeper nodded, but his lined face took on an expression of puzzlement. "If you don't mind my asking, why are you not in the coach yourselves, sirs?"

"Don't start," said Childermass with a dark look. "It has been a topic of contention today."

The innkeeper nodded tactfully. "Shall I have dinner sent to your rooms?"

"We would be much obliged." Childermass pulled another few coins out of his purse. "Come on, then," he said to Segundus, and they made their way up the stairs one hobbled, painful step at a time.

By the time they reached the top, Segundus's pain was so great that he was breathing heavily and making rather shameful whimpering noises. He leaned heavily into Childermass. He was quite certain that if he had to stand on his own, his stiff legs would give out entirely and he would crash to the ground. Fortunately, Childermass needed only one hand to turn the lock and then the doorknob.

Segundus's room was pleasant enough, he supposed, but he was in no state to appreciate it. The walls were a disturbing sort of chartreuse, and the floor was covered by a thick carpet. His primary concern was the bed; specifically, how soon he might lie down upon it, and how exactly that feat might be achieved. Through a joint effort, he and Childermass managed to get his coat and boots off, by which time Segundus was quite sure he was about to collapse. He was considering simply standing over the bed and falling, much like a board improperly balanced on its end, when he found himself being gently lowered down. His back hit the mattress— blessedly free of lumps— and Childermass's hands vanished. He made a quiet noise of protest.

Childermass did not seem to notice. He pulled a battered quill and a rather stained piece of parchment from an inner pocket of his coat and bent over the wooden desk that stood next to the bed.

"What are you doing?" Segundus asked. He was quite proud that he had stopped whimpering in pain, though his voice still sounded forced.

"Writing to Vinculus," said Childermass absently. It must have been a short letter, for it took only a few seconds to compose. He muttered a spell, holding the paper so close that his lips brushed it as they moved, and the paper vanished. "So he will be able to find us."

Segundus nodded and closed his eyes. Though he was lying down, the aching had barely eased. His back felt like one solid mass of pain, and his hips protested every time he tried to shift himself. "I do not think I will be able to sleep a wink tonight," he confessed.

"I know a spell that might help," said Childermass. "It will bring you deep and restful sleep." He sighed and settled into the rickety wooden desk-chair. Though Segundus's eyes were still closed, he could hear it creak. "You will be very stiff and sore for a few days. I do not know why you would not just ride in the coach. You will certainly have to tomorrow."

Segundus nodded, chastised. "Would you cast the spell now, if it is not too much trouble?"

"You do not want any dinner?" Childermass sounded surprised.

"No," said Segundus. "I do not think I could sit up to eat."

"Do you want to sleep in your clothes?"

Segundus frowned slightly. "Not particularly, but I suppose I will have to, will I not?"

"You do not have to, no," said Childermass quietly.

"Well, I cannot do it without help."

"Indeed not."

The weight of what Childermass was suggesting dropped onto Segundus like a waterfall that had been conjured above his chest. Heat rushed to his face, and his eyes flew open.

Childermass was leaning back in the chair with a studied air of indifference. He did not meet Segundus's eyes or, indeed, even look at his face at all.

"I would not ask that of you!" Segundus exclaimed.

"You do not have to ask." Childermass still refused to look at Segundus.

"Still, I— I simply could not allow it. You are not a servant, sir, you are my colleague and my fellow magician. It would not be right!"

Childermass slowly closed his eyes. "I see. I shall say no more on the matter. Shall I do the spell now?"

"Yes, please," Segundus said. Childermass stood and pulled a periodical out of the pocket of his jacket. How deep those pockets must be, Segundus thought to himself as Childermass began to speak the spell. He had a good voice for casting spells, Segundus decided. It was deep and steady and sounded like stones tumbling over one another at the bottom of a fast-moving river.

He could feel the magic begin to take effect. It was rather like feathers tickling his body all over, or perhaps leaves of grass brushing against his skin as he lay naked in a meadow. The last thing he saw before he succumbed entirely was Childermass's face, lined with an inexpressible sadness. He tried to ask what had caused Childermass to look so sorrowful, but by the time the question formed in his mind, he was asleep.