May 1817
Childermass and Segundus had little time to dry themselves off by a pleasant fire. Brandon arrived from Derby just after luncheon, and Childermass was obliged to fetch Vinculus and give him a quick wash so most of his lettering was legible. In the meantime, Segundus entertained Brandon in a tea house he had spotted on the way back from Yew Tree Farm. The place was charming, Segundus thought. The blue and white wallpaper reminded him of Mrs. Sparrow's parlor, and the china services were painted with bouquets of wildflowers.
"I hope you had a pleasant journey," Segundus said over the quiet chatter of the tea house's patrons.
"Quite," said Brandon. He had red hair and an accent that Segundus couldn't place but certainly wasn't Derbyshire. "It was good of you to invite me. Well, you invited Marlowe, but it was good of you to accept me."
"Of course," Segundus said. "We are delighted to make your acquaintance." Brandon's clothing was strange, he noticed. It was not only that the cut was out of fashion, which Segundus could hardly fault him for. But Segundus was certain that such a style had never been in fashion. He had never seen a suit quite like Brandon's, and he wondered where the strange magician had purchased it. The jacket lapel was too narrow, and the collar of his green shirt barely covered his neck. He wasn't even wearing a proper necktie, only a scrap of what looked like green silk tied in an odd manner around his neck. Segundus set his cup back in its saucer. "You said you are from Derby?"
Brandon smiled at that. "Not exactly. I am attached to the Derby Magical Society, though."
"Where are you from, then, if you do not mind my asking?" asked Segundus.
A wistful look traced the corners of Brandon's eyes and his easy smile. There was something bittersweet about it, Segundus thought, and maybe a bit of anger underneath. It put Segundus ill at ease. "Here and there. It is hard for me to rightly call any one place my home."
Segundus nodded. "I understand that. I have found a home for myself in Yorkshire, though. Perhaps you will find one as well, someday."
"You know, I think I just might have," Brandon said. He took a sip of his tea and added another spoonful of sugar.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
"So, do you have a particular area of magical study?" Segundus ventured when it became apparent that he would have to lead this conversation if it were to occur at all.
Brandon's green eyes turned hard and glittering. "Madness," he said, his voice low. "And its relationship with power."
"Are you quite sure you want to pursue such a topic, sir?" said Segundus with no small amount of alarm. "Mr. Strange walked that path not long ago, and it turned out rather ill for everyone involved."
"Strange pursued madness as a goal, did he not?" Brandon said. "I do not intend to go mad. I only wish to study why madness makes a magician more powerful."
"It is a dangerous topic, sir," Segundus warned. "Mr. Strange did not intend to go mad either, not at first."
"There are other lands— other countries — where madness is viewed differently." Brandon's tone took on a touch of impatience. "Just because England takes a backward view of things doesn't mean that everywhere does."
Segundus had no idea how to respond to that. England did not treat her madmen kindly, he knew. But backward? He could hardly think of a more forward-facing country. He was saved from having to formulate a reply, however, by the arrival of Childermass and Vinculus. "Ah," he said. "Mr. Brandon, may I present Mr. Childermass and Mr. Vinculus."
Brandon stood to shake their hands, and Segundus poured more tea. Some spark of ill will seemed to jump between Brandon and Childermass as their hands touched, though Segundus couldn't say why. Childermass and Vinculus looked as out-of-place in the fine tea house as they had in Mrs. Sparrow's little parlor, but Childermass at least conducted himself with gracious enough manners. Vinculus, Segundus thought, was a lost cause.
"Tell me, Mr. Brandon," Childermass said as he sipped his tea (very dark, no sugar, Segundus noted in the back of his mind). "Why did Mr. Marlowe recommend you to us?"
"He is unwell," said Brandon with a shrug. "He told me he mentioned it in his letter to you."
Childermass inclined his head. "My best wishes for his quick recovery. But why you, particularly?"
Brandon paused in the stirring of his tea. "I suppose because I have some skill with languages. Is that not the work at hand, sirs? The translating of the King's Letters into plain English?"
"It is, aye," said Childermass. "But you must forgive me, sir—" Brandon's eyes narrowed at this. Must I? he seemed to be asking, though he gave no voice to his thoughts. "—for my caution. I had never heard of your name before it occurred in Mr. Marlowe's letter. I would prefer not to entrust the King's Letters to an unknown magician."
"The King's Letters can speak for hisself well enough," Vinculus interrupted. "And I have no objection to Mr. Brandon reading me for a few days, or however long it takes you fellows to conclude your business here." He shot a dirty look at Childermass. "Perhaps he will be more considerate of my private body than certain other readers have been in the past."
There was an uncomfortable pause.
"Well, I am glad that's settled," said Segundus. "Where will you be staying, Mr. Brandon?"
"The Bridge Inn, I expect," Brandon said carelessly. "How is it?"
Segundus shrugged. "Pleasant enough, but the owner is a snob."
"I can deal with those types easily enough," said Brandon. "Well, I don't want to keep you gentlemen from your business much longer. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Segundus. I should like to begin my study of Mr. Vinculus this afternoon, if it's quite agreeable to you, sirs."
Segundus nodded, and Childermass followed suit after a moment. The short remainder of the meeting was cordial yet strained, which seemed to put Childermass and Vinculus ill at ease. Segundus, however, felt more in his element than he had been since he left York. He had spent many a tea-time in the company of some unpleasant relation or another, and he was practiced in the art of smoothing over awkwardness between two or more parties who experienced a mutual dislike. Segundus settled the bill not long afterward, quietly waving away Childermass's attempts to pay. Brandon escorted Vinculus back to the Bridge Inn with the intent of beginning his study, and Segundus and Childermass were left to their own devices.
The morning rain had stopped, though the clouds threatened to start it up again at a moment's notice. Childermass puffed at his pipe as they walked, rather aimlessly, Segundus thought, through the small town. Several times, Segundus wondered where Childermass guided them— a particular shop, perhaps, or the church, if they were to pay a visit to Hastings. But every time they approached something that might appropriately be called a destination, Childermass turned their steps away. Segundus didn't mind so much. The town was pleasant to walk through; he admired its gnarled old trees and the bright flowers that spilled from window-boxes like colorful wards against gloom. But after the third such occurrence, he wondered aloud if they might be headed somewhere in particular.
"No, Mr. Segundus," Childermass said, breathing smoke into the sky. "We are newcomers here, and they know us to be magicians. That's two marks against us. We must become commonplace sights, else every door in this town will be slammed in our faces."
"Ah!" said Segundus. "We must avoid the appearance of being a threat."
"You have the right of it." Childermass smiled around his pipe.
"Will it be very hard for you, sir," Segundus said, "to give up all pretense at being mysterious and secretive?"
Childermass looked at him for a second, then laughed so hard he startled a flock of birds into flight. "Ah, Mr. Segundus," he said, still laughing. "How you wound me. I do not pretend to be mysterious."
Feeling emboldened by Childermass's laughter, Segundus trailed his hand down the length of Childermass's forearm. It was a perfectly innocent touch; he might have been brushing a piece of lint off the other man's coat, but Childermass's shoulders still stiffened. "Might you call me John," he said shyly. "When it is the two of us?"
Childermass looked at him for a long moment, his face inscrutable. He spoke rightly before , Segundus thought, dazed. He does not pretend to be mysterious. "Aye," said Childermass. "And you might do the same."
"Yes, of course." Segundus swallowed. "John." Childermass's gaze dropped to his mouth as he spoke the name they shared, and he reflexively licked his lips. Childermass followed the motion intently, looking for all the world as though he might grab Segundus right there and kiss him. In the moment, Segundus thought that he would have let Childermass do as he pleased.
A bell above a shop-door rang quite loudly nearby, and Segundus jumped. He realized then that they had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A woman trailing three children skirted around them, followed by a pair of shoppers with baskets full of produce. "We ought to keep moving," he said faintly.
Childermass's mouth curved into a slow smile. "Aye," he agreed, and they did.
They walked for some time in silence, close enough for their jacket-sleeves to brush or for the backs of their hands to accidentally bump together. These tiny points of contact which would have gone almost unnoticed if they had been with anyone else instead felt electric to Segundus, as though a fine web of lightning stretched over Childermass's skin and occasionally leapt out to shock whomever might dare touch him.
"Should we talk to Hastings?" Segundus asked after a few minutes. He kept his tone light, though his breath hitched whenever he felt the sparks of sensation that jumped between Childermass's hand and his own.
Childermass frowned. He had a great deal of different frowns, Segundus was beginning to realize. He had one for when he was cross, one for when he was concentrating, one for when he read his cards, one for times like this when he watched the horizon and dozens of plans unfurled and spun around his mind, and surely many more besides. Segundus was determined to learn them all. "Tomorrow," Childermass said eventually. "Ainsworth will go to him soon, if he has not already. It would do us no good to swoop in like vultures and confirm every suspicion the town has of us."
Segundus turned that over in his mind a few times. "Should we not go as soon as possible?" he asked. That was how detectives and policemen behaved in the novels he read; having never been part of any sort of police investigation, he had no idea how things were done.
Childermass smiled crookedly at him as though he knew the direction of Segundus's thoughts. "No. It will keep. We would be better served by ensuring the good townsfolk—" (this he said with no small amount of irony) "—have a favorable impression of us."
Segundus nodded, and they walked for a time in silence. He wondered again why exactly Childermass had brought him to Duffield. He had very little experience with the sort of investigation they were conducting. Childermass had praised his magical ability, but he hadn't been called upon to perform any magic to assist their inquiries. It had been Childermass to contact Maggie and the absent Marlowe, Childermass who led the questioning of Ainsworth, and Childermass who knew how to manage public opinion. What had Segundus done? Acted like a dandy to impress an elitist innkeeper , his mind supplied. Held polite conversation with a magician in a strange suit. It was not such a large contribution. Segundus felt a gloom descend upon him, perhaps fuelled by the drizzle that had started up once more. At least his umbrella would keep the rain off him, though it was no defense against a bad mood.
"Come along, John," Childermass said as they rounded a corner. They had arrived back at the main street of Duffield. Brick and wooden storefronts lined the cobbled street, and the smell of warm bread wafted from a nearby bakery. "I know something that will cheer you up."
Segundus barely had time to wonder how Childermass had known he was in need of cheering before Childermass grabbed his elbow and whisked him away down a tiny, dark alley that Segundus hadn't even noticed. It somehow gave the impression of a fairy-road, though Segundus didn't think he had seen an alley that looked less like a fairy-road in his life. It was rather dirty and smelled dank, a far cry from the clean-swept and bright main street that it sprang off from. But it had a contemplative and mysterious air, or possibly the air of a path that leads to somewhere contemplative and mysterious and so takes on some of that place's qualities in anticipation. The walls narrowed even further as they wound their way deeper between the buildings, and Segundus was obliged to close his umbrella.
Just when Segundus was beginning to feel faint tendrils of claustrophobia clutching at his heart and lungs, the alley opened up rather abruptly into a tiny stone courtyard. A blackened tree, its branches bare despite the season, stood in the middle, surrounded by clusters of lily-of-the-valley that bobbed and danced in the rain. The walls of the courtyard looked rough and unfinished; they were merely the back-ends and the side-ends of buildings, built for function instead of beauty. There was only one doorway, but it was so choked with vines of ivy that Segundus supposed it hadn't been opened in years.
Segundus stepped in slowly, feeling once more that he had left England and now stood in Faerie. He crossed the courtyard; his steps felt slow and gliding, as though he were in some dream-like state from which he couldn't awaken. He approached the bare tree. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that it was made of stone. Had it been petrified, then? Or had it been carved from a great boulder? Or perhaps it had been grown by magic, much like the vines in the York minster so many years ago? He turned to see Childermass leaning against a nearby wall, watching him with a small slanted smile. "It is made of stone," he said rather unnecessarily.
"It is," Childermass agreed, and his smile broadened.
"How did it come to be this way?"
Childermass hummed. "I would have thought you have had quite enough of fairy-stories to last you a lifetime. But yes, alright, I will tell you." He sighed and seemed to collect his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice had a subtle, almost rhythmic cadence to it, as though he were reciting a poem with an otherworldly structure that Segundus couldn't follow. "In the year 1247, the Raven King rode alone over the land on a mission only he himself knew. He stopped for a time in the shade of an apple tree, for the July heat wearied him. After he took his rest, he decided that he'd like nothing more than a sweet apple to restore his strength for the journey ahead. He reached into the branches of the apple tree and fetched down the first apple he saw. But when he bit into it, he found that it was hard and sour. 'Cursed tree!' cried he. 'Never more shall you bear fruit, nor flowers, nor shall your branches be crowned with leaves, but forever shall you stand alone in your treason, for you have shown spite to your King who commands you.' The Raven King rode away to pursue his mission and thought no more about the apple tree, whose greatest crime was to obey the laws of nature and the cycle of the seasons."
Segundus frowned. "That was rather unkind."
"John Uskglass has never been known for his kindness," Childermass said, amused.
Segundus turned back to the tree and ran a hand along the trunk, marvelling at the texture. It felt almost like stone and almost like bark, though not quite enough of either to be entirely natural. He tilted his head up to see the sky, heedless of the rain, and for a brief second imagined that he could see the branches moving overhead. That was quite impossible, of course, he told himself. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and the sweet fragrance of the lilies flooded his senses with the effect of a restorative broth.
"I knew you would like this place," Childermass said from where he stood against the courtyard wall.
Segundus turned to him again. He was still smiling that same crooked smile, and Segundus crossed the two or three paces that separated them in a rush. He sensed something meaningful had occurred when Childermass brought him here and told him the story of the Raven King, something with a scope and shape he could only guess at. He was determined to kiss the smile (endearing as it was) off Childermass's face, and so he did. He pressed their lips together gently, almost demure— this did not feel like the appropriate time for the passionate kisses they shared during their less chaste encounters. This was the time for the tender meeting of lips (Childermass's tasted like rain) and hands (cold against the back of Segundus's neck) and arms entwined in a sodden embrace.
Childermass, apparently, disagreed. He allowed this treatment for no more than a few moments before grabbing Segundus by the shoulder and hip and spinning him about. Segundus gasped as his back hit the wall, and his hat tumbled from his head to the wet and muddy cobblestones below. He paid it little mind; Childermass's lips were on his once more, and he had no attention to devote to trivial matters such as the ruination of his best hat.
Events were progressing rather quickly, Segundus thought, though he didn't mind too much. That is, he didn't mind until Childermass started fumbling with the ties on his breeches, and Segundus swatted his hands away. "Not here," he hissed.
Childermass raised his head from where he had pressed it against the crook of Segundus's neck, a slightly dazed look on his face. "The stones won't tell."
"We are in public, sir!" Segundus set about trying to straighten his clothing, though his efforts were hampered by Childermass's (admittedly pleasant) proximity.
"Only technically." Childermass seemed to grow less dazed and more amused as he watched Segundus's attempts to set himself aright. "I'd have you here against that wall, if you were amenable."
The idea was not as disagreeable as he would have thought, Segundus found. He flushed bright red and said, "I am not amenable." It came out less firm and more quavery than he had intended. "You will oblige me by waiting until we are in a more favorable location!"
"Like the back of Mr. Honeyfoot's coach?" Childermass suggested. He did not seem angry at being rebuffed; in fact, he seemed to grow even more amused.
"That was— that was an entirely different circumstance!" said Segundus indignantly. He took several deep breaths of lily-scented air and tried to slow the racing of his heart.
Childermass raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" he asked, shooting Segundus a sarcastic look.
Segundus got the impression that Childermass wouldn't believe a word of his justification, which he thought rather unfair. "Yes!" he insisted anyway.
Childermass shrugged at that and stepped away. "Suit yourself, sir." He put his back against the wall next to Segundus (where they were afforded a small measure of protection from the rain) and retrieved his pipe from the pocket of his jacket. All of his attention seemed to be bent toward the packing and lighting of the pipe, as though Segundus was of no more consequence to him than the ivy or the lilies.
Segundus felt rather wrong-footed by this. He scrambled to pick up his hat and replace it on his head, but afterward, he wasn't sure whether he ought to stand so he and Childermass might speak or if Childermass would prefer a stretch of quiet to enjoy his pipe. He settled for leaning tentatively against the wall once more, barely an inch from Childermass, though he could feel the rain soaking through his shirt. As soon as that problem was solved, however, he found that he didn't know what to do with his hands. His jacket pockets were not positioned so he might keep his hands in them, and he had nothing to occupy them. He settled for clasping them in front of his chest, but that felt rather unnatural and strange; letting them dangle alongside his body was no better.
Childermass sighed and shifted slightly so the length of his arm was pressed up against Segundus's own. "What is it now?"
"Nothing, John," Segundus said. As he spoke the words, he found them to be true. The restless feeling faded like mist beneath the sun. He smiled at Childermass and received a smile in return. "I do quite like this place. You were right."
Childermass attempted to blow a smoke ring, though the effect was rather ruined by the drizzle. "I usually am."
Segundus would have been content to stand in the stone courtyard for the entire afternoon. As it was, the rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour, and Segundus shivered as his jacket slowly soaked through. He said nothing, though; he felt as if he had been granted a reprieve from the outside world and all its demands, and he did not wish to go back. He would gladly sacrifice personal comfort for a few more minutes of peace.
However, it was not to last. Childermass shot a glance of consternation at the sky and packed up his pipe. "We ought to be going, John," he said. "But if you like it so much, we may come back."
"I feel rather bad for the tree," said Segundus wistfully. "But yes, you are right."
Childermass quirked an eyebrow at him. "You have always been uncommonly soft for the strangest things," he said. "I doubt the tree pays you any mind."
"No, I mean—" Segundus caught Childermass's gaze. He could not adequately explain what he meant, not even to himself. "It is a very cruel thing to be punished for following one's nature," he began. But that wasn't quite what he meant to say. He sighed in consternation. "Please do not think I pity myself! It is not myself I am concerned for, but the Johannites."
Childermass blinked at that as though Segundus had said something unexpected and rather startling. "Now you have made me curious. You must explain yourself, perhaps on the way back to the inn. I don't want to leave Vinculus alone with Brandon for too long today."
Segundus nodded, and he followed Childermass back through the narrow and dirty alley. The journey back was almost, but not entirely, a reversal of the sensations Segundus had experienced when Childermass first led him down this path. The courtyard no longer seemed to be a separate world, only accessible by a fairy-path. It was as though England had expanded to accommodate it and found that it fit quite comfortably within her borders. The route back to the main street took less time than Segundus had remembered, and he wondered if Childermass had deliberately taken him on a detour in order to build up the suspense. He decided not to ask, though. If so, it would spoil the effect, and if not, he risked looking rather foolish.
They stepped back out onto the main street, and Segundus opened his umbrella, though he was already so soaked through that he wasn't sure what difference it made. He offered Childermass the use of his umbrella as well, but Childermass just shrugged.
"I do not mind the rain so much," he said. "But I am very curious to hear why the stone tree reminds you keenly enough of the Johannites to spark your pity."
"Ah," Segundus said, "yes." He had meant to spend the short walk through the alley marshalling his thoughts into order, but now he found that the initial connexions his mind had made so easily faded from his grasp; like dreams, the harder he tried to hold onto them, the faster they slipped away. "Well. I suppose it is because they are all… beings of the land, in a manner of speaking."
Childermass looked as though he were trying very hard not to laugh. "Aye," he said. "That is true enough, I'd wager."
"And their— natural disposition , shall we say— is to carry on according to the circumstances of the environment. The craftsman shall practice his craft, and the apple tree shall produce apples in the appropriate season, and so forth."
"That is generally how such things go."
"But if the environment changes, or if some new element is introduced that the— the being, whatever it may be, cannot account for, I think it rather harsh that it must suffer punishment for simply following its nature."
"Are you sure you are not talking about yourself, John?" Childermass asked, his voice gentle.
Something about his tone irritated Segundus. "Well, if I am, then I am talking about you as well, and I do not very much think you want my pity."
At that, Childermass gave up any pretense of hiding his mirth. "You are correct." His laughter faded after a moment. "I understand your sympathy for the tree well enough. But the Johannites are men. They are not passive creatures who can do nowt but follow their natural dispositions, as you put it."
"Does that mean they do not deserve our pity?" Segundus said with a frown.
"It means," said Childermass, "that we can offer them many things more useful than pity."
In stark contrast to their aimless wandering earlier, the walk back to the inn was brisk and businesslike. Segundus didn't mind. He had been happy to walk about the town with Childermass as though it were something they did regularly, as though they were friends, rather than whatever it was they were (and he still hadn't quite worked that out either). Even so, the increasingly bad weather drove him to hurry through the rainy streets, though it meant the end of a very pleasant diversion.
Childermass slowed his steps when they were just a few blocks away from the inn, and Segundus matched his pace, looking at him curiously. "What did you make of Ainsworth, this morning?" Childermass asked.
Segundus frowned. "He was the angry one, according to the cards, wasn't he?"
"Aye," said Childermass.
"His manner was very calm for an angry man," Segundus said.
Childermass made a sound of not-quite-agreement. "He sounded sincere when he brought up the cause. That's not something one hears often from fair-weather revolutionaries, so to speak."
"He and Hastings are the true believers, if you trust Maggie's word," said Segundus.
"I do," Childermass said. Segundus looked at him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the inn as they approached. "We will visit Hastings tomorrow. We must avoid the appearance of hounding these men, but waiting too long will not do."
Segundus nodded. "Perhaps we may try to decipher the King's Letters for the rest of the afternoon. If Vinculus will consent to it, of course."
Childermass smirked in a manner that suggested that he did not much care whether Vinculus consented to be read or not. He held the inn's door open for Segundus, and again a flash of surprise crossed his face when Segundus thanked him.
Though the hour was too late for luncheon and too early for tea, the public house that formed the first floor of the inn was crowded with patrons seeking shelter from the rain. Segundus scanned the room, but Brandon and Vinculus didn't appear to be present.
Childermass evidently reached the same conclusion. "Why, if that squirrelly little—" he began.
Segundus laid a hand on his arm, and his stream of invective stopped in its tracks. He strode across the room, Childermass following close behind. Blessedly, the young, sandy-haired man at the front desk was not Mr. Fawlty; if his livery had not already marked him as a concierge, his manner surely would have. "We're looking for our associates," Segundus said to the concierge. "Their names are Brandon and Vinculus."
"Yes, sir," the concierge said. "They've taken a private parlor for the afternoon. It's just through there." He indicated a door to his right.
Segundus reached the door before Childermass could and ushered him through first. Childermass shot him a very complicated look as he passed: part mirth and part confusion with an underlying caution.
The small parlor beyond had a number of fine features, including green-papered walls, a warmly crackling fire, and a window that looked out onto a charming view of the river. Segundus had little time to admire the room, however, as his attention was immediately taken up by the sight of Vinculus stripped almost naked and laid out on his back on the long dining table. Brandon had taken off his jacket and stood in his waistcoat with his shirtsleeves rolled up, poring over Vinculus with his nose barely a few inches above the blue-inked skin. Vinculus, for his part, appeared to be asleep amid several stacks of books. Segundus assumed they belonged to Brandon, as he had never seen them before. Papers covered in thin, spidery writing lay scattered across the dining table and most of the chairs; several sheets had fallen to the floor.
Segundus picked one of these up, marvelling at its fine texture. Childermass frowned at it then at Brandon, who had barely glanced up as they entered the room. "How goes the translation?" Segundus asked.
"Good, good," Brandon replied without looking up from his work. "Can either of you claim familiarity with the Pictish tongue?"
Segundus and Childermass looked at each other. "Not I," said Childermass.
"What about Old Welsh?"
"I do not think there is a person alive who can speak Old Welsh," said Segundus.
Brandon made a voice of displeasure. "I had not realized you had set me an impossible task, Mr. Childermass."
A thoughtful look stole across Childermass's face. "Pictish and Old Welsh, you say?" Brandon made no reply. "I believe you have identified some of the languages that form the roots of the Sidhe tongue."
That caught Brandon's attention. "Sidhe?" he repeated. "I cannot hope you have any sort of Rosetta Stone, or the like?"
"Alas, no," Childermass said with a dry laugh. "Or our task would be much easier. And the last known copy of De Tractatu Magicarum Linguarum was lost just a few months ago." Brandon frowned at that but made no reply.
Vinculus awoke with an odd sort of snort. "No," he said as soon as he caught sight of Childermass, though no question had been asked of him. "I refuse." He sat up and reached for his coat and breeches, which were draped over the back of a nearby chair.
"You cannot object to me being inconsiderate of your modesty," Childermass pointed out, "when you have lain nearly bare for Mr. Brandon."
Vinculus continued dressing himself, and Brandon and Childermass gave twin sighs of frustration.
"We may be able to resume later," Childermass said. "After he's had a few pints. The light won't be half as nice, though." He looked rather mournfully at the watery grey light streaming in from the window.
Vinculus did, in fact, allow them to attempt to decipher his Letters later that night after Childermass had plied him with a bottle of wine. The three magicians worked late into the night, only rising from their seats to use the privy or to stretch for a brief moment. Segundus was sure he would have forgotten to eat if Childermass had not pushed a bowl of stew into his hands.
Their efforts weren't in vain, though. Between Segundus, who had a bit of Welsh, and Childermass, who had a bit of a nearly-incomprehensible Northern dialect that he claimed held vestiges of Cumbrian, they managed to figure out a single word, which, when combined with words that had already been translated, formed—
"A spell to understand the language of trees," Brandon said, holding a page of paper aloft. "From dark mystery, we pluck sweetest sense!"
Segundus stifled a yawn. He had quite lost track of the time, but the quarter-moon shone in through the window and the fire had burnt down to embers. He felt a quiet sort of joy and triumph at the thought of contributing to such an important translation. Even so: "I apologize, sirs," he said, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I must turn in."
"As I ought to," said Childermass. "Vinculus?"
"You can't be tired as well," Brandon said before Vinculus could answer, a nearly manic edge in his voice. "You've done nothing but sleep all day."
Vinculus managed a bleary glare. "An' I shall sleep all night, if I 'ave my way." He swung his legs rather clumsily off the table and picked up the bottle, though only a few dregs of wine remained. He didn't bother putting his coat on before sauntering out of the parlor and up the stairs to his room.
Brandon made a noise of frustration. "Such knowledge at my fingertips, only to be stymied at every turn!"
"Well," Childermass said, eyeing him warily. "You may continue your work tomorrow, when you are rested and in your right mind. Sir." Without further ado, he turned and strode through the door. Segundus half-bowed to Brandon and followed Childermass upstairs, determinedly ignoring the heated glare he could feel burning against the back of his neck.
Segundus and Childermass undressed and prepared themselves for bed in near-silence. Segundus realized as he slipped his nightshirt on just how tired he was. He was not used to walking as much as they had earlier that afternoon, and he was still feeling the effects of his ill-advised attempt to ride through the country on horseback. He was utterly exhausted, and as he flopped into bed facing away from Childermass, he fancied that he would fall asleep within seconds.
Childermass seemed to feel similarly. After snuffing the candle by the bedside, he lay on his back, his arm a few heated inches from Segundus's body. Segundus could feel through the mattress how the tension bled from his body, his breathing coming more evenly and his limbs loosening.
"Come here, John," Childermass said quite close to Segundus's ear as he draped an arm around Segundus's waist and hauled him closer. "That is, if it is agreeable to you."
"It is," Segundus said. He rolled onto his back, and his arm pressed up against Childermass's side. "Quite agreeable, in fact. Only—"
"Only what?" asked Childermass when Segundus didn't continue.
"I fear that I cannot give you what you want," Segundus said haltingly. "What you wanted to do in the courtyard, I mean. Not tonight."
"I do not want that tonight," interrupted Childermass. "I am not a young man, and today has been tiring."
"You wanted it earlier."
"That was earlier."
"But you want— this?" Segundus pressed himself closer to Childermass.
"Yes, John," Childermass said. His lips grazed Segundus's shoulder as he spoke. "I want this."
Segundus fell asleep bit by bit, lulled by Childermass's steady heat and even breaths at his side. The last thing he felt before he fell asleep between one breath and the next was a cautious, creeping sort of happiness that unfurled like the first leaves of spring.