May 1817

Segundus had a series of very odd dreams. He dreamed he was running through a forest, frantic and gasping, chasing after Childermass who slipped from his grasp like a shadow. No— Childermass was chasing him, and he did not know why he was running, only that if he stopped, terrible things would happen. And then they ran side by side, not away but toward something, something wonderful Segundus couldn't name but knew to be his heart's desire.

He dreamed he was at Starecross, being drawn forward through the winding halls and drawing Childermass in turn ever closer to the enchantment that suffocated the house and the lady who lay within it. He felt as though he glided over the floor without moving his feet, and his head was dizzy, and he couldn't open his eyes, for even the dullest flickering candle-flame sent immense pain racketing through his head. This was not a dream, he realized, but a memory, beneath a gossamer layer of surreality. It was not a pleasant memory, but he had little time to dwell on it before it changed.

He dreamed of a dark man with hair like a rainstorm, standing on the swell of a hill in the middle of a moor. The man contemplated the distant grey line of the horizon. Segundus couldn't see his face, but he knew the man to be Childermass. A wreath of raven feathers sat on his head, and he wore bracelets of ivy. He was not very far away, but when Segundus tried to climb the gentle hillside to reach him, he found that he could get no nearer. "Mr. Childermass," he said, for he did not know who might be listening. Childermass gave no sign of hearing him. "Mr. Childermass," he said again, louder. His voice seemed to be swallowed up by the sky. "John!"

That got through to Childermass. He turned in surprise. Light gleamed from his eyelids and his lips, from his heart and from his left hand. This hand he reached out to Segundus, who was too far away to take it but raised his own hand anyway. Somehow, their hands met, clasped together, and Segundus realized he too wore bracelets of ivy. Childermass pulled him to the crest of the hill and turned his attention back to the horizon.

"What are you doing?" Segundus asked.

"I am learning the language of the sky," said Childermass.

"That sounds very difficult."

"On the contrary. It is the easiest thing in the world." A flicker of doubt passed across Childermass's face. "What are you doing?"

Something told Segundus that this was not merely a dream or a memory. This was something else entirely, something he had no right to be a part of. He shifted uncomfortably. "I believe I am intruding. I should go."

Childermass turned to him. "I do not want you to go."

"Nevertheless, I must." Segundus took a step back, then another.

"No!" Childermass cried, anguished. He reached out his hand once more and—

—and Segundus awoke, blinking his eyes blearily at the collection of faces expressing various degrees of concern assembled above him. There was Vinculus, rather too close for comfort, and Brandon beyond, looking annoyed. A maid and a concierge hovered nearby. He looked around until he found the one face he cared about. "John," he said, though his voice came out as no more than an indistinct rasp. He came to himself a little more and immediately wished he hadn't. He was flat on his back on a rather hard surface, though some soft material pillowed his head and neck. His hand was held very tightly in a familiar grasp.

"He is awake," Childermass said above him. "Fetch water and cloth, and make up a tea-tray."

Someone outside Segundus's line of sight scurried away to do as Childermass bid. Segundus groaned and tried to sit up, only to find himself stopped by a firm hand at his shoulder.

"Do not try to move, sir," Childermass said. "We have yet to ascertain if you were injured in your fall."

"I am not injured," said Segundus. His voice was a little weak. He became aware of a growing throbbing ache coming from the back of his head, and he winced. Childermass must have noticed this, for his expression grew more concerned. "How long was I out?"

"Seconds," Childermass said.

"It felt like much longer."

Nearby, Vinculus cleared his throat, and Childermass sprang back. A maid bustled in a split second later, bearing a ewer of water and several flannel cloths, which Childermass wasted no time in applying to Segundus's forehead.

Segundus allowed this treatment for nearly a minute before batting Childermass's hands away. "I am fine," he insisted. "I just want to sit and have some tea." This he was permitted to do under the supervision of Childermass who, after sending away the maids and concierge and several footmen who had appeared to see what all the fuss was about, half-lifted him onto the sofa and fussed about him with pillows and coverlets until he was driven nearly mad with it. It was most uncharacteristic of Childermass, and Segundus worried more for the other magician's health than for his own, despite the pain that still radiated from the back of his skull.

Brandon, Segundus realized with no small embarrassment, watched all this from the corner of the room, his green eyes shadowed and calculating. When Childermass asked (again) if Segundus was quite sure the tea wasn't too hot, Brandon gave an amused little snort and said, "Coming on a little strong, aren't we?" Childermass and Segundus both stared at him, the first in anger and the second in fear and guilt, and he smirked. "I am sorry, was it supposed to be a secret?"

"If you should want continued access to the Raven King's book," said Childermass, his voice a barely-controlled growl, "it will remain a secret."

Brandon's expression soured. "You have no right."

Childermass only laughed at that and turned his attention once more to Segundus, who sat beside him on the sofa and sipped carefully at his tea.

"I dreamed of you," Segundus said as he remembered. His hand trembled hard enough to threaten to spill his tea, and he set teacup and saucer down on a nearby table.

Childermass looked wary.

"Just now, when I— fainted." Segundus gestured at the spot he had recently vacated. "You said you were learning the language of the sky."

"That was you," said Childermass, his wariness giving way to awe. "I wondered— but I didn't think— it all happened so fast."

"What did?" Segundus asked.

Childermass reached into his pocket and brought forth the raven feather. It should have been crumpled from being carried about rather unceremoniously and crushed in Childermass's fist, but it was as shining and pristine as if merely seconds had passed since it had fallen. "It was like remembering something I had forgotten I once knew. The sky was speaking, and I knew what it was saying. You were there."

"How can that be?" said Segundus. He lifted his hand to brush a finger along the edge of the feather, but something stopped him. This was not for him, he knew. This was for Childermass, and Childermass alone. Being with him, on the moor beneath the speaking sky, had been imposition enough; further trespasses would not be tolerated.

"It is as though we experienced the same moment at different times," Childermass mused. He stowed the feather.

"But how can that be?" Segundus asked again.

"I do not know." Childermass leaned back against the sofa. "There must be some magic at work."

Segundus tried to look exasperated, but he did not have the energy for it or for stimulating conversation, even conversation about magic. "Undoubtedly."

Something of his exhaustion must have shown on his face, for Childermass stood. "You have had a trying day, sir. You ought to rest."

Segundus nodded, wincing. "Yes," he said instead. "That would be prudent."

Walking was not too difficult. He had no weakness in his limbs, nor did he feel dizzy, but his head pounded with every step. He was sure to have an impressive bruise where he had cracked his head against the floor. His elbow ached as well; he must have hit it on something on the way down. Childermass did not follow him up immediately. He heard Brandon say something in an acidic tone, though he couldn't quite make out the words, and Childermass's answering rumble, no doubt a threat of some sort. Vinculus said something as well, but by then, Segundus was too far away to detect anything beyond the merest suggestion of noise.

It was too warm for a fire, so the room was lit only by the quarter-moon when Segundus opened the door. He lit two candles: one for himself, which he carried with him, and one for Childermass, which he left on the table by the door. His nightly routine didn't take long— Segundus was not a man who was over-cautious of his appearance— so he was already in his nightshirt and climbing into bed when Childermass appeared. While Childermass undressed and prepared himself for bed with quiet efficiency, Segundus squirmed about under the covers, trying to find a comfortable position. On his own, he might sleep on his back or his left side, but the location of the bruise on his head made either position extremely uncomfortable, and his elbow pained him if he lay on his right side.

"What's the matter wi' you?" Childermass asked.

Segundus sat up. "I cannot seem to find a position that does not hurt," he said, a little petulantly.

Childermass frowned and studied the bed. "I may have a solution, if you can stand to give up the bolster," he said.

Segundus nodded. "It was too firm anyway."

Childermass slid the bolster out from under the other pillows and arranged it partially beneath Segundus's body, slightly elevating his left side but not so much as to hurt his elbow. "How's that?"

"Much better," said Segundus. He settled more deeply into the bed and closed his eyes, only to open them again in surprise as Childermass's lips brushed his forehead.

Childermass looked almost guilty at being caught— which was absurd, Segundus thought, it was not as though Childermass could do such a thing and keep it a secret— but a darkly shining happiness quickly smoothed over the guilt as Segundus pulled him closer for more intimate kisses. He gingerly sat down on the bed and allowed Segundus to hook his uninjured arm around his neck. Their kisses deepened, slowed. Something of Segundus's intent must have shown on his face, for Childermass asked, "are you quite sure, John?"

"I am," Segundus whispered.

Tenderness was not something Segundus often experienced from the world at large, nor did he usually associate it with Childermass. But that was the only word he could think of to describe the manner in which Childermass brought him to a high thrum of sensation. Childermass's hands and mouth were gentle on his body— not delicate, as though Segundus might shatter like fine china with one wrong touch, but almost reverent, as though Childermass had been accorded a great and joyful privilege that he intended to make the most of. He did not tease, but slowly worked Segundus higher and higher toward his peak and brought him over, shuddering. Afterward, Childermass idly rolled his hips, thrusting into Segundus's hand as they kissed, and he bit down on Segundus's lip when he reached his crisis. Segundus drank in his quiet gasps.

They lay together, and their breathing evened and slowed. Childermass's face looked even more weather-worn in the candlelight, the lines carved deeper, the hollows more darkly shadowed. Segundus reached up to rest his fingers along Childermass's jaw. "You are beautiful," he whispered.

Childermass huffed with laughter. "You ought to get your head checked. I think your fainting spell has left you delirious."

"It has not," insisted Segundus.

Childermass brushed Segundus's bottom lip with one finger. "I have hurt you."

"Not so very much," Segundus said. He did not like the guilty, somewhat pained look on Childermass's face, so he tried to distract him.

Childermass refused to be put off, however. "I do not—" he said in between kisses, his voice slightly muffled. "I do not enjoy hurting you."

Segundus pulled back a bit. "I have never thought you did," he said carefully.

"I'm afraid I will again."

"I do not believe you will."

"Yes, but—" Childermass let out a sigh of frustration. "I am not good at explaining myself."

"I know that much," said Segundus lightly. "John, there is nothing to explain. You have done me no harm. It will be better by morning."

"That is a contradiction," Childermass said. The look of guilt did not go away. "You cannot know if I will hurt you in the future."

Segundus sighed. "We should sleep."

"Let me clean us up first. You will thank me for it in the morning."

"Yes, alright."

That done, Segundus adjusted the bolster and the pillows once more to his liking and burrowed beneath the blankets. He was quite comfortable in this position, he thought, half-propped and with Childermass's arm about his waist. Childermass really was a clever fellow to think of it. He was of a mind to tell him such, but before he could form the words, he was asleep.

A new development occurred over breakfast in the form of a letter addressed to Mr. John Childermass at the Bridge Inn from one James Goddard.

"He will meet with us," said Childermass as he scanned the letter, eggs and toast forgotten. "But only with Ainsworth and Hastings present." He passed the letter to Segundus. "I suppose they think Goddard is too easily persuaded, so they want the true believers there to prevent us from swaying him."

"Or so they may make another attempt to sway us." Segundus glanced down at the letter. "He has suggested a time and a place: noon, at Yew Tree Farm. Shall I write back with our acceptance?"

"Aye," Childermass said. "If you are quick about it, you might be in time for second post."

Segundus was quick about it. We are honored to accept your invitation, he scrawled on a page torn out of Childermass's memorandum book. We will gladly meet with you at the appointed time. He signed his name, and Childermass signed his, and he was just in time for second post. "Now the question is what to do until noon," he said after posting the letter and returning to the table.

"You may do what you want," said Childermass. "I will be reading the King's Letters."

The rough dismissal stung for a moment before Segundus caught the crinkling at the corners of Childermass's eyes. "A tempting prospect," Segundus said, smiling. "Perhaps I shall join you."

"Nothing would make me happier," said Childermass.

"Nothing?" Segundus felt his ears heat at his own boldness. It was one thing to make such jokes in the privacy of their room, but it was quite another to say them out loud in a public space.

"Few things," Childermass amended. His crooked smile wound its way up the side of his face.

They finished their meal not long after and ensconced themselves once more within the private parlor that had served as their and Brandon's study for the past days. Vinculus was habitually a late riser, but Brandon was already in the parlor when Segundus and Childermass walked in. He wore the same clothes he had worn yesterday, but he had stripped himself down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He paced the room, muttering to himself. His eyes were smudged with darkness, and his red hair was in disarray as though he had run his hands through it over and over until it stood on end. The beginnings of a beard showed on his face in red and blonde.

"Have you been awake all night, sir?" Segundus asked with some alarm.

"I watched the stars as they sailed across the night-sky sea," said Brandon, his tone short and clipped. "I listened, but they did not speak to me. Where is the Book?"

"The Book is asleep," Childermass said.

"A tragedy that such power is given to a man so ill-suited for it." Brandon flapped a hand at them as though shaking water droplets off his fingers. "Fetch him."

Childermass leaned against the doorway with his customary insolence. "He will awaken before too long. You may resume your study of him then. Though I am not certain you have been going about it in the correct way."

Brandon ceased his pacing and glared at Childermass. Segundus had to restrain himself from stepping back at the force behind Brandon's gaze. "I have been going about it in the best way I know how. If you know of another way, then by all means, share it."

"The Raven King has shown me a new way to read the Book," Childermass said. "He has taught me—"

"He has given you a dictionary of some sort?" Brandon interrupted.

"Not a dictionary, no." Childermass frowned. "He is teaching me the languages the land uses to speak to itself."

"What good is that with no dictionary?" Brandon resumed his pacing without waiting for an answer.

Childermass glanced at Segundus and rolled his eyes.

For lack of anything better to do, Childermass and Segundus sorted through the various notes they had taken and tried to form them into a cohesive whole. This was especially difficult with Brandon's notes, as he was prone to meandering tangents and occasionally wrote in a mirror-script much like da Vinci. These pages were especially hard to decipher. For a time, Segundus was worried that Brandon might jealously snatch his notes away, but he took no notice of his and Childermass's activities.

Childermass and Segundus had little time to study Vinculus; he didn't rouse himself until nearly half past eleven, and he refused to allow himself to be read until he had eaten a hearty breakfast. The hour appointed for the meeting with the Johannites approached, so the two magicians took their leave and made their way through the streets damp with late spring rain to Yew Tree Farm.

There was no one in the yard as they approached, so, as before, Childermass rapped sharply upon the door. The same frazzled-looking woman in the same apron answered. "You're expected," she said. Her face was carefully blank, but her tone was cold. She led the magicians through the farmhouse to a cozy-looking dining room with walls of grey and brown brick.

Three people were seated at the large, age-worn table: Hastings, in a coat of dark blue; Ainsworth, who twisted a grey cap in his broad hands, and a man light of hair and eye with a wide mouth that was pressed into an uncertain frown. Segundus surmised he was James Goddard, and was proven correct as introductions were made.

"Please, sit," said Ainsworth. "Sarah, that'll be all."

"But, Peter—" the woman said.

"Go on, Sarah." Ainsworth tipped his head toward the large window that overlooked the yard. "See to the chickens. This business'll be done before long."

Sarah bustled out without another word. Segundus heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting with slightly more force than he thought necessary.

"Maggie says you're trying to persuade us to give up the rebellion," said Goddard in the silence that followed Sarah's exit.

Childermass nodded. "You all are following a foolish and dangerous path that will certainly end in you shot or hanged, and may cause violent civil unrest across England."

"The Raven King will not let that happen to us," said Ainsworth with a small frown, but Childermass held up a hand for silence without taking his eyes off Goddard.

"What is your role in this?" he asked.

Goddard glanced at Ainsworth before replying. "I was a weaver. I worked in the same mill as Ainsworth and was sacked at the same time."

"Was that when you became a Johannite?" said Childermass.

Goddard nodded. "Ainsworth and me… we talked about how unjust it all is, that the bosses can do whatever they want with us and we have no say in it. They can cut our pay, or fire us, and there's nothing we can do."

Childermass sighed. "I cannot say I do not sympathize with your cause. We must hang on the whims of our betters—" he pronounced the word with such bitterness that Segundus flinched "—and hope for fair treatment."

Ainsworth nodded enthusiastically. "Quite right, sir. So you see why we're willing to risk everything, even our lives, for a better England."

"I always did," Childermass said. "As I have said before, my primary disagreement is not with your beliefs, but with your plan."

"What did Maggie tell you?" asked Hastings.

Childermass eyed him for a moment as though taking his measure for a second time. "Nothing of consequence. I figured it out myself. You could not have chosen a more obvious target, gentlemen."

Segundus barely controlled his look of surprise. If Childermass was lying about the information Maggie had given them, he had a good reason, and Segundus should not give it away.

Goddard shrugged one shoulder. "We want to make a statement."

"You certainly shall," Childermass muttered. "Only I do not believe you will appreciate the response. I must ask you to desist, sirs. Do not go through with your plan, and find some other way to air your grievances. Join a union if you must— at least then you will have enough of a movement behind you to have a chance to change things. This isn't London, but certainly there must be some other way."

"We've already had words about this," said Ainsworth. His hand clenched into a fist around his cap. "You magicians think you may come here and order us around, and we shall have to obey because of our low stations. But justice, true justice, is on our side, sirs, and we will prevail— if not this time, then the next, or the next."

"And in the meantime, you shall split England asunder in a civil war," Childermass said, frustrated.

Ainsworth folded his arms and looked resolutely out the window. "If that's what it takes."

"So bloody stubborn," Childermass muttered. He took a deep breath as though he wanted to continue his tirade, but Segundus aimed a kick at his ankle. Childermass turned to him, and he looked from Ainsworth to Goddard and raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if Childermass got his message, but he gestured for Segundus to speak anyway.

"During our previous meeting, you said that your rebellion was driven by love and loyalty," Segundus said to Ainsworth, carefully picking over every word. "Do you have none for the citizens of the Raven King?"

Ainsworth looked taken aback. "Of course I do," he said. "That is why I must continue."

"But why are you so eager to offer up your countrymen and their families to violence and conquest?" Segundus pressed.

Ainsworth narrowed his eyes. "I don't wish for it, of course," he said. "But it's a possibility we must be prepared for. It is the risk all rebels take when fighting for their chosen cause."

"The French and the Americans have fought wars for their revolutions," Goddard said quietly. He nodded to Ainsworth. "Peter has the right of it. We must be prepared to do the same."

"Not if you stop," said Segundus. "Put the rebellion behind you. Do not risk Englishmen spilling English blood."

"If you won't listen to sense," said Childermass, "listen to reason. This is not the way to get what you want. Your rebellion will accomplish nothing but violence and bloodshed. Do you think anyone will have sympathy for the Johannites who started a civil war? Do you really think you will get what you want, if England takes that path?"

Hastings and Ainsworth looked resolute, but Goddard appeared to waver. He glanced between Ainsworth and Childermass, uncertain, and took a breath.

Hastings spoke before Goddard had the chance. "Mr. Childermass, Mr. Segundus, I believe you have said what you came here to say."

"Not quite," Childermass said. "I have one last thing."

Ainsworth frowned but gestured for him to continue.

"I fully intend to stop you. I will not allow the mill to burn, if it is within my power to prevent it." Childermass held the gaze of each of the Johannites in turn. "But I will not turn you in, either to the law or to the militia, and not only because I do not wish to see you made into martyrs. I will not subject you to an unjust trial in a corrupt system. You have my word on that, and when I give my word, it is final."

Ainsworth frowned as though he did not know quite what to make of Childermass's words.

"This meeting is over," said Hastings. "I ask you to leave."

"This is not your house," said Childermass.

"It's mine," Ainsworth said quellingly. "And I ask you to leave. Farewell, sirs. I don't believe we will have occasion to meet again."

There was nothing to be said in the face of such a dismissal, so Segundus and Childermass collected their hats and shuffled out the front door.

"Our business is done," Childermass called out to Sarah as they passed the chicken coop. "We shall not trouble you or your family again. Good day, madam."

Their boots squelched in the mud as they crossed the yard, and Segundus tried to stamp the worst of it off when they reached firmer ground.

Childermass watched his efforts with some amusement as he lit his pipe. Once again, he steered their steps in a manner Segundus couldn't predict. He did not seem to have a particular destination in mind, but led them in a meandering stroll through the cobbled streets of Duffield. Though the sky was mostly clear, a bank of clouds on the horizon threatened rain. "An illuminating conversation, John, wouldn't you agree?" he said as they walked.

Segundus nodded doubtfully. "I suppose," he said. "We did not learn anything more about their plan."

"No," said Childermass around the stem of his pipe. "Nor were we likely to. But we did learn that they are a united front. Direct pressure won't turn them aside from their plan, which means that we must rely on my sister's intelligence and find a way to stymie them ourselves."

"You lied to them about Maggie."

Childermass let out a smoky exhale. "Mr. Hastings seems a decent fellow. I did not want to ruin my sister's happiness. God knows she's had little enough of it in her time."

Segundus looked at him incredulously. "He's a Johannite!"

"So is she," said Childermass with a shrug. "They are well suited for each other, aren't they?"

Segundus laughed in disbelief.

"I believe I am beginning to put together the pieces of the puzzle," Childermass said. "There are still some missing, though."

"Such as, who is the captain's informant?"

"Aye. That is the key piece, I believe."

Segundus thought for a moment. "It is most likely someone we have not met."

"Believe it or not, I had considered that possibility." Childermass smiled, taking the sting out of his words. "Perhaps, but I disagree with your assessment. The informant must have given some reason for Captain Oakes to trust her information, and she must be familiar enough to the Johannites that they would not fear speaking of their plans where she might eavesdrop. And finally, she must have a motivation to inform. I can only think of one person who fits all three categories. I believe my suspect is obvious."

Segundus shook his head.

Childermass glanced back in the direction of Yew Tree Farm. "I am particularly interested in Sarah Ainsworth."

"Sarah Ainsworth!" Segundus repeated, surprised. "Why on Earth do you suspect her?"

"She is clearly unhappy with her husband's activities. Perhaps she has made some sort of deal with the captain. She feeds him information, and Ainsworth is treated with leniency when arrests are made."

Segundus considered it. "It makes sense," he said. "Though I do not want to believe a person could betray someone she deeply loves."

"If Mrs. Ainsworth is indeed the informant," said Childermass, "it may be that she does not see it as a betrayal at all. In her mind, she may be protecting her husband from retribution for his actions."

Segundus's stomach growled then. "While we put the pieces together, might we have our luncheon?" he asked.

"Certainly, John," Childermass said. "At once."

They found their way back to the Bridge Inn, where luncheon was fortunately still being served despite the relative lateness of the hour. Childermass was quiet throughout the meal; Segundus assumed his mind was occupied with the mystery before them.

Segundus was grateful for the interlude. He no longer felt as though he swam out of his depth, as he had when they first arrived in Duffield (had it only been a few days ago? It felt like much longer) but the strain of investigation was beginning to weary him. He longed to be at Starecross, or even in his own small room in Mrs. Sparrow's house, surrounded by familiar sights and comforted by familiar books. He realized with a start that he was homesick. He had not felt homesick in many years; he had not thought he ever would again. He contemplated sharing this with Childermass but didn't want to risk being mocked. "What shall we do for the rest of the afternoon?" he asked instead as a surly waiter cleared their plates away.

Childermass leaned back in his chair, his hands folded on the table. "I do not know," he said carefully. "Our efforts have been stymied, for the time. It might be best to make another attempt at reading the King's Letters and wait for further developments. Certainly we should speak with Maggie again, but I doubt she will have new intelligence for us just yet."

Segundus nodded, and they rose from their table and strode to the private parlor. He pushed the door open to reveal a strange tableau: Vinculus lounging in an armchair near the window, a tankard of ale clutched in one hand and humming happily to himself, while Brandon sat at a desk on the opposite end of the room with his head cradled in his hands, the very picture of defeat.

"Mr. Brandon," Segundus said in surprise. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Another scrap of shining knowledge has made itself known to me," said Brandon glumly. He did not look up.

"You translated another word?" Segundus took a cautious step into the room. "That is good, is it not?"

"Yes, but it has shown me how far we still have to go!" In a flurry of motion, Brandon arose from his chair and swept all the papers from the desk. They fluttered around his feet like fallen leaves in an autumn breeze. His chest heaved. "Mysteries and enigmas. A dark labyrinth. A bright pattern. We stand at the mouth and peer in, but we don't know what we seek."

"I have had quite enough of mad magicians," Childermass said from the doorway. "Pull yourself together, man, or go back to Derby and rave there."

Brandon shook his head wildly. "Not when there is so much to learn. Mysteries and enigmas, labyrinths and patterns."

"What does that mean?" asked Segundus.

Brandon shook his head again before slumping once more into his chair.

Segundus and Childermass shared a glance. "We are going to make our own attempts to read the Letters," said Childermass cautiously. Brandon did not respond, so he crossed the room to Vinculus. "Are you well?" he asked under his breath.

Vinculus nodded. "Aye," he said. "Mad the strange magician may be, but he is generous as well." He lifted his tankard as if in a toast. "He does not know how to read, though. You do." He fixed his watery eyes on Childermass.

Childermass reached into his coat pocket and drew forth the glossy raven feather. "If you would be so kind as to roll up your sleeve," he said.

Vinculus did so, and Childermass began to read.