May 1817
Hours later, despite his footsore and weary state, Segundus had not lost any of his awe. To think that he, John Segundus, poor scholar and poorer magician, might walk about on one of the greatest testaments to the Raven King's power! Even his aching legs and the squalling of Hastings's young children could not dampen his enthusiasm, and he found himself smiling at the oddest things— a pair of discarded shoes, an ivy-covered banister, a raven that swooped overhead with a forbidding croak. He wondered if they might meet a fairy upon the Roads, and he could not say for certain if he dreaded it or hoped for it.
Childermass did not seem to share his high spirits, instead growing grimmer and moodier with each staircase climbed or bridge crossed. When Segundus had asked for the first time what was wrong, he had gotten only a shrug in response. The second time, he had gotten a sigh of consternation and a brief mumbled explanation about a headache. After that, Segundus got the point and, feeling rather ill-used, dropped back to seek a more pleasant conversation partner.
He found one, to an extent, in James Goddard's wife, Lavinia. Mrs. Goddard was quick-witted with a sharp tongue and a basic knowledge of magical theory, evinced by her insistence on clipping a great bouquet of red pansies from her garden and distributing them among the company. Segundus was impressed both by her foresight and her ability to stand up to Childermass as he glowered down at her and ordered her to make haste, woman, unless you want to see your husband swing.
Lavinia Goddard was understandably upset at being forced to leave her home with little more than the few possessions she could carry and the clothes on her back. She wasted no time before informing Segundus of the degree and severity of her anger and the various punishments she thought the magicians ought to face for putting her and her husband out of their home and leaving them destitute.
"I understand, madam," Segundus said for the umpteenth time. (He noticed a particularly skillful carving of a raven and smiled at it, which did little to ease Mrs. Goddard's anger.) "But you must see that it is the safest option for your family."
"I certainly do not see that!" Mrs. Goddard retorted. In the mad dash to gather her belongings and hand out flowers, her brown hair had started to fall out of where it was piled high on her head, beneath a sensible bonnet. A lock of it fell in her face, and she brushed it away irritably. "I resent being taken away from my home and forced to walk about on all manner of bridges with no telling where they might lead."
Segundus was beginning to get a headache of his own.
Fortunately, Maggie was on their side— or, more accurately, Childermass's side. She had gone a long way toward convincing Mrs. Goddard that, as distasteful as it might be, this was truly the safest option, and she ought to accept her fate with quiet dignity (Segundus was particularly grateful for the quiet part). And when Hastings's young daughter, who couldn't have been more than four, began complaining about sore feet, Maggie allowed the child to ride on her back with her arms and legs wrapped tightly around her.
Yes, Segundus knew he was greatly indebted to Maggie for her calm manner and steady demeanor, but that did not mean he did not feel a sharp pang of jealousy when she passed Hastings's exhausted daughter off to Ainsworth to carry for a time and hurried ahead to speak with Childermass in hushed tones. Both looked back from time to time, as though checking up on the limping company, but Segundus grew increasingly certain that he himself was the topic of conversation. Normally, he would tell himself to abandon such a silly and vain notion and carry on as unself-consciously as possible, but he found he could not do so; their glances more and more were directed at him, not the company as a whole.
Instead of allowing himself to wallow in resentment, however, he turned his mind back to the wonder of the Roads. He mentally catalogued everything he could, from the way the breeze smelled (like frost and juniper) to the way footsteps and conversation bounced off stony walls (not like an echo; it was as though the stones heard the sounds and repeated them back) to the way shadows seemed to pool in strange directions even though there was no sun in the sky. He wished he had a pen and paper to make notes and resolved to write it all down in as much detail as he possibly could at his very earliest opportunity.
Segundus frowned when he noted the lack of sun. Surely he had noticed before, but it had not properly registered in his mind. Above lay only a thick, white-grey bank of clouds that roiled and swirled in a wind Segundus didn't feel. There was something odd about the clouds, he decided, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. Perhaps it was that they were so high— he was used to heavy clouds lying low, but these seemed higher than Heaven. Or perhaps it was the way they moved, constantly churning in eddies and currents like particularly troubled water.
The appearance of Hastings at his side interrupted Segundus's musings. His face was set in lines of exhaustion, and he carried his older daughter, who looked to be about seven, on his back. "We can't keep going much longer," he said. "The women are tired. My daughters are tired."
"I do not know when Mr. Childermass plans for us to stop," said Segundus. He glanced at the man in question, hunched like a vulture and stumbling at the head of the group, Maggie at his side.
Hastings followed his gaze and frowned. "You'll forgive me if I care little for his plans. We must stop, and soon."
Segundus sighed. "I shall speak with him."
"Much obliged," Hastings said rather sardonically.
Segundus winced, but he supposed he deserved the man's anger. He left Hastings behind him and strode past where Mrs. Goddard and Mrs. Ainsworth were lamenting the loss of Yew Tree Farm. Maggie glanced back and said something to Childermass under her breath. She shot him a wan, pitying sort of smile as he approached, and she stepped away, presumably to wait for Hastings to catch up.
Segundus was oddly nervous to talk to Childermass. They had barely said anything to each other for the entire duration of their journey along the Roads, and now Segundus had difficulty finding the right words. "We have been walking for hours. The others are hungry and tired," he managed eventually. It was not quite what he had wanted to say— or perhaps he wanted to say something more but did not know what.
"Aye. We are nearing the end of the path, at any rate." Childermass kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead to where a great archway of shadow loomed.
"What, Starecross?" Segundus felt rather aggrieved; if crossing England by means of the King's Roads was so fast, then why had they bothered with all the nonsense about horses and coaches? But Childermass shook his head.
"Swanwick. It is large enough that the sudden arrival of three families will not be remarked upon, but small enough that it is not an obvious choice for any birds that might want to flee their nests."
The shadowy archway loomed closer, and Segundus had to fight down a surge of dread that welled up in him. He did not want to pass through that darkness. He did not know what lay on the other side, but he was quite certain it could only be worse for him if he found out.
They halted in front of the archway. This close, Segundus could see that the darkness was not as solid as he had thought. It moved and rippled, as though it were composed of many shadows laid over one another in shifting layers. Beyond, Segundus could just barely make out the outlines of a room— the edges of furniture, sunlight spilling in from a window, a line that might be a fireplace.
"Where is it?" Segundus asked, but again, those were not the words he meant— or wanted— to say.
Childermass didn't look at Segundus as he answered. "An inn with an owner who does not ask too many questions."
Segundus wasn't sure if that was meant as a slight against him, so he did not know how to react. It was no matter, as Childermass continued without pause.
"Wait five minutes, then have the others come through. You ought to be last."
"Oh." Segundus tried to hide how much that hurt, to replace confusion and fear with the wonder of the unknown he had felt earlier, but he knew it was futile. Childermass was too good at knowing what men were concealing in their hearts— what Segundus, specifically, concealed.
And sure enough, Childermass noticed. "In case any difficulties present themselves on the Roads," he explained, and it was enough to soothe the sting somewhat.
Segundus thought perhaps Childermass might do him the courtesy of actually looking at him, but instead he simply stepped through the archway into shadow and was gone.
The five minutes that followed were some of the more trying times in Segundus's recent memory. He had entertained the hope that it might be easier to convince the company to follow Childermass through the archway than it had been to convince them to leave their homes in the first place, but he soon found otherwise. Mrs. Goddard put up a fuss, and Hastings's younger daughter started to cry, and Ainsworth flung his red poppy away in a fit of anger (to which Segundus and Mrs. Goddard reacted with twin gasps of horror), and a great deal of ravens seemed to be flying about and watching the bickering with clever eyes.
The rustling of their wings grew louder and louder, like an irregular drum beating out the tattoo of Segundus's rising tension. Was the Raven King watching? Segundus wondered wildly. He did not know which way he preferred it. Perhaps, if he were, he might give them aid— Segundus recalled Childermass's Emperor card— but he might also scoff at the sorry state of his followers and visit some mischief upon them as a punishment.
Mrs. Goddard stormed away from the group and toward Segundus. "My husband and I are not going through there—" she jabbed a finger at the shadowy archway "—only to face who-knows-what on the other side!" Sarah Ainsworth, watching from her husband's side nodded in solidarity, though Goddard himself looked uncertain.
"You have done it before," Goddard said rather weakly. "This morning, with the mirror."
That appeared to be the wrong thing to say, for now Mrs. Goddard turned away from Segundus and back to her husband, and the bickering started up once more, even louder so they might hear themselves over the great din of ravens flapping and hopping and cawing about.
Segundus knew that the arguing was merely an irrational reaction to an untenable situation. The Johannites were stressed, exhausted, quite at the limits of their endurance. They had lost their homes and most of their worldly possessions, and they were being forced from one unknown into another. Any person might react similarly, or even worse. Segundus knew this and understood. That did not make the squabbling any less frustrating to deal with, however. The appointed time approached, and Segundus was seriously considering simply shoving the others through the archway one by one when Maggie stepped up on a piece of rubble and clapped her hands quite loudly for attention. "We can't go back, and we can't stay here. The only way to go is forward, so let's stop bloody fighting about it like alleycats and get on with it!"
That quieted the company, though Mrs. Ainsworth still looked sullen, and they passed through the shadowy arch in twos and threes. Maggie was the last to go other than Segundus, and she fixed him with another pitying look before stepping through. It put him ill at ease. Did she know something he didn't? Was that what she and Childermass had been talking about? But he had little time to fret, for it was his turn to step through the archway.
Segundus took a deep breath to steel himself and, before he could lose his nerve, determinedly stepped forward.
The shadows felt like feathers on his skin, or delicate leaves brushing against him, there one instant and gone the next. He did his best to keep his eyes open, but in the space of a blink, he was through the archway and stumbling forth out of a mirror. Ainsworth caught him before he had the chance to crash into the bed and embarrass himself further.
"—luncheon for all of you," Childermass was saying. "Afterward, we shall find a pair of carriages, and you shall go with Mr. Segundus to Starecross."
Segundus frowned. He did not like the implication that Childermass would not be accompanying him to Starecross as well. "And what of yourself, sir?"
Childermass glanced at him, a tiny, guilty look, then addressed the air about a foot away from Segundus's left ear. "I shall be returning to Duffield to fetch my horse and Vinculus. Our associate," he said to the others. "I may catch up with you on the road, but it is more likely that we shall meet again at Starecross."
"I should like to accompany you," Segundus said, his mouth dry.
Childermass shook his head. "You must remain with them should the need arise to take them back to the King's Roads." He glanced at Segundus again. "But I must speak to you before I go, on the matter of— your sister's new lady's maid."
It was a wild invention, and he looked so uncomfortable saying it that Segundus was sure the others knew it for a lie. Segundus had no sister, and even if he had, she likely would not have been able to afford a lady's maid unless she had made a very advantageous marriage. Segundus nodded, his heart in his throat. "Of course," he managed.
Childermass cleared his throat and shot a significant look at Maggie. "Luncheon is in the taproom downstairs. Say you're the Underhills."
"You must allow us to pay you back," Goddard said. His wife elbowed him.
Childermass smiled his crooked smile. "No need. I taught the innkeeper a bit of magic. It didn't cost me a ha'penny."
"Come on, the girls are hungry," Maggie said, and she led the others out the door and down the hall.
Childermass crossed the sunny room, and for a moment Segundus thought he would join the others downstairs, but he only closed the door and leaned against it as though he were quite weary. The silence in the room seemed to stretch, flimsy and fragile, like water droplets collecting on a coin. Each second that passed was another drop falling, and the tiny puddle grew larger, spilling over the boundaries that contained it, and soon enough there would be the drop that was one too many and the whole thing would burst and overflow. Segundus waited, his heart thudding and his breath caught in his chest, for the moment when the silence would break.
Despite the waiting, he was not prepared when Childermass broke it.
"We must put this behind us, you realize," Childermass said, low and rough. "We cannot carry on as we have been."
At first, the words did not quite register. Segundus heard them, understood them individually, but their collective meaning eluded him for the space of a breath. He had to play them back in his mind, to string them together and chew them over, before he finally understood. Segundus let out a tiny noise of pain as though he had been stabbed. Or at least, how he imagined people who had been stabbed sounded like— he had never experienced it for himself. Or perhaps he had, for there was a very sharp pain in the center of his chest, somewhat behind his breastbone. But that did not seem like a very practical place to stab somebody, and there was no blood flowing— he ran a hand over himself to check— only a concentrated and visceral hurt.
Childermass did not seem to notice the effect his words had on Segundus— or perhaps he did, for he continued. "You have a school you must attend to, and I have my work. It is— we cannot keep—"
"Did you know?" Segundus interrupted. It was a struggle to keep his voice controlled, but he refused to allow the pain to color his words. The result was a dull, apathetic tone that, even to his own ears, sounded nothing like him. "Was this your plan all along?"
"No," Childermass said.
Segundus did not believe him.
"John—"
"Do not call me that!" Segundus cried, all thought of composure evaporated like morning dew. "You cannot call me that."
"I cannot continue on like this." Segundus didn't miss the way the pronoun changed. "He will try to use this, use us, and I cannot allow myself to be used so."
"Who?"
"John Uskglass. Strange and Norrell were only the first part of the spell. They were two magicians." Childermass gestured between Segundus and himself. "We are two magicians. Uskglass may be my master, but he shall not decide my fate."
"You said—" Segundus swallowed. "You said you hold me in high regard."
"I do." Childermass pushed himself off the door and took a slow step closer. "I always have." Another step. "But I require freedom, and Uskglass will control me through you."
"I would not do that to you."
"I know you would not." Childermass was perhaps halfway across the room to Segundus now, and Segundus found himself edging further and further away until his back hit the wall. "It does not matter what you would do or not do. He would find a way to make us part of his spell."
"Why now?" Segundus choked out. "What brought this on now?"
Childermass hummed, the way he did when he was considering a particularly difficult magical conundrum. "It is something Milly Greene said at the end." He paused, a look of concentration on his face. "I made my choices out of duty and loyalty," he said slowly. "So must I. I cannot be turned from my duty, nor can my loyalty be compromised."
Compromised, Segundus repeated to himself. This close, he could see gentleness etched in the lines of Childermass's face, and a sort of quiet, tender pity. Childermass had not been gentle when he stripped dozens of men of the title of magician ; he had not been gentle when he came to Starecross like a bad omen and ordered it to be shut down. The gentleness in his eyes now nearly undid Segundus, and he had to press the back of his hand very firmly to his mouth to prevent himself from hitching in a great heaving sob of breath.
"You must understand that I cannot—"
"Damn you, John Childermass."
Childermass stopped in his tracks, only a few paces away, his arm half-raised as though he were reaching out to Segundus like he might a startled horse. After a moment, his arm dropped to his side. "I'll go, then." He hesitated. "I will see you at Starecross?"
It sounded almost like a question, but Segundus didn't answer. He stared sullenly at the floor. Childermass sighed and stepped by him toward the mirror, and by the time Segundus looked up again, he was gone.
Maggie knew, of course. Segundus had no doubt that Childermass had told her of his plans before he left, so he was not surprised when she went looking for him after he did not come down for luncheon. He did not know how much time had passed while he leaned heavily on the dingy wall in the empty room, his hands trembling and his heart aching. He heard footsteps approach and pause outside for a long moment before the door creaked open. A skirt swished into view, dusty from travel, and he looked up to see Maggie's cold green gaze gone soft around the edges.
"He said he wanted to be free." Segundus's voice sounded small and pathetic to his own ears, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Maggie made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a small sad laugh. "He's a horrible man."
"No, he is wonderful, he—" A slew of emotions, panic and grief and desperation and disgust and more besides that he couldn't name, surged up from some dark source within him, and he nearly stumbled with it. He pushed the base of his palms very hard against his eyes until lights exploded behind his eyelids and took several deep, shaking breaths. Maggie touched his shoulder, just the barest pressure of her hand, and he flinched.
"Can you keep your composure around the others?" Maggie asked. The question was direct, too direct, but her tone was gentle.
Segundus took stock of himself. His hands still shook, and his skin felt scraped raw, and there was a raw edge of pain in his chest and in the back of his throat. Even so, he was accustomed to practicing restraint. He nodded.
"We ought to be off, then," said Maggie. "Hastings has found a coach service to take us to Starecross."
Segundus nodded again. "I— I shall pay the fares." It would be a painful hit to his finances, but at that moment he did not care.
"John has given me money for the fares," Maggie said. "And more for meals and rooms besides. I know he feels a responsibility for our situation." She scoffed. "I must say I agree."
"I will pay my own share," Segundus insisted. He did not think he could stand to have evidence of Childermass's kindness, his generosity, thrown in his face so soon after he had experienced the sort of cruelty Childermass was capable of.
Maggie looked displeased at that but nodded anyway, and Segundus followed her down the stairs to the taproom. She paused beside a group of armchairs sitting near an unlit fireplace. "You didn't have luncheon. Do you want summat to eat?"
"I do not think I can eat right now," Segundus said.
"You'll have to at some point." Segundus didn't answer, and she sighed. "Come on. The others are outside already."
Segundus followed her out of the building and down the street. He scarcely took in his surroundings. I could be anywhere, he thought, and I wouldn't know the difference. He could be in York, or Starecross, or upon the King's Roads, or even in Duffield where he had managed to eke out a few beautiful nights of shining happiness— the only ones he'd be allowed in his life, he was sure— and he would not know one place from another.
The walk to the coach was short, fortunately. Segundus was to ride with the Goddards and the Ainsworths, while Hastings, Maggie, and the two young girls took the other carriage, along with much of the luggage. Segundus belatedly realized that he did not have his own valise, that he had left his belongings spread across the room in the inn, and Childermass would have to pack for him. He resigned himself to several days of wearing the same clothes and several uncomfortable nights without his nightshirt and the various odds and ends he used for grooming. He could buy more, he supposed, if the need were dire, but his finances were poor enough already that he would rather go without.
Segundus's travel companions were already seated when he and Maggie arrived. It was a tight fit, five of them to one coach, but he managed to squeeze himself in between Goddard and the wall of the coach.
"—no more of this nonsense about breaking machines," Sarah Ainsworth was saying as Segundus settled in. "And you won't be joining a trade union, neither. We're to keep our heads down, and if we're fortunate, this'll all blow over."
"I can't stop fighting," Ainsworth said mulishly.
"See where it's gotten us! We're leaving our home with scarce more than the clothes on our backs. At least we had the farm to fall back on last time, but now we don't even have that!"
Color rose in Ainsworth's face, though Segundus couldn't tell if it was from anger or from embarrassment over his wife's public outburst. Segundus fixed his gaze firmly out the window as Ainsworth hissed, "Sarah, please, now isn't the time."
Mrs. Ainsworth gave an angry little huff but subsided.
The afternoon passed uncomfortably. The road leading forth from Swanwick was not well-maintained, and each time the coach hit a pothole, Segundus was knocked against Goddard or the wall. His joints were beginning to ache from the jostling. He could not help but think of the last time he had shared a coach with another person and the events that had transpired, all of which led directly to the throbbing pain deep in his chest.
No, he would not mope. He refused to pine in front of the near-strangers whom he led away from their homes and livelihoods. He set his jaw and forced his mind to mull over practical matters, such as what occupations might be found for the displaced craftsmen. He, too, felt a responsibility for their situation, though it was likely that the Johannites would have burned the mill regardless of Segundus and Childermass's interference. Even so, Segundus could not help but wonder if their involvement— sticking their noses in where they don't belong, as Maggie had put it— had urged the Johannites into action.
Starecross was too sleepy and too out-of-the-way to attract much employment, but York had a tannery, Segundus knew. Perhaps that would do for Hastings. And perhaps some other work could be found for Ainsworth and Goddard. The textile mills in York would not do. After all, York was where some of the earliest rebellions were! (Segundus briefly questioned the wisdom of bringing a group of Johannites to the place where the uprisings had well and truly begun so many years ago but discarded the concern. He did not know any other city half so well save London, and he did not think that the North Englishmen-and-women would take kindly to being told to move to the South.) Segundus might be able to find a house in the country looking to take on a tenant farmer, and perhaps Goddard might be persuaded to change his profession.
Then, Segundus thought that perhaps he ought to ask.
"Sirs, I was thinking," he began hesitantly. Four pairs of eyes turned to him, and he cleared his throat. "I am obliged to assist you in finding employment."
"We've had quite enough of your assistance, thank you," Lavinia Goddard said, but her husband shot her a quelling look.
"Yes. Quite." Segundus fiddled with his hat. "It is only that… Well. We have taken you from your homes. Perhaps you would be in jail by now, but perhaps not. Either way, I do not wish you to be ruined and destitute. I shall do what I can to seek employment on your behalf. If you wish it, of course, sirs."
Ainsworth and Goddard shared a glance that Segundus couldn't interpret. "What sort of employment, sir?" Ainsworth asked.
"What sort would you prefer?"
"I wouldn't mind being a farmer again," Ainsworth mused. "It's not a bad life. I liked it well enough when I were a boy, but there's more money in weaving. Used to be, at least." He glanced at Mrs. Ainsworth. "You want to go on being a farmer's wife?"
"Oh, alright then," she said. "You came alive on that farm anyway. I don't think I've ever seen you happier nor when you told me you'd have to go back."
Ainsworth grinned at her, his whole face lighting up with joy. "I was when I married you."
Segundus pressed his lips firmly together and watched the countryside roll by until he could trust himself to speak again. "And you, Mr. Goddard? What sort of employment would you prefer?"
Goddard shrugged. "I'll take what I can get."
"Nowt that's too dangerous," Mrs. Goddard added.
"I am sure I can find something suitable," said Segundus. He turned his gaze back to the window and kept it there until the evening.
Segundus called for a halt in Woodthorpe. He spotted a small, run-down inn on the edge of town, just as the sky was beginning to get dark, and decided that he had been rattled around enough for one day. The inn had only one story, and a ramshackle one at that; it looked hunched, as though it were huddling in on itself against the wind. The tricky business of rooms was decided in the near-empty taproom. The Goddards and the Ainsworths would each have a room, of course, as would Segundus and Hastings, and Maggie would share with the two girls. Segundus and Maggie paid for the rooms and for supper, and Segundus was left to his own devices for a short time as the others took their luggage to their rooms.
Dinner was a simple, quiet affair. The public house was dimly lit and deeply shadowed, which gave the illusion of privacy, despite being barely big enough to hold four tables and a pair of armchairs. Even so, the Johannites had the good sense not to say anything too incriminating where they might be overheard (though the public house had only three other patrons, who seemed more interested in their dice than in a crowd of strangers). Mrs. Goddard overcame her resentment of Segundus for a short while, just long enough to ask him a series of questions on magic.
"How does one become a magician?" she asked as she scraped the remnants of her dinner up with a spoon.
"Anyone can be a theoretical magician," Segundus said. "All one needs is interest, and perhaps a book or two. I was one myself, up until February this year."
Mrs. Goddard nodded. "When magic returned to England."
"Just so. Now, though…" Segundus frowned. "Well, it takes some innate talent, naturally, which not everyone possesses, but there is no telling if one might have such a talent until one is properly tested. Of course, in some cases, a magician might perform a spell completely by accident, or by pure instinct." One of his own instincts itched at him then. "Do you wish to learn magic, Mrs. Goddard?"
She huffed. "Not from you!"
She did not ask Segundus any more questions about magic. In fact, she did not say another word to him for the rest of the evening. Considering the majority of the words she had said to him since they had met that morning had been angry, accusatory, or both, Segundus did not mind. The Ainsworths left for their room not long after, followed by the Goddards, then Hastings went to see his daughters off to bed, and Maggie and Segundus were left alone in the quiet taproom.
"Another beer?" Maggie asked.
"Thank you, no."
"Oh, go on. It'll do you some good."
Segundus sighed and nodded once. "Thank you." He fiddled with his hat as Maggie bustled away. It was a nervous habit, and he knew he ought to train himself out of it. Still, it kept his hands busy, which kept his mind blank.
Fortunately, Maggie returned before long with a beer for Segundus and a glass of wine for herself. A few wisps of her ash-pale hair had fallen out of her chignon and curled around her ears. She settled into the chair opposite Segundus and took a long pull from her glass.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Maggie was the first to break it.
"Serves me right, I suppose."
Segundus had the sense that she had started in the middle of a conversation, while he was still at the beginning. "I beg your pardon?"
"All of this." Maggie gestured with her glass to the room at large. "I let myself get taken in by a confidence artist of the worst sort. She gave me dreams of a better world. That'll teach me."
"I believe she regretted it, at the end," Segundus said carefully. "Or at least, she regretted that she hurt you."
Maggie's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't care."
"I do not believe you."
"She's a traitor!"
"Are you not also a traitor?" Segundus took a sip of his beer. "After all, Johannites are traitors to the Crown." His question was bold, perhaps too bold, but he was feeling the combined effects of beer and exhaustion, and he did not have the energy to mind his words as much as he normally would. Still, it would not do to make an enemy of Maggie. "I beg your pardon for my ill manners."
Maggie shot a smile at him, no more than a flash of teeth. "You have the finest of manners, Mr. Segundus. But I say nay, we are not traitors. We are simply loyal to a different King."
Segundus considered for a moment. She did not seem to mind his impudence. In fact, if she were at all like Childermass (or at least enough to explain why she was his favorite), she might even appreciate it. He decided to speak, as churlish as he felt. "You are a citizen of England. Loyalty to any King but the King of England is traitorous."
"You are from the South. You would think that. But I am a citizen of Northern England," Maggie corrected with another small smile. "I'd say that for myself, loyalty to any King other than the Raven King is treason." The smile slowly slid off her face. "But can I truly call myself a Johannite? At the end, when the men called upon me to participate in their scheme, I refused."
"What makes a Johannite," Segundus mused, "belief or action?"
"Does it matter, if the result is the same?"
"Certainly! Your beliefs are real, are they not? Or do you mean to tell me that your father's name was le Roy?"
Maggie inclined her head to concede the point. "I do not know what my father's name was."
"Just so. Your worst crime was dreaming of a better world. There is no disloyalty in that." As Segundus spoke, he realized that he meant the words for himself as much as for Maggie. He had not known he needed to hear them until he said them aloud.
"Dreams are absurd things and don't do anybody any good. I am a servant, and I ought to be grateful even for that. Most women who start out like me end up worse."
"Have I not also dreamed?" Segundus murmured, half to himself.
"Aye, and look what he's done to you, the awful rogue." Maggie gestured again with her cup.
Segundus felt his ears heat. "I was not speaking of that! I was— it has long been my dream to become a practical magician, not just a theoretical one, and now England is full of magic, and anyone who pleases may try his— or her— hand at it."
Maggie raised an eyebrow but didn't respond.
"You must see that dreams are not absurd things! It does one good to dream, now and again."
Maggie was watching him thoughtfully. "I can't say if I agree. Either way, my brother is a foolish man for letting you go."
Segundus sucked in a shaky breath. "I do not wish to speak of him." Even so, he could not help but continue. "He did not let me go. The way he said it— it as though I were holding him back, or— or distracting him from his duty to the Raven King, somehow." He let his head fall to his hands, propped up on the table. He did not want to cry in front of Maggie. He did not want to cry at all.
Maggie nodded. "He told me. I tried to talk some sense into him, but he's a stubborn one, our John."
Not our John. John was never mine! Segundus wanted to shout, to make Maggie see, to make her understand how unjust it all was, but of course he could not. It was all too much— the fire, the long trek over the King's Roads, the even longer carriage ride, the echo of Childermass's voice saying I cannot continue on like this— it all combined into a wave of weariness that crashed over Segundus with thundering force. He stood abruptly. "I am going to bed. Good night." He didn't wait for Maggie's reply before stumbling out of the taproom and into the hall.