May 1817
When Segundus awoke, he felt wretched. He ached all over from the previous day's journey, and his heart was heavy and dark as a stone. Hastings was still asleep, and Segundus carefully didn't think about how much he wanted to wake up in bed with a different man. It was no longer an option, he told himself firmly, and he would do better not to dwell on it. He knew he was given to being maudlin, but there would be time enough for gloom and morosity at Starecross. First, he had to get there.
Though his intentions were straightforward and practical, Segundus found getting through the day without revealing his sorry state to be a chore. He did not want to write a letter to Mrs. Lennox, asking permission to and forgiveness for putting up a gaggle of strangers in her house (haste was required so it might make the first post, though surely they would arrive at Starecross before he could receive a reply). He did not want to think about where he might house the displaced Johannites and their families, should Mrs. Lennox deny his request. He did not want to listen to Ainsworth tell Goddard that he was glad he had gotten to burn a factory, even if he would never get credit for it, and he did not want to listen to Goddard tell Ainsworth that he was just the sort of mad fool the world needed more of.
But these things, and more besides, Segundus had to do.
The days passed in somewhat of a blur, leaving Segundus dazed in their wake. They took a different route north than Segundus and Childermass had taken south; though this was largely due to chance, Segundus thought it wise. He did not want to run across an innkeeper who remembered him and might ask questions. He tried to find public houses that were inconspicuous, so the fleeing Johannites might go unnoticed, but not so inconspicuous as to suggest suspicion. He had no idea how to go about such a thing, though, without Childermass's guidance. Maggie had a firm practicality that proved invaluable more than once (such as the time she steered Ainsworth away from an alleyway that proved to be a haven for pickpockets, or the time Mrs. Goddard almost let herself be swindled by a street-magician). She did not have the thorough knowledge of the North that Childermass had acquired over his many years of riding across it on Mr. Norrell's business, though when she and Segundus put their heads together, they were able to muddle through.
"Are there farmer's unions?" Ainsworth asked over supper on the second day of the journey.
Sarah Ainsworth sighed and shook her head. "Can't you just let it go?"
"I don't want to let it go," Ainsworth said stubbornly. "We deserve better, an' so do all the poor sods out of work. We have to do summat to stop it, or it'll just keep happening. Hastings agrees with me, don't you?" He turned to Hastings.
Hastings swallowed his mouthful of stew before replying. "Aye, in principle."
"Principle!" Ainsworth scoffed.
"In principle," Hastings continued doggedly. "We're in enough trouble as it is. Don't go looking for more."
Segundus remembered Childermass's reading of the man as stubborn to a fault. It must have cost him dearly to say that.
Ainsworth brandished his spoon at the men sitting across the round table. "If we crawl away with our tails between our legs every time, nowt will change."
"We're wanted criminals," Maggie hissed. "Don't you understand that? You had your chance to give yourself up to the law, and you chose to come with us. Do you want to be a bloody martyr or not?"
Ainsworth hesitated for a second too long.
Maggie noticed and pounced before he could speak. "You'd leave your wife a widow, for what? For the Raven King? For the cause?"
Mrs. Ainsworth let out a half-stifled gasp at that, and Ainsworth had the grace to look guilty. "No, I don't want that," he said quietly.
Segundus found his voice for the first time that evening. "You have choices to make. You must decide where your loyalties lie, whether it may be with the Raven King or with one another."
"But they are one and the same," Ainsworth said.
Sarah Ainsworth, seated next to her husband, shook her head. "Not anymore," she said. "Not when one will get you killed. I'll not let you sacrifice yourself for no-one, not even the Raven King."
Her words left a hollow pit in Segundus's stomach. He supposed that Childermass must have faced a similar dilemma. His choice was clear— he had chosen the Raven King over Segundus. It was an act of self-sacrifice, to set aside his own happiness as well as Segundus's in favor of service. He supposed he should not be surprised. After all, Childermass was loyal to a fault— he had proved that time and again. Naturally he would not set aside his lifelong fealty to the Raven King for dull, insignificant John Segundus.
Mrs. Ainsworth laid her hand on her husband's wrist. "You'll find other ways to help, I'm sure. We'll find a tenancy, somewhere out of the way, an' you'll hire a farmhand or two an' pay them far too much for the work they do."
"You're wanting to be a tenant farmer?" Hastings asked.
Ainsworth nodded. "I liked it better than weaving, anyway. And they can't replace farmers with machines."
"I'm sure they would if they could," said Hastings darkly. "Me, I thought I'd look for a cobbler or a saddle-maker who's wanting an assistant."
Segundus realized then that he had not repeated his offer of aid in finding employment to Hastings and Maggie. "I may be of some help in that regard," he said. "Mr. Childermass and I have a duty to assist you in finding lodgings and employment. You are welcome to remain at Starecross for as long as you wish, as I said, but the village does not have many opportunities."
Maggie frowned. "Starecross Hall is not your home, is it? I remember John mentioned you tried to establish a school there, but he—"
"Yes," Segundus interrupted. He could not bear to have the past hurts Childermass had inflicted upon him spoken aloud to the table. "It is the property of my patroness, Mrs. Lennox. We have plans to make another attempt at a school of magic— there is no reason we may not— but they have not yet come to fruition."
"A school of magic?" Despite her previous assertion that she did not want to learn magic from Segundus, Lavinia Goddard leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. "For gentlemen?"
"For anyone who might wish to learn," said Segundus.
"Might you need a housekeeper for your school?" Maggie asked.
Segundus took a breath to answer in the affirmative, then paused. Maggie was not asking out of idle interest, he knew, and he was not sure if he wanted to hire Childermass's favorite sister, a constant reminder of his absence. Then again, did he have the right to deny employment to her after forcing her to leave her position and promising her aid in finding a new one? "Perhaps," he hedged. "I believe a woman from the village sees to it three days each week, but that is not sufficient for a school."
Maggie nodded, apparently satisfied, and let the matter rest.
"There is something she said at the end," Maggie said suddenly over dinner the following evening. No one asked who she was. "She said, I joined your cause as a true believer." Maggie looked at the little company gathered around a well-worn table in a dim, smoky pub. "Do you think she meant it?"
Segundus was staring morosely at the little hills and valleys furrowed into the table from years of use. He didn't bother to lift his eyes, but he could sense a faint flicker of hesitation pass through the others around him, as though they had wandered onto a very dangerous terrain indeed, and none wanted to stray far from this one point of safety.
"Do you?" Hastings asked carefully.
Maggie scoffed. "Of course not. She sold us out to the militia. That is not the action of a true believer."
"I hate the injustice of it all," said Mrs. Ainsworth.
Segundus looked to her in surprise. Sarah Ainsworth had been very quiet, save for a few angry outbursts directed at her husband. It was unlike her to offer her opinion to the table at large, and he nodded for her to continue.
Mrs. Ainsworth blushed at the attention from the group. "It is only that she sat at my table while my husband served her tea, and all along she was lying to each one of you. Traitors belong to the ninth circle of Hell."
"I'd rather we don't bring Hell into it," said Hastings drily, "seeing as those who commit violence, whether against a man or his property, belong to the seventh."
Mrs. Ainsworth conceded the point with a nod. "It is only that she ought to face some sort of justice for her treachery, but she never will, because she is a baron's daughter."
Goddard dramatically clapped a hand to his heart. "If only you'd seen it our way from the beginning!"
"There is always the Raven King's justice," Maggie said. She pitched her voice down low so it wouldn't carry through the dimly-lit taproom. "We've been wronged by a woman who claimed to be his follower. We've been lied to and manipulated in his name."
Segundus shifted uneasily in his seat. He was familiar with the legends of the horrors that the Raven King would visit upon those whom he perceived as having wronged him. "She was your friend. Are you so certain she deserves the fate the Raven King would visit upon her?"
Maggie clutched her cutlery in a white-knuckled grip. "She wasn't my friend," she hissed. "She's a viper who would see us all hanged for treason."
"You cared for her," Segundus said. She frowned, and he sensed that he would not be permitted to be so bold in his questions as he had previously. "And she cared for you."
"That doesn't matter. It's her fault we've all had to leave our homes, and she deserves whatever punishment the Raven King sees fit for her."
Privately, Segundus was glad that she no longer blamed him and Childermass. "I do not think she wanted to hurt you or drive you from your homes."
"You of all people should know intentions don't matter," Maggie said with a cruel glint in her eye. "Or do you suppose you might be better off, if John—"
Segundus stood abruptly, cutting her off. He did not want to hear the end of that sentence. He could not bear to have the little icy knife in his chest twisted any more. "I am tired," he said. His voice sounded odd to his own ears. "Goodnight." He left his half-eaten supper abandoned on the table as he fled to his room.
Segundus wasn't quite asleep when Hastings quietly pushed open the door to their room and crept inside. He covered his eyes with his arm, though barely any light trickled in from the hall. "I am awake," he mumbled. "You do not need to tiptoe."
"Very well." Despite Segundus's assurance, Hastings seemed to take care to be as quiet as possible as he donned a nightshirt and went through the short steps of his nightly routine that was quickly becoming almost as familiar to Segundus as Childermass's had been. He settled into bed, and the mattress was so narrow that barely an inch of space separated their bodies. Segundus could feel Hastings's heat radiating through the thin layers of their nightshirts. There was a moment of silence, of adjustment, then Hastings spoke. "I'm sorry for Miss le Roy's behavior. She should not have— said what she said."
Segundus tensed. "She did not say much," he managed. He does not know. He cannot know. He would not get into bed with me if he knew.
"I know," Hastings said, his voice infinitely gentle. "I do not believe she would have revealed everything, but I know the topic she was speaking around."
One second, Segundus was frozen, his breath caught in his throat and his limbs paralyzed. The next, he was springing out of bed, dragging with him the bedsheet tangled around his legs. He did not know where he could hide, how he could explain fleeing his room with a man in furious pursuit, but he knew that he must escape by whatever means necessary.
A hand closed on his wrist. He wrenched and squirmed but couldn't get free.
"Please, Mr. Segundus." Hastings's voice, a rumble from the dark, cut through the panic. "Please be calm. I do not mind."
Segundus took several deep breaths, and the overwhelming fright, the need to hide or flee, receded somewhat. "You do not mind?"
"I do not mind," Hastings repeated. "The others would not, if they knew."
"They do not know?"
"They do not know. But they would not mind."
Segundus felt some of the tension bleed from his muscles. "Did Miss le Roy tell you?"
"I guessed at it. She confirmed." The hand around Segundus's wrist loosened. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Segundus?"
"There are no chairs," Segundus said.
Hastings huffed a laugh at that and let go of Segundus's wrist. "Then I suppose we shall have to sit on the bed."
"Oh." Segundus looked from the bed to Hastings and back again. He could barely see either in the dark, only faint outlines where moonlight glanced off the edges. It was just as well; if he could see clearly, he did not think he could do what he did next, which was to cross the room in a few stumbling paces and sit down on the bed.
Hastings sat— not quite next to him, but not quite away from him. The darkness made judging distances dubious at best. "I suppose you know I am a widower," he said after a moment.
Segundus cleared his throat. "Yes."
"When my wife died, I didn't know how I could go on. It seemed impossible to live in a world without her in it."
"That is not the same!" Segundus protested. He did not want his secret fling with Childermass to be compared to a marriage. It was too brief, too close to falsehood, not the devotion and commitment and solemn promises of love that marriage entailed.
"No, it isn't," said Hastings. "I could grieve openly, and with the sympathy of my friends and family. You are denied even that small comfort."
Segundus fiddled with the hem of his nightshirt. "It is no great matter. It is not as though I— as though we were in—" He could not seem to manage to finish the sentence.
"Be that as it may, you have my sympathy."
Words are odd things, Segundus mused. Weightless as air, transient as mist, spoken and gone in the same instant. And yet they could carry such weight, leave such an impact that could stretch on long after they have dissipated, for good or for ill. "Thank you, Mr. Hastings. I appreciate it. Truly."
"It was no great matter," Hastings said, and Segundus could hear the smile in his words. "Come, Mr. Segundus. We ought to rest." He stood and circled the bed, picking up the bedsheet along the way.
Segundus stood to help him drape the sheet over the bed once more. Hastings seemed to fall asleep almost instantly, his quiet, familiar snores trailing into the dark. Segundus followed not long after.
Maggie approached Segundus after breakfast the next morning. "I apologize for the way I spoke last night," she began haltingly. "It was… unkind of me. You have gone to great lengths to protect us, and we have repaid you with anger and ingratitude."
Rain fell in miserable rivulets, staining the cobblestones dark and weighing down Segundus's clothes. Segundus stood still for a moment as he dredged an appropriate response from the grey haze of his mind. Behind him, Hastings helped his two young daughters into the coach. "You are forgiven, of course," he heard himself say. "I do not bear any of you ill will. You are in a horrid situation, for which I and Mr. Childermass may be to blame. It is only natural that you may be angry with me."
Maggie frowned as though displeased with his answer. "John Segundus, you are obliging to a fault."
Segundus had no response; she was right, of course.
Maggie glanced around as though to check if they might be overheard, but none of the others seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to their conversation. "I would not have revealed the nature of your relationship with John," Maggie said, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
A hard lump formed in Segundus's throat, and he choked on all the things he wanted to say. "There was no relationship," he managed. "He was false all along."
Maggie huffed out a little sigh. "I don't believe that. Many things my brother is, but rare is he false. I believe he holds true affection for you."
"Then you must also believe that Milly's affections for you were genuine." Segundus regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Maggie's lips pressed into a thin line, and two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. Too bold, Segundus admonished himself, and too cruel.
"Milly Greene is another matter entirely," Maggie said hotly, "and I'm still not convinced that she doesn't deserve whatever doom the Raven King sees fit."
"She lo—" Segundus could not quite make his voice utter the word he wanted to say. It was too painful even to think of it. "She cared for you, truly and deeply."
Maggie's features assembled themselves into a complicated, sad expression. "I could say the same about John."
Segundus took a long, shaky breath. A gust of wind pushed a smattering of raindrops against the back of his neck beneath the brim of his hat, and they dripped down his collar. He hoped that the tremble in his hands might be excused as a chill.
Hastings called out to Maggie then, and she turned away. Segundus stood alone between the carriages, heedless of the rain slowly soaking through his clothes as he stared unseeing at the distant grey horizon.
Ainsworth approached Segundus on the fourth day of their journey— or possibly the fifth— the days blurred together in Segundus's mind. They were stopped by a creek to feed and water the horses. Segundus stood some distance away from the others clustered on the bank of the creek. The moors looked to him like the beginnings of a watercolor, splashes and daubs of green and grey, no more than vague outlines of shapes that would later become trees and hedges and low stone walls and a small cluster of houses, off in the distance, barely enough to be called a village. Only a few rays of midmorning sun struggled through the heavy bank of clouds to cast weak shadows over the heather. Segundus watched dully as Ainsworth drew near.
"Maggie had words with us all, yesterday," Ainsworth said. He positioned himself beside Segundus and stared out across the rolling hills. "She said we haven't yet expressed our gratitude proper for what you and Mr. Childermass have done to keep us safe."
Segundus hummed noncommittally. "It is not so much."
"It is," insisted Ainsworth. "We have blamed you for a matter you were innocent in. It were my wife's opinion that your meddling caused the milita's attention to fall upon us, and I'm ashamed to say, for a time, I agreed with her."
"For a time?" Segundus asked, because some response seemed to be expected of him.
"Aye," said Ainsworth. "But no longer. It's apparent to me now that summat of that nature would've occurred whether you meddled or no. We were all to be sacrificed on the altar of one man's ambition because we were a threat to men of his standing. I stand by what we did— I do not apologize for it— but I am grateful for what you have done for us. I believe we would now be imprisoned, if you and Mr. Childermass hadn't come along when you did."
"Well, I—" Segundus took a deep breath. "I suppose we may never know. It does not do to dwell on unpleasant hypotheticals."
"Unpleasant hypotheticals," Ainsworth echoed. Segundus thought he might be smiling. "You sound like Hastings." He turned to glance over his shoulder at where Hastings stood with his two daughters and Maggie. "Shame you couldn't have met him before all this. I think Mr. Childermass would've liked him. Got a real way with words, both of 'em."
"Yes, Mr. Childermass can be very persuasive."
Ainsworth heaved a long sigh, and they stood in near-silence for a span of moments. The only sounds to break it were the chatter of the creek, the murmured conversations between the others a few dozen feet away, and the sweet melodic chirpings of the moor-birds sung into the still air. "I do not know what I will do after this," Ainsworth said finally.
Segundus looked at him, a touch of surprise breaking through the foggy stupor that engulfed him. "Do you no longer wish to be a farmer?"
Ainsworth shook his head. "Farming is my occupation. It isn't what I do."
"I fail to see the distinction."
"That's because you're a gentleman and have never had to take necessary employment."
Segundus did not like the portrait of himself that he was sure hung in Ainsworth's mind, that of an idle gentleman with nothing better to do than to butt in where he wasn't wanted. "I have been employed as a tutor in the past," he said, stung. "And I have published a small article on theoretical magic."
"That's not what I meant by necessary employment." Ainsworth frowned as though trying to gather his thoughts. "Necessary employment is work that must be done. Crops must be sown, or no-one may eat. Cloth must be woven, or no one may clothe themselves. I may be a farmer, but it's not what I do."
Segundus nodded slowly. "I believe I see. What did you do before?"
"I talked with other men— about the world. The people in it. The injustices we all face." Ainsworth sighed again. "But Hastings was right, the other day. I can't keep doing that. I'd draw too much attention to myself."
"I am sure you will find something else to do," Segundus said. "There are many causes— charities, and the like— that would benefit from a man with your compassion."
To Segundus's surprise, Ainsworth laughed at that. "If you asked Hastings, he'd say charities are scarce more than a way for lords and ladies to pretend to give a second thought for all the unfortunates they'd be disgusted to share a table with."
"And are you as cynical as Mr. Hastings?"
"Mm. Perhaps. England's many problems cannot all be solved by charities."
They stood in silence for almost a minute, gazing out over the heather with their backs to the creek. Segundus knew he was not a very entertaining conversation partner, but he could not bring himself to care. Minor concerns such as conversations, manners, and personal hygiene seemed much less important now than they had in the past. He felt as though he floated, ethereal and intangible, unable to affect the world or be affected by it. The feeling was especially strong in moments like this, when silence seemed to stretch interminably, and Segundus both hated it and could hardly think of breaking it.
"It is only that I don't wish to disappear into anonymity," Ainsworth said suddenly. "I do not wish to be just another farmer, or another tool used by the lords and ladies to keep their power and their positions. But that will happen whether I am a farmer or a weaver, or if I pursue any other position, will it not?"
"I cannot say," Segundus admitted. "But I suspect, Mr. Ainsworth, that you will never fade from the minds of whichever community you settle into."
"I take that as a compliment." Ainsworth's tone betrayed his smile.
Segundus glanced at him and smiled back, as much as he was able. "It was meant as one."
The soft sounds of hooves on dirt and horses being hitched signaled that their break was nearly over. Segundus sighed. His feet felt— not heavy, precisely, but rooted, as though he were a tree and could only move if some outside force pushed him in one direction or another. Ainsworth seemed to sense his mood, for he clapped Segundus on the shoulder and steered him toward the carriages. "I suppose we will be arriving sometime tomorrow?"
"Or possibly the day after," said Segundus. "The road to Starecross is not well-kept."
Ainsworth nodded at that and moved away to help his wife and Mrs. Goddard into the carriage. He clambered in afterward, and Segundus followed. Goddard joined them a moment later, uncomfortably wedged between Segundus and Ainsworth, and the carriages lurched into motion.
The company put up for the night in a cheerful-looking inn with a large, brightly-lit public house. Maggie had voiced concerns over the pub's conspicuousness, as it seemed to be a popular evening destination for the local townsfolk, but the rates were good and none of them, not even Maggie, wanted to take the time to find a different inn. Ordinarily, Segundus might enjoy the friendly atmosphere in the pub, though he, as a rule, kept himself to the edges of the room so as not to be swallowed up in the crowd. This was not an ordinary time, however, and Segundus found the boisterous chatter, the too-warm fire, and the press of too many friendly bodies packed into too small a space to be overwhelming. He ate quickly with the intent of escaping to the room he would share with Hastings, but it seemed that Fate (or, more specifically, Maggie and Mrs. Goddard) had other plans for him.
The two women cornered Segundus at the bar, where he had just purchased a glass of sherry to take back to his room with him. Maggie looked quietly amused, and Lavinia Goddard looked nervous and embarrassed. Neither of them spoke for a moment, and Segundus felt trapped by politeness— it would be very poor manners to do what he dearly wished to do, which was to tiptoe his way between the women and flee without a word.
"Mrs. Goddard has something to ask you, Mr. Segundus," Maggie said finally. She turned to her companion. "Don't you?"
Mrs. Goddard twisted her hands in the folds of her dress. "Yes, I suppose I do." She took a deep breath and looked Segundus in the eye. "I want to learn magic. Will you teach me?"
"Madam, I…" Segundus trailed off, nonplussed. "I did not think you wished to learn from me."
"I spoke too quickly, and out of anger. You have done a great deal for us these past days."
Segundus glanced at Maggie and wondered at the influence she had over the company. "I could not do otherwise," he said, "and consider myself a gentleman."
Maggie laughed at that. "Most gentlemen I met wouldn't do half so much."
"And even fewer would open a school for anyone who might wish to learn magic." Mrs. Goddard took a deep breath. "Well, Mr. Segundus, as I have said, I wish to learn."
"I do not know when— or even if— the school will be established," Segundus said. "And there is much more to consider besides. What does your husband think of your wishes?"
An angry blush stole across Mrs. Goddard's face. "I do not see why that should be relevant! My husband does not command me in all matters."
Segundus smiled at that, which only seemed to anger Mrs. Goddard further. "I beg your pardon, madam. It is only that you remind me of a lady I am fortunate to know. She is similarly impassioned on the topic." That seemed to mollify Mrs. Goddard. "I ask only because it may be difficult for Mr. Goddard to find work in Starecross. It is a small village with few opportunities for employment, and I do not imagine you would wish to be separated from him if he finds work elsewhere."
"We shall see what the future holds in due time," Mrs. Goddard said. "I only want to know if I might attend your school, as we have discovered that I do indeed have the necessary talent."
"I should be glad of it," said Segundus, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. Mrs. Goddard had been rude to him, to be sure, but he saw the same stubborn spark in her that he had seen in Jonathan Strange, as well as in Tom Levy and Miss Redruth. Lavinia Goddard was a woman well-suited for magic.
She curtseyed to him, then to Maggie, and wound her way through the press of bodies back to the table where the others sat. Maggie watched her go, a small fond smile on her face. "She will make a formidable pupil, that one," Maggie said. "I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into."
"I believe the world needs more formidable women," said Segundus, thinking again of Lady Pole.
Maggie laughed at that, bright and sharp. "Flattery, Mr. Segundus!" She sobered a few moments later, and her face grew serious. "Are you well?"
"I— I am…" Segundus frowned.
There was a forest near his childhood home that lay sprawling and dark across the countryside. He had enjoyed exploring it as a child and seeing what manner of flora and fauna he might identify (and at one point, before magic had fully captivated him, he had supposed he might become a botanist). One day, he had wandered too far out under the heavy-limbed trees and became so helplessly lost that he could do naught but sit and cry to himself for over an hour. He had few vague recollections of how he managed to find his way back through the forest lit only by starlight, stumbling and grass-stained with dirt in his clothes and twigs in his hair. Afterward, he had never again ventured more than a pace or two into those dark woods. He struggled to put this experience into words, for it was the only way he could think of to describe his state. "I do not know," he said honestly. "I am not quite sure what I am supposed to do next." It was wholly inadequate, but Maggie seemed to understand.
"You will open your school, and you will teach magic," she said. "You'll find a way through."
"I do not know if I can."
"What else do you propose to do?"
Segundus had no answer.
The grey haze still clung to the edges of Segundus's mind, pooling in dark corners and weighing his limbs with indifference. He did not know when it might clear. He did not know what he might do if it never cleared, if he were doomed to glide through what remained of his life only half-seeing, half-caring. He wondered how long he could stand to remain in Starecross Hall, steeped as it was in memories of Childermass: as the bearer of ill omen, as the courier of a lady's little finger, as a magician commanding Segundus to do the magic. Perhaps he ought to move to York and abandon all notion of a school. But no— that would not do, for Childermass would often have business in York, would he not? Perhaps it would be best to leave the country entirely. Switzerland might be pleasant, though Segundus's French had never been up to standard. Or he might be able to make a living in America, as a tutor or a shop assistant, perhaps, if not a magician. But the thought of all the work, all the fuss, involved in picking up his small life and moving it elsewhere so wearied Segundus that he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall of the coach.
No, Maggie was right. He had dreamed, once, of opening a school of magic, and he had been thwarted. Now, when there was nothing to stand in his way, should he not make another attempt? Did it matter that Childermass had shaken his confidence to the core? Did it matter so much that his heart was not in it, couldn't possibly be in it, because it had been so thoroughly broken?
His eyes were still closed when Ainsworth leaned around him to look through the window. "Mr. Segundus," Ainsworth said excitedly, "is that Starecross in the distance?"
Segundus opened his eyes. "Yes," he said. "That is Starecross. I believe we shall arrive just in time for tea."