May 1817

Childermass did not return directly to Duffield, though he knew each minute he spent dallying was one more minute during which Brandon, that slinking rat, might cause some mischief with Vinculus. He was not a man for wallowing— not when the indulgence of self-pity could lead to failure or imprisonment or worse— but he could not help but allow himself to feel, just for a minute, a profound, intense pain: for himself and, more importantly, for the man he was leaving behind.

His numb feet stumbled over a piece of rubble, and he caught himself on a parapet. Heedless of the cold that seeped under his skin and settled in his bones, he gazed down at the canal below, where water pooled dark as night and hatred. No ripples disturbed the surface, but the light that struggled through the clouds above glanced off the glassy water to cast shifting shadows. For the space of an instant, Childermass thought he saw a young man's face peering up from the water, black hair swirling in a nonexistent eddy and black eyes blinking keenly.

Childermass shook himself. He did not have time to waste lingering over visions and illusions. He dragged himself upright once more and set off down the road, retracing the path he had so recently trodden.

A raven swooped down and alighted on the parapet. It fixed Childermass with one beady eye and let out a harsh call. Childermass made a rude gesture at it. It didn't seem to mind.

Despite his aching muscles, Childermass forced himself onward, one step after another. When he was so weary he thought he might collapse, he sat propped up against a pillar, counted out five minutes, then gritted his teeth and stood once more. The next time, he gave himself ten minutes to rest. It wasn't enough, but it kept him going.

He came across a marble statue of the Raven King, tall and draped in ivy, that he remembered passing some hours into the initial journey. He stopped by it and sank into a crouch, then into an untidy sprawl. He groaned as he mapped out how far he yet had to go.

He had a choice. He could either continue his journey on the King's Roads back to Duffield, then set out the following day (he was certain he would not be able to ride before resting), or he could alter his spell to take him to an inn in the nearest village, put up for the night there, and continue his journey in the morning. He would lose very little time, if he took that route, but he knew he would gain little comfort. No, it would be better to push on to Duffield. He did not want to leave Vinculus alone for too long— even disregarding whatever trouble Brandon might or might not cause, Vinculus was quite capable of landing himself in difficult situations from which Childermass was obliged to extricate him.

The statue's ivy mantle reminded Childermass of the dream— the two separate yet somehow simultaneous moments— in which he had seen John Segundus with ivy at his wrists and on his brow. He shut his eyes against the memory; he hardened his heart against impossibilities. He hauled himself to his feet, staggering a little, and caught himself on the statue. Only thoughts of duty— to magic, to Vinculus, to John Uskglass, the Raven King, kept him from turning back the way he came.

Childermass hated duty.

He dusted himself off and started once more for Duffield. The path ahead of him seemed to stretch interminably as he made his slow, dogged way over the King's Roads. He felt dangerously free, like a ship unmoored that might be swept away with the going tide. He had chosen servitude, when he had become a man: to Norrell, and to John Uskglass. It had tethered him, drawn him forward, when he was lost and without direction. Now, he had chosen servitude once more, but there was no security in it, only a sense of solitary dread.

The gossamer ribbon of his pathfinding spell, fragile and iridescent as a soap bubble, ended at a dirty mirror with a crack running through the middle. Childermass stepped through and into the room he had shared with Segundus at the Bridge Inn. Judging by the dusk-tinged light streaming through the window, he was just in time for supper. It was a matter of minutes to gather his belongings and stuff them in his valise, and several more to pack up Segundus's clothes and books. Truly, the man did not travel lightly.

A loud knock came from the door, followed by several more of increasing impatience and a grumpy voice. "You two had better not be—"

Childermass wrenched open the door to reveal Vinculus, his fist raised to knock once more. He blinked at Childermass blearily, then at the room. "We're leaving tomorrow," Childermass said. "As soon as it's light. Before, if I can rouse you."

"Fleeing's best done by starlight," said Vinculus.

"We're not fleeing. We're leaving."

"I don't suppose this has anything to do with the fire."

"Of course not," Childermass said coldly. "We've finished our business here."

Vinculus crossed his arms. "And if it happens I want to stay?"

"Brandon said something to you."

"The bloody mad magician?" Vinculus snorted. "Hardly. No, I am lucky enough to have made the acquaintance of a very charming barmaid. Now, she ain't much to look at, but she's good for a tumble. Real spirited, you know the type." He tapped one grime-encrusted fingernail against his chin. "Or do you? Is it just fellows for you, or do you like all the different sorts?"

Childermass glowered at him. It was the sort of look, he knew, that would make even the hottest-tempered men quail. The few occasions he had looked at Norrell in such a way had left Norrell shaking and tripping over himself with apologies.

Vinculus did not quail, nor did he apologize. He laughed, clapped his hands, and spun around on one heel. "Wish me luck, Childermass! I'm going to ask her to marry me."

"You'll do no such thing," Childermass growled. "We're leaving tomorrow at first light if I have to knock you on the head and tie you to the horse."

"No carriage this time?" Vinculus did not look particularly disappointed. "What will Mr. Segundus think? He didn't have such an easy ride here, though I daresay he's gotten some practice in the meantime!"

Childermass had to exercise all of his patience to stop himself from hitting Vinculus square in the jaw. Vinculus did not make it easy; he cackled as though he guessed the direction of Childermass's thoughts and wanted to test the limits of his restraint. "You oughtn't dare to say," he said through gritted teeth. "Mr. Segundus has been called away to Starecross."

Vinculus's laugh died down, and he squinted at Childermass with a quickly-sobering expression. "Like that, is it?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

Vinculus had the audacity to cluck in sympathy. "Buck up. You'll find another lad soon enough, though what they see in your mug, I couldn't say."

Childermass shoved past him into the hallway. "Make your goodbyes to your barmaid. We're leaving tomorrow."

"No," Vinculus said. "I'm tired of you ordering me about like you own me."

Childermass stopped and whirled around. "You are John Uskglass's Book. You have a duty to him and to English magic."

"Ah," said Vinculus with an air of sudden understanding. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned insolently against the doorframe. "That's what this is about. You dropped the gentleman for the Black King, because you thought it was your duty, and now you're smarting because you still don't know if it was the right choice."

"Don't be daft," Childermass said. "It was the only choice."

Vinculus tutted. "And how do you think Uskglass, that old dodger, is going to repay your loyalty? Do you think he'll finally love you for it?"

Childermass stepped closer until he loomed over Vinculus. The man didn't seem intimidated, though; he just smiled his yellowing smile up at Childermass as though they were discussing a topic no more contentious than the weather. "I didn't do it to be loved," he said, his voice low. "I did it because I love him."

Vinculus leaned in, his expression as sincere as Childermass had ever seen it. "Which one?"

Childermass didn't answer.

Vinculus sighed. "Bloody Yorkshireman," he muttered. "When you die and some doctor cuts you open, he's going to find Yorkshire rivers running through your veins and Yorkshire bedrock for your bones." He poked Childermass very hard in the center of his chest. "You don't owe that bastard Uskglass anything. Not your love, not your loyalty, nothing."

"He has it nonetheless," said Childermass roughly. "And while I live, I serve him."

"Exactly!" Vinculus yelled so loudly that Childermass took a step back. "Finally, you've got the bloody point."

Childermass blinked. "What are you on about?"

"While I live, I serve him," Vinculus enunciated. "You're a magician— a foolish one, but a magician nonetheless— and my own Reader." He jerked his chin in the direction of Childermass's breastpocket, where the raven feather he had retrieved from the stone tree was stashed, pristine and tingling with the faint sensation of magic. "Everything you do is in service of Uskglass. You could not be otherwise, by his own design."

Childermass took no small amount of offense at that. "I was not designed. I am my own man."

Vinculus snorted. "Trust a magician to stumble upon the point and completely miss it at the same time. We're all playing parts on the Raven King's stage. Strange, Norrell, you, me, even your gentleman." He pushed off the wall and did a little twirl, then bowed very low as if to an imaginary audience. "Be loyal to him, or don't. Do your bloody duty, or don't. It makes no difference to him or his plan."

Childermass was silent for a long moment as he processed Vinculus's words. "No," he said. "No, I don't believe that. Maybe before he returned, but not anymore. We're on our own now. The prophecy is done with. There isn't any other."

"Or maybe," said Vinculus, "you just haven't found it yet." He winked at Childermass and sauntered down the hall. "On second thought, maybe I won't propose to the barmaid after all. Then I'd have to marry her, and it's all a bit of a hassle, don't you think?" He descended the stairs to the taproom without waiting for a reply.

Childermass stood alone in the hallway, thinking. If Vinculus was wrong, then he stood firm in his belief that he had done the right thing for himself and for Segundus, painful as it might be. But if Vinculus was right, then he had made a mistake so vast he didn't know if he could rectify it. He was too tired, he decided, and his muscles were too sore. He would put the matter aside for the moment. There would be time enough to ponder the conundrum on the journey to Starecross. For now, all he desired was a hot supper, a quiet evening, and a long night of sleep. He strode toward the stairs with the goal of seeking out the first.

Naturally, he couldn't get it without a spot of trouble first. "What do you think you're doing?" he growled, stomping over to where Brandon and Vinculus sat in a conspiratorial huddle, their voices pitched low.

Brandon blinked, a guileless expression that Childermass didn't believe for a second on his face. "Conversing, my good man!" He had the air of excitability, almost mania, that had become familiar over the few days Childermass had known him. "Mr. Vinculus here has been telling me a tragic tale of a blossoming young romance cut short by the unfortunate wiles of circumstance. A heart-wrenching story, to be sure! Won't you join us?"

Childermass eyed him with suspicion. He'd rather have a quiet evening with his tobacco and his cards, but Vinculus looked disinclined to leave Brandon's company, so he supposed he had little choice if he wanted to keep an eye on Uskglass's wayward Book. He indicated his assent with a jerky nod and shambled off to fetch himself a bowl of stew and an ale for supper. A few minutes later, victuals in hand, he sat down across from Brandon and fetched his cards from his pocket.

Brandon made no attempt to hide his interest as Childermass laid out a spread of cards on the table. "Are those Tarot cards?" the strange magician asked.

Childermass frowned. "An uncommon name, but not an incorrect one. It is more usual to call them the cards of Marseilles."

Brandon did not appear to take note of the correction. "I have a very fine set myself. Would you care to see?"

Childermass nodded, his natural curiosity overcoming his distrust of Brandon. The magician fished around in the pocket of his green velvet jacket for a moment and withdrew a set of cards wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine. After a moment of hesitation, as though he were second-guessing himself, he unwrapped the cards and passed them over.

Childermass gingerly took hold of the cards, half-expecting a trick of some sort, but Brandon did not snatch them back, nor did they go up in flame, or let out a bang and a puff of smoke, nor did they burst into feathers in his hands, all of which he was somewhat prepared for. The cards were finely-made and glistened with detail, far beyond anything he would ever be able to afford. The Minor Arcana were rendered with skill and beauty, but it was the Major Arcana, gathered at the back of the deck, that particularly piqued Childermass's interest. They felt cool to the touch, as though they had been sitting in a cold room instead of carried in an inner pocket of a velvet jacket in a pleasant taproom in May. He turned them over one by one, marvelling at the artistry. The cards were so detailed that they looked lifelike, almost as though they were portraits. He turned over another card and looked up in amazement. "Why, that is you!" Childermass exclaimed.

Brandon nodded once, pleased. "A great artist known to my family made these for me," he said. "Those are my brothers and my sisters." He paused, considering. "Have you the gift of prophecy?"

Vinculus snorted, and Childermass suppressed a laugh of his own. "Not prophecy. That is a rare gift indeed. I can but ask questions, and I have some skill at deciphering the answers."

"Go on, then."

"I am not an animal you may command to perform tricks on a whim," Childermass snapped. Something caught his eye; he glanced to his side to see Vinculus staring very hard at Brandon's face.

"I think I'd like to see a reading, Childermass, if you wouldn't mind," Vinculus said slowly. "Come on. Indulge an old man's curiosity."

"Very well." Childermass made to hand Brandon's cards back to him, but the other magician shook his head.

"Use mine," said Brandon. "That way I know you haven't marked the cards."

"Wouldn't be much of a prophecy if I marked them," Childermass pointed out.

Brandon smiled and tapped the side of his nose. "Perhaps not, but it would be a great deal more useful for telling people what they want to hear."

"And what do you want to hear, Mr. Brandon?" Childermass asked. "Specific questions work better than vague pleas for information about the future."

Brandon shrugged one shoulder. "Will I achieve my goals?"

Childermass stared at Brandon, waiting for him to elaborate, but he did not appear to be more forthcoming. "I suppose I can work with that." He shuffled the deck and laid out a spread of five cards, then turned them over the first of the five. "The seven of cups," he said. "An unusual start to a reading. Power, knowledge, and status are offered to you, and you are tempted to accept. Accepting may lead to vanity if your pride goes unchecked. Next, the two of wands. Your personality is forceful, often impulsive. If you want to refuse the power indicated by the seven of cups, it will require a great force of will to counteract your recklessness." He turned over the next card and raised an eyebrow. "Six of coins, reversed. You are jealous. You envy what another man has and you do not. Following the previous two cards, I guess that you covet another man's power or status."

Brandon made a small, satisfied noise, and Childermass glanced up. "I admit, I did not have high hopes for your skill," Brandon said, a tight cold smile on his face, "but I am impressed so far. Let us see if you will continue to surprise me. If you please."

Childermass bristled at the order, but he complied. "The art is unfamiliar to me… this is the Tower, is it not? That indicates to me there will be a great catastrophe. If you seek the power offered to you, it will bring about calamitous change. Whether this change is positive or negative, the cards do not say. Most likely, it will be up to you." He turned over the final card. "Lastly, the five of swords, reversed." He fell silent.

"What does that mean?" Brandon asked impatiently. He leaned over the table to eye the cards as though he could divine their meaning for himself. "Tell me, what does it mean?"

"Failure," said Childermass bluntly.

Brandon blinked. "What?"

"Failure," Childermass repeated. "You will seem to triumph, but you will be struck down at the last moment. You will strive for your goals, bringing ruin and chaos where once there was order, and at the end it will all be for naught. You will fail." Childermass leaned back in his chair and toasted Brandon with as much insolence as he could put into the gesture. "I hope my reading is to your satisfaction, sir."

Brandon spluttered in indignation. "It most certainly is not to my satisfaction! I demand you read them again!"

"They will only tell you the same thing," said Childermass.

Brandon looked at the cards coldly, then back up at Childermass. "Very well," he said through gritted teeth. "If the cards say I will fail, then it is clear to me I must seek new methods of achieving my goals. Thank you for the reading, sir. It has been most illuminating." He stood and dropped a handful of coins on the table. "And thank you for the dubious pleasure of your company. I do not believe we will have occasion to meet again. Goodbye." He turned to storm out of the taproom of the Bridge Inn.

"Wait!" Childermass cried out after him. "Don't you want all your research?"

"Keep it!" was the only reply he got before the back of Brandon's green jacket vanished into the night.

"Bloody insane," Childermass muttered into his drink.

"We won't be seeing him again," said Vinculus. His rheumy eyes tracked along the windows as Brandon marched off in indignation.

"Why? Where's he going?"

"Where we can't follow," Vinculus said. "The other side of the rain, maybe." He cackled.

"Can't say I'm sad to see the back of him," said Childermass.

Vinculus hummed. "No, nor I. It's good you came when you did. I have the feeling he was going to try to persuade me to run away with him. Too bad he never got the chance. Woulda liked to hear what you'd've said about it." He shot a significant look at Childermass's own cards of Marseilles still waiting on the table. "Maybe you ought to do a few readings for yourself, next."

Childermass nearly choked on his ale. "Why on Earth would I want to do that?"

"So you can put your mind to rest on the topic of John Segundus," said Vinculus, his eyes altogether too understanding for Childermass's comfort. "Otherwise you'll go mooning about, besotted but trying to hide it. You'll be grumpy all day, instead of just in the mornings before you've had your tea. Go on. It'll do you good." He stood. "I've got to go find my barmaid and break her heart. I've decided not to marry. I have enough wives already without adding another one to the mix."

Childermass sat, frozen in place, as Vinculus rose from his seat and ambled out the door. He shook himself out of it with a quiet scoff. Vinculus was a ridiculous old drunk. His words didn't mean anything, not if Childermass had the wherewithal to ignore them. Childermass was not in the habit of ignoring uncomfortable information, though. He eyed his cards for a moment, then sighed and shuffled them and laid them out once more. He turned them over one by one, the familiar, repetitive motion somewhat soothing despite the nature of the questions he asked.

Hours passed as Childermass shuffled his cards and laid them out, over and over and over. He ordered a second ale when the waiter came by to pick up his mug, then a third. He didn't look away from his cards, even as the candle on the table burned low and his eyes began to ache in the dim light.

The inn was almost completely empty when Childermass looked up to see Vinculus's yellow-toothed grin across the table from him. He didn't startle, but it was a close thing. "How long have you been sitting there?" Childermass asked to cover his surprise.

Vinculus shrugged one bony shoulder. "Not long. Less than half an hour."

"You could have said something."

"You looked like you were in the middle of something important." Vinculus leaned closer, the guttering candle casting eerie shadows across the caverns of his face. "What did you learn?"

"None of your business," Childermass muttered.

"Oh ho ho!" Vinculus crowed with delight. "That sounds promising."

With a quick motion, Childermass swept his cards into a neat stack and stowed them in his jacket. "I'm going to bed. We'll have an early start tomorrow. Are you planning on making any trouble?"

Vinculus blinked up at Childermass. "When have I ever made any trouble?"

Childermass wasn't concerned; he had asked his cards about the journey to Starecross, and the cards had indicated that Vinculus would not present any more difficulties than was customary for the contrary old man. He dropped a few coins on the table as a tip and made his way through the dark hallways of the Bridge Inn to his room.

The room was familiar, even in the dark, but Childermass didn't want to stumble about, knocking himself into furniture and banging his shins on the bedframe. He lit a candle with a whispered word and a force of will. It cast shadows, dark and flickering, across the room he had shared with Segundus for the past week. (Had it only been a week? It felt like much longer.) Childermass bustled about, performing his nighttime routine with perfunctory motions. It wasn't until he was lying flat on his back in the middle of the bed that a creeping sense of loneliness began to trickle in through the corners of his mind. He could no longer distract himself with busy work. The bed felt very large and cold without the small, warm presence of Segundus at his side.

He huffed at himself and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. He had no room for sentimentality. There was no use in wishing his lot might be different. The case of the Johannites had proved that well enough, if he'd had any doubts. He had limited influence over his circumstances, and that knowledge only made him want to cling to whatever power he might wield even more tightly. No, he could ill afford attachments or distractions, no matter what Vinculus or the cards said. He would not give up his power. A servant he might be, but a willing servant, and on his own terms.

Despite the coldness of the bed, and despite the hollowness of the room, Childermass was weary enough from the day's long walk that he dropped quickly to sleep. His dreams were not as untroubled as he might have hoped, however. He awakened within his dream on the crest of a small hill in the middle of a moor. He had been here before, he remembered. Here he had learned the languages of the land and the sky, the clouds and the stones. Here he had seen John Segundus crowned with ivy, as the great magicians of old had been. He reached into his breast-pocket (for due to some dream-logic he was wearing his usual suit and overcoat, not the nightshirt he had donned before bed) and withdrew the glossy raven feather. It shimmered in his hand, reflecting back the light from the overcast sky.

A sharp gust of wind that smelled like juniper and gorse tore the feather from his hand. He cried out in dismay and turned to grasp it, but his fingers closed on nothing but air.

Childermass was not alone in his dream upon the moor. A tall, handsome man dressed all in black stood before him, pale and youthful of face and dark of hair. Childermass knew this man, he was certain he did, but he could not bring his name to mind. The man smiled, and Childermass felt it like a ray of sunshine, like a balm smoothing over skin scraped raw.

Even so, it did nothing to alleviate Childermass's suspicion of the strange man. "This is my dream, sir," he said. "I must ask you to leave."

"Is it?" The man's smile widened. "Must you?"

Childermass frowned, disconcerted. "I know you, sir."

"I should hope so," said the man affably. He spoke with a light accent that Childermass couldn't place. "We have met before." He held up his hand, and caught in between his thumb and forefinger was the raven feather. Childermass stretched out his hand to take the feather back, but the dark-haired man held it up to his eyes as though examining it closely. "You have been distracted."

The words were like an icy band around Childermass's heart. So I was right, and Vinculus was wrong. He took no joy in his triumph. "Not anymore," he managed to say.

The man eyed him narrowly. "If that is the case, then why do you call out in confusion and discontent?"

"I—" Childermass frowned again. "Do I?"

"You would not have relinquished this otherwise." The man indicated the raven feather he still held just out of Childermass's reach. "You are still troubled, and it interferes with the work I have laid out for you."

"Oh." Childermass did not know what else to say.

A quiet, still moment passed as Childermass watched the man, the silence broken only by a trill of birdsong across the grassy landscape.

The man sighed, a slight hint of impatience slipping through. "I admit my social graces are not as refined as some, but I thought I made it quite clear that I am extending an invitation for you to discuss your troubles with me."

"I do not make a habit of discussing my troubles with strange men I encounter in my dreams." Childermass glanced at the raven feather, then back to the man before him. "What is your name, sir?"

The man smiled. "You know my name."

Of course he did. "Of course I do," said Childermass.

John Uskglass smiled wider. "Then you should know that this is my dream, sir, and you may discuss your troubles with whomever you please."

"I do not appear to be spoiled for choice," Childermass said before he could stop himself.

Fortunately, Uskglass did not seem to take offense "You are insolent," he said, "but not disrespectful, I think."

Childermass shook his head. "My intention was not to offer disrespect."

"Nor is mine to be a domineering master," said John Uskglass.

Childermass raised an eyebrow. "You seem already well-informed on my troubles."

Uskglass inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Nonetheless, I would have you speak them to me, that I may set them aright."

Childermass paused to consider his next words. His remark earlier had been flippant, but it held true. He was not accustomed to discussing his troubles— not just with strangers, but with anyone. He had been taught long ago that reliance on others was a weakness that was all too easy to exploit. And look where it's gotten me, he thought ruefully. Might as well try it. He took a deep breath. "Could I have stopped the Johannites? Or was I always destined to fail?" he asked. It was not precisely what was bothering him the most, but it was a start.

John Uskglass shifted his gaze to the raven feather. "Destiny is an odd thing," he said without looking at Childermass. "It may seem as though you have failed, but perhaps you have ended up where your destiny has been leading you all along."

"That rather sounds as though you are taking credit for my work," Childermass said drily. A split-second later, it occurred to him that perhaps antagonizing John Uskglass while sharing a magical dream space with him was not the wisest course of action, and perhaps he ought to be a bit more tactful in the future. The thought came to him a moment too late, though, and he braced himself for Uskglass's anger.

John Uskglass did not react like a slighted monarch. Instead, he tipped his head back and laughed at the cloudless sky. His laughter rang from the stones of the moor until it seemed as though every clump of heather and blade of grass shivered with the Raven King's merriment. "Perhaps I am, at that!" he said. "Well, never fear. Your destiny is your own."

"Is it?" Childermass asked.

"Of course," said Uskglass. "You are but a mortal man."

A sweet-smelling wind blew briefly across the moor, and for just a moment, the Raven King's cheekbones looked sharp and gaunt, and his hair rustled like feathers, and his eyes flashed like a cat's in the dark. In that moment, his visage was twisted and fey and, impossibly, Childermass thought, the smallest bit regretful.

Childermass blinked, and John Uskglass stood before him once more, pale and handsome and sadly smiling.

"As your master," Uskglass said softly, "I ask only that you allow me to command your deeds and your limbs. Your heart and your mind are, as always, yours to do with as you wish."

"And if my heart should gainsay the deeds you ask of me?" asked Childermass. "What then?"

Uskglass studied him for a long moment. "This was not a question you ever asked of your previous master," he said eventually. "Should I feel honored or insulted that you ask it of me?"

Childermass bowed his head. "I could not seek to command your mind so soon after you promised mine was my own." For a split second he wondered if his non-answer would pique a fit of anger in the Raven King, as happened all too often in the old tales.

He needn't have worried. John Uskglass laughed once more, though less uproariously. "You are well-spoken. I have chosen my Reader well, it seems. As for your question," he said, "you are my servant, but you are a free man. I will not order you against your will, as my fairy brethren sometimes do with Christians."

"Hardly a servant, then, am I?" said Childermass.

"You, John Childermass, are the best kind of servant, the only one truly useful to me. You are the kind who works his master's will in every deed he does, whether he knows it or not."

Childermass's own words, echoed by Vinculus, came back to him unbidden: While I live, I serve him. Uskglass smiled as though he could hear Childermass's thoughts.

"The hour grows late," John Uskglass said. "I have places to be at appointed times. Will you keep this for me?" He offered Childermass the raven feather.

Childermass didn't hesitate. "I will," he said, and he stretched out his hand for the feather. As he took it from the Raven King's hand, an icy wind swirled around him. He ducked behind his arms, still clutching the feather. The wind abated a moment later, and he peeked out. The moor was empty once more, save for a raven winging its way toward the horizon.

Childermass opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his rented room in the Bridge Inn. Judging by the wan grey light creeping in through the curtain, it was early morning, just before sunrise. Was the moor a real place? he asked himself. Or did I just dream it? Is there a difference? All questions for a different time, he decided. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He had a long journey ahead of him.