November 1810

Georgiana had thought it would be nice to have the house quiet, while the Stranges were away to Portsmouth; but she quickly found that it was little delight to have a house to yourself when it was not, in fact, your house.

There was not much she could do; her status as a lady was tenuous at best, even in Edinburgh. Here she was nothing more than Mrs. Strange's companion, and as such was unable to leave the house of her own volition for anything beyond the running of simple errands to keep the household in order. She had no companion to allow her to attend any shows or parties, nor even to take a walk any further than the neighborhood; and Mary knew her as a mistress before a friend, and so would not even consider allowing her to help with any housework.

She found herself drinking a great deal of tea, and staring vacantly at a number of books she had no real intention of reading, and drafting a number of letters she knew she would never post.

Three days had passed, so dull and dreary that she had taken up work on knitting a new shawl. Her temperament had never been well suited to such diversions; the going was slow, and every few rows she found yet another error that required a great deal of unraveling and cursing.

She was in the midst of one such reparation when a knock came at the sitting-room door. She hurried to compose herself, to settle the mess of yarn and needles in her lap, and called, "Come in!"

The door opened only wide enough to allow Jeremy Johns to pass his head through it. "Sorry to bother you, Miss. There is a man here to see Mr. Strange."

She blinked in surprise. "I... He is in Portsmouth, Jeremy."

"Aye, that's what I told him! He said he would deal with you instead, that he had something important to deliver from Mr. Norrell."

"From Norrell?" She frowned, but set her knitting aside. "Alright, I will see him."

Jeremy led her to the drawing-room; inside, John Childermass sat, arms crossed, shoes resting upon the desk. A sideways sort of grin spread across his face at the sight of her.

Ana sighed, but smiled in return. "Aye, do make yourself at home," she teased, and then turned and put a hand on Jeremy's arm. "Will you have Mary bring us some tea?"

"Miss—"

"It is alright, Jeremy," she reassured him. "Mr. Childermass is a friend."

Jeremy frowned but nodded, and quit the room—though he did so without closing the door entirely, very clearly intending to return and listen in for any reason to throw the man out. She chuckled, and busied herself clearing a space for the tea tray—the drawing-room was Jonathan's favorite, and thus all flat surfaces were covered in books and journals and scraps of paper. He had given instructions that none were to be moved in his absence, but George could say with certainty that he would not remember where his things had been, nor notice that they had been moved. She could feel Childermass' eyes on her as she moved about the room, but she did not let herself look at him until she was seated in her favorite chair by the fire.

"Am I?" he then asked, the first words he'd spoken since she'd entered. At her look of confusion, he clarified, "A friend?"

She rested her chin in her hand and smiled at him. "I thought we had decided you were?"

He shrugged with an air of disinterest, though she knew him well enough now to know that John Childermass did not willingly discuss a thing that did not interest him. "To you, I suppose. To this house? Well, I do not think it finds me agreeable."

"Well, I am in this house," she reminded. "And while 'agreeable' is perhaps not the word I would use, I say you are welcome here."

A strange look crossed his features; he lowered his feet from the desk, leaned forward in the chair, and stared intently at her. "And what word would you use for me, my lady?"

Mary's timing was truly impeccable; she came in with the tea before Ana was made to actually find an answer to such a question. There was a bit of a bustle as well, as Childermass was looking quite frightening, and Mary was easily frightened. Ana helped to carry the tray inside and set it upon the table, as the younger woman's hands were trembling. As soon as her job was done, Mary fled the room.

"Come, Mr. Childermass," Georgiana called once the door had shut—though still not completely. "Have some tea, and you can tell me what brings you to see Jonathan when you know very well he is not here."

"I cannot stay long," he began; but he was already crossing the room and eyeing the still-steaming rolls and marmalade that had joined them. When he reached the chair across from hers, he removed his great-coat and allowed her to pour him a cup of tea, then settled into the chair with a sigh in the shape of a "thank you". His tea was pulled close, but before anything else he cracked open a roll and spread it quite liberally with jam—he has a sweet tooth, her mind noted, without her consent. "I will answer your question," he growled, lifting one half of the roll to his mouth, "just as soon as you have answered mine."

She took a slow sip of her tea and leaned back in her chair, giving him an appraising look. "And if I refuse?" she asked casually, quite blatantly stalling for time.

He chewed and swallowed, and answered, "Then I will have another bread-roll—perhaps two, this is very good—and be on my way, and both your curiosity and mine shall go unsatisfied."

She laughed at his frankness, though she found it refreshing. "It is Jonathan's favorite marmalade," she informed.

"Hmm," he murmured, mouth again full. He was a quick eater, and she was running out of time.

"Alright," she conceded, searching around for a word that could do this man justice. She took another sip of tea, and then another. "I find you...interesting," she admitted, "but you knew that already... Compelling, perhaps?"

He was smothering a second roll, watching her carefully all the while, one eyebrow lifted above the other.

"Not quite agreeable, no; something both more and less than that. A...spiorad càirdeach, perhaps? A familiar spirit, as if you and I were crafted from some similar material, an essence I have not found in anyone else before. Cut of the same cloth, though we were each molded into something different. That is how I would describe you. Will such an answer suffice?"

He put two fingers, and then his thumb, into his mouth to clean them of crumbs—she felt her face grow hot at the sight—and growled, "Aye."

He twisted at the waist, reaching back into the pockets of his great-coat. After a moment of digging (just how deep were those pockets?), he retrieved a small, leather-bound book and held it out to her.

She set her tea aside and took it from him with a frown. "What is this?"

He lifted up another half of a roll and shrugged. "A book."

She rolled her eyes, but did not even bother wasting a glare at the comment. Instead, she opened the cover—very gently, as it was clearly very old—and found the title. "'From Morgan le Fay to Maria Absalom: An Historie for the Moderne Witch'," she read, and then looked up sharply at Childermass. "This is a book about magic?"

His mouth was full, but he was gracious enough to spare her a nod.

She frowned, looking back down at the title, and then back up at him. "Norrell wants Jonathan to read about witches?"

Childermass snorted a laugh. "Hardly. I couldn't very well say I'd come to see you though, could I?"

"You..? You brought this for me?"

He laughed again, popping the last of the roll into his mouth and licking his fingers again before retrieving his pipe.

She lowered her eyes to the book, flipping through pages to keep from noticing how closely his large, dark eyes watched her.

"I would swear that fire was lower when I came in," he commented after a few moments.

"Was it?" she murmured absently, turning a page. "I could not say."

"Hm. I seem to take poor notice of my fires these days."

She chose not to answer that; and for the span of nearly a paragraph (on the studies conducted by one ancient lady of the applications of a certain root in order to reduce the swellings of gout), she was granted silence. But then, as she turned another page...

"'Twould be a pleasure, if my pipe were to manage to light itself."

She tore her eyes from the book to shoot him a dark glare. "I am not some show-pony at the charter fair," she snapped.

He tried to hide an amused grin, busying himself with retrieving a box of matches from his pockets. "'Twas but an observation," he muttered.

"Indeed, it was," she agreed, then shut the book in her lap. "This is a book of magic, but it is not Mr. Norrell's. I have seen his books, they are all bound and stamped the same. Not like this."

"Aye, all his best copies." He lit his pipe and nodded at the book in her lap. "There may be a page or two missing, or unreadable. The man owns nearly all the books of magic in England, and a good number of them are duplicates. The best editions get bound and shelved together in the library. Others he keeps locked away, where not even I—well," he interrupted himself with a dark laugh, "let us not fool ourselves—where none but I can access. Any others that he feels less protective over, he has entrusted to my care."

She ran her fingers along the cover, trying not to picture him reading it, alone in his study, his long fingers turning the pages now before her. "Norrell will not begrudge you lending it out to me?"

"Norrell is in Portsmouth," he drawled, "and, as I said, it is in my care. I have given him no reason to mistrust me with his books before."

She leaned in intently. "So why risk it now?"

He pulled the pipe from his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and looked at her in silence for so long she began to suspect he would not answer. But eventually he shrugged, and turned back to his pipe. "I thought you might be bored."

"Bored?"

"Aye." He shook his head, smirking. "Every so often, Strange will return a book Norrell had loaned him, and I will notice it might smell a bit of smoke." He raised a brow at her. "I have never seen Strange with a pipe. Does he smoke?"

She took up her tea to hide her flushing face. They had been so careful—! And how could he know what she smelled like? The man was as clever as the devil! "No, he does not."

"I did not think so." In a swift, sudden movement, he reached across and rapped his knuckles against the cover of the book, still in her lap—she could feel it in her thighs, then in the sharp jolt that coursed up her spine. "I would hate you to grow bored, in his absence." He retrieved his hand, but remained leaning close, studying her carefully.

A log on the fire popped—not her doing, at least she did not think so—and it seemed to startle him from his staring. He fell back, then lurched to his feet and lifted his great-coat from the back of the chair. "I must return to my duties. Even away in Portsmouth, Norrell has...many needs."

She did not wish him to go—for reasons she would never confess—and rose to her feet, clutching the book to her chest. "When I finish the book," she blurted, "how should I return it to you?"

He picked up his hat, stood with it in one hand and his pipe in the other, and looked at her with an expression she could not decipher. "I will return in a day or two, to retrieve it."

"I..." she trailed off, needing a moment to remember what she'd asked, to interpret his answer, to formulate a response. "I fear I can be rather a slow reader. I may not be finished so soon."

His mouth twisted into something like a smile. "Then I will still return, to see how you are getting along." He placed his hat on his head—it was a sudden change, from the curious and kind Mr. Childermass, to the dark and dangerous servant of Mr. Norrell. The smile yet lingered. "Good day, Miss Erquistoune."

"Good day, Mr. Childermass. And thank you."

He nodded, turned, and let himself out into the hallway, where Jeremy was waiting just outside the door to see him out.

Georgiana finished off her tea, poured herself another cup, and settled in to read. The book was dry, and not well written, but still more accurate and informative than the paltry tomes Jonathan was able to extract from Norrell's clutches. She wondered at how much thought Mr. Childermass had put into his selection for her; whether it was a little or a lot, he had found something that she liked a good deal, and she would be certain to tell him so when he returned.

Mary came in to clear the tea—Georgiana could not say for certain how much time had passed. "Is there anything else you need, Miss?"

"No, thank you, Mary," she murmured; but then had a thought as soon as she'd said so, and called, "Wait! I am sorry, there is something, though it is rather a strange question. Have you ever noticed... Do I ever smell like smoke to you, Mary?"

The younger woman frowned, and shook her head quickly. "No, Miss! Why, has there been a problem with your linens?"

"Oh, no! No, certainly not, all is quite well. It is only...something Mr. Childermass said." Ana shook her head, wondering more and more at the man's remarkable sensitivity to magic. "He must have been mistaken. Thank you."