Author's Note: Sorry for the delay - this one had to be written from scratch, and it just did not want to write. There are a lot of little things here that will turn into bigger things later in the story, so it all had to come together just right. But I think I finally managed to turn it into something I'm happy with! I hope you feel the same :)
January 1811
It was a difficult challenge enough for Childermass to convince his master to attend any of the numerous dinners and parties to which he received invitations; it was a very rare occurrence indeed that he could talk the man into hosting one of his own. But Jonathan Strange was leaving for war.
It had been Norrell's doing, to some extent. But still the man was distraught at the loss of his friend and pupil, and Childermass was able to use that to convince him what a pleasure it would be to have the Stranges over for a proper dinner before he was gone.
Although his last visit had resulted in the loss of forty books, Lord Liverpool was again invited to join them—"He is to be Prime Minister," Childermass assured at his master's protests. "We would do very well with his favor."
Lascelles and Drawlight would also be joining them—they had not been well pleased to miss Liverpool the time before, and were overeager for an evening in the man's company. Sir Walter Pole was invited along, but declined due to a prior engagement. The Countess of Liverpool was accompanying her husband, and bringing along her companion, a Miss Chester—as such, Miss Erquistoune would also be present.
Childermass did not make a habit of being present for such dinners, but that night, he made certain to put himself inside the dining room.
She greeted him only briefly, and did not speak to him any further than that. Yet she watched him, nearly as closely as he watched her. She was getting better at controlling herself around him—he felt none of the dizzying heat along the back of his neck, nor the prickling gooseflesh that he had come to associate with any trips near the Strange's street in Soho-square. Yet he saw the way the candles burned in her direction and flickered with her breathing, heard the fire crackle with her laughter or hiss with her annoyance. He did not know how Norrell and Strange failed to notice, nor any of the others.
But Childermass noticed everything: how she ate around her pheasant but downed the lamb and rabbit, how she frowned in displeasure whenever Lascelles and Drawlight spoke but glowed with pride at every one of Liverpool's praises of Strange, how she clearly held no very high regard for the Countess of Liverpool's deference to her husband for her own thoughts and opinions but still nodded and laughed politely at all the lady's attempts at jokes. He saw the way Strange still stumbled away from calling her "Georgie", the way she would sometimes still turn to him with a grin before remembering the role she played, and then turn and address her comment to Mrs. Strange instead. He saw the way the evening wore on her, the way she bowed her head demurely to hide the clear annoyance written across her face, the tension at her shoulders that threatened her perfect posture every time her words went ignored or her people were insulted.
When the meal finished, the party moved into the library—Liverpool was known to be fond of a game of cards, so long as he won, and Norrell was glad to show his collection off to company, so long as they showed no interest in taking anything from the shelves. Childermass stayed behind to help Hannah and the others clear the table and set the room to rights, but the rest they could handle on their own, and so he was left to his own devices.
He could certainly let himself into the library, find something to do to justify his presence there. But, as interested as he was to keep an eye on Miss Erquistoune's magic, he had no great desire to submit himself to much more of the same tedious conversation as had been at dinner. So he wove his way through the kitchen, retrieved a few carrots, and let himself outside.
The house at Hanover-square did not have much in the way of a garden—Norrell had no mind for such things, so any of what they had was tended chiefly by Dido and Hannah. It pleased the staff greatly to have fresh flowers in the spring, and berries in the summer, and pumpkins in the fall. But this was January, and there was a blanket of snow over all their plots and beds, everywhere except for one little bench in what would be the pumpkin-patch, upon which sat Miss Erquistoune.
It was a crisp, clear night, and the sky was full of stars, and her head was tilted back as though to look at them but her eyes were closed. She was not what society would consider a great beauty—her brow too stern and proud, her lips full and prone to scowling, her figure pleasing but her stature too rigid and intimidating. But sitting out here, so soft and still, her dark red hair curled so tightly and arranged so delicately, her posture relaxed for once, the moonlight glittering on her skin...
Childermass shook his head. He would not think of her that way.
She had forgone her cloak and removed her gloves, and sat with her arms and neck bared to the chill night air.
"Are you not cold?" he asked.
The corners of her mouth turned up, but she did not bother to open her eyes. "Never," she answered softly, her low voice and gentle accent lilting over the word like a feather on the wind. "Are you?"
"Aye." She lowered her head and looked at him, and he could not be certain whether the warmth which swept over him was from her magic or the intensity of her gaze. He cleared his throat, and took a step nearer to her. "What are you doing out here?"
She shook her head. "I made an uneven number for cards. They will not miss me. And you?"
He laughed, and held out the carrots for her to see. "Are you fond of horses, Miss Erquistoune?"
She looked surprised, and shook her head. "In theory only. In experience, I...tend to make them afraid."
He smirked at her. "My Brewer is not afraid of anything. Would you care to meet him?"
She looked uncertain, but rose to her feet, dusting off her skirts. Then she wove her arm through his, and he led her along to the stable, and through to the furthest stall. The other horses, indeed, all reared or whinnied or kicked their stalls at the woman's presence; but Brewer did not pay any of them any mind until the carrots were produced, at which point they gained his yet-ambivalent attention.
"...Oh," Miss Erquistoune breathed, staring up at the creature. "He is magnificent."
Childermass smiled, and handed her a carrot. "Go on."
She took it with a frown, and held it out tentatively to the horse.
Horse and woman eyed each other cautiously. For a moment, Childermass worried this would not work.
The horse took a bite. Then another. Miss Erquistoune gasped, and then giggled, and then reached out her other hand, slowly, to Brewer's neck. She gasped again when he let her pet him, and smoothed her hand down along his neck. He finished the carrot, and nuzzled at her palm for more, and in response she murmured, "Oh, you are lovely."
Childermass laughed. "He has been called many things, but never that."
She flashed a dazzling grin. "Well, now he has." She turned back to the horse, bold enough now to rub his nose and cheek. "You are either very brave, or very foolish, to have no fear of me," she whispered. "Either way, I love you."
Brewer nickered affectionately, and nuzzled at her hair, and she giggled again. Childermass laughed and shook his head. "I should never have brought you out here; he will prefer you to me now forever."
"No, no, there is no chance of that," she assured, still petting the horse. "He is very loyal. You run him often, and bring him sweets, and treat him kindly. He thinks very well of you."
Childermass looked at her in surprise. "You speak to horses now?"
She snorted a laugh. "I do not need to speak horse to see that this one is happily kept."
It was not quite an answer to the question. Childermass crossed his arms and leaned against the stall, eyeing her intently, watching for any indication that she might be lying to him. "No. But do you?"
"Do I speak horse?" She smirked, a mischievous and impish thing. "No, I do not. But I may understand, if they would speak to me." She turned her gaze back to Brewer, and pressed her forehead to the long plane of his nose—more surprisingly, the horse held still enough to let her. "Until now, they have only ever told me to get away."
Childermass shook his head, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "What are you, Miss Erquistoune?"
She turned and eyed him carefully, with only the barest hint of amusement. "Have your cards been unable to tell you, sir? What? Surely you did not think I had not felt them, pulling at me after every letter I ever sent you?" She leaned in, close enough in the cold, drafty stable that he could feel the heat coming off of her in waves. "I will give you a hint," she breathed. "I am more than you think I am. Your cards do not know me."
For a moment, he understood what it was about her that would spook the horses; for a moment, he wanted to take a step back, away from her. He took a breath, and kept his feet, and let the moment pass. "I will find you out someday," he reassured. "But I would prefer to have you tell me. Are we not friends?"
"Indeed we are. And so I know you, John Childermass. I see you, surrounding yourself with all the magic you can find, collecting it within your mind and wrapping it about you like a cloak. I am not a deck of cards that you can carry around in your pocket. I am not some thing to be possessed."
"I have no intention of—"
"Of course not," she chimed, a wicked smirk spreading across her face. "And once you can prove that to me, I shall tell you all I am. Make no mistake, sir: I do trust you. But I would be a fool to leave my safety in the hands of an Englishman, even one that I would call friend. My fondness for you will not surpass my self-preservation—it cannot."
Childermass was silent a moment, and turned and fed Brewer another carrot. "You hold all Englishmen in very low regard."
She laughed, and shrugged her shoulders. "I do not deny it."
"Yet you readily agree to dine with two English magicians, two English gentlemen, and the Secretary of State for War?"
Her humour dimmed, the smirk fading. "My favourite cousin is leaving for war. I will savour whatever time I can have with him." She was quiet a moment, and then barked another laugh. "Anyway, I should hardly consider the likes of Drawlight and Lascelles to be gentlemen."
He laughed as well. "On that, at least, we can agree." He handed her the last carrot, and watched his horse eat it from her hand as she ran her fingers through his mane and murmured sweet things to the normally-heartless beast. "I am sorry," he finally ventured, as Brewer finished the treat, "that your cousin will be leaving."
Miss Erquistoune's whole countenance dimmed, her shoulders drooping, her eyes drifting closed. "As am I," she breathed.
"Will you..?" he began, and had to clear his throat. He had meant to write and ask her, but had not known the way to say it and so it had gone unsaid. "Will you be staying in London, with him gone?"
"Yes, I believe so. I would not wish to leave Arabella alone at such a time. And, anyway," she began, a subtle smirk hinting at her usual humour, "I think my parents have found themselves quite glad to have the house to their own."
"I am sure they would be equally glad to have you with them once again."
"Perhaps. But it would make them most glad to see me married off to some rich gentleman, and I fear I lack the endurance to tolerate much more of their matchmaking."
"You do not wish to marry?"
Her expression soured, and she rolled her eyes. "When I was younger, I may have dreamed of such things; a husband, and children, and a house of my own. But now?" She shook her head. "My parents believe that their lack of regard for my skin would protect me from harm, but the world does not share that sentiment. Even if I were to find a gentleman to suit me—challenge enough as that has proven to be—my lot is not so simple. There is much that must be taken into account. If I could give him children, would they have a good life? Would they be treated with respect? Or would all of us be viewed as a dark stain upon his family line? Could I go out into the shops to furnish and stock my house, and actually be granted service by the shopkeepers? Or would I need to employ a white housekeeper to do my shopping for me? Would any white servants we might employ be willing to listen to my direction? Would—? Oh, listen to me," she groaned, waving her hand dismissively. "My apologies, sir. I do not wish to bore you. Suffice it to say that the prospect of marriage hardly seems worth the trouble it would cause me."
"I asked because I wished to know your answer. You could not bore me, Miss Erquistoune," he reassured, and in the dim light of the stable her eyes seemed almost to glow. "If you will not be leaving London, there are a number of books in my collection I do not believe you have read. Would you like me to bring them to you, while Strange is away?"
Her eyes grew wide. "I would like that very much, sir."
He bowed his head to hide a smile. "Then I shall. You have been gone for some time now, MIss Erquistoune. Is it not time for you to return to your party?"
"Come with me?" she asked quickly, a little desperately, and shook her head. "I do not wish to face them alone."
He sighed. "There is little I could do for you, my lady. You know I am unable to enjoy your company when we are not alone."
"I know," she said softly. "But even to have you nearby is a relief."
He took her hand, and put her arm through his. "Then let us go," he murmured, and led her out of the barn. "If anyone questions us, we will say that you lost your way."
"And you helped me find it," she laughed, squeezing his arm. "Thank you, Mr. Childermass."
Together, they reentered the house and made their way to the library. Lascelles looked up and eyed them suspiciously when they entered, but the rest of the party were too deep into their cards or their drink to notice.
"What did I tell you?" Miss Erquistoune whispered, squeezed his arm again, and then broke away from him to sink into an armchair near the table where Strange, his wife, the Countess, and Miss Chester were laughing around their game.
"Oh! Georgiana!" Miss Strange called, as the woman in question lifted a glass of sherry to her lips. "Are you sure you do not wish to play? I am sure Jonathan could find something else to occupy him."
"Yes, of course!" Strange agreed, already rising from his seat and laying down his hand. "There is a book I intend to finish before I leave. Come on, old girl; take my place for me."
Childermass watched with interest; Miss Erquistoune had gone very still, looking not at her cousin and his wife, but at the Countess and her companion. He recognized that look, that hesitation to see if she truly was welcome, whether this were some form of trap, somehow. He knew how that felt.
But she must have seen something that gave her assurance—Miss Chester looked resistant to the idea, but the Countess was smiling her pleasantly-vacant smile, and nodding more-or-less welcomingly—and so she rose slowly to her feet, glass in hand. "Oh, very well. But I warn you: I have very little skill at cards."
"Oh, there is no need for skill!" the Countess called cheerily. "It is the cards themselves that do all the work!"
The look Miss Erquistoune sent his way was subtle and swift, but Childermass caught it all the same.
"So I have been told." She seated herself in Strange's vacated spot and peered at his abandoned hand. "Oh no," she groaned. "Must I play with these cards? They are awful!"
The table laughed, and the game began. Strange folded himself into a chair nearest to his wife, an open copy of Holgarth and Pickle's Anatomie of Faeries in his lap. Childermass sat at his writing-desk, making himself look busy; after a few minutes passed and he continued on being wholly ignored by the group, he withdrew his own cards from his pocket. He took his box of matches, lit the candle at his desk, and laid out nine cards in a line.
With his eyes and thoughts on her, he flipped the first card.
Miss Erquistoune stiffened, but did not turn. The candle flickered, but did not die. The card read, L'Étoile, the same card he had flipped when first they met.
He frowned down at the card, the naked woman crouching beneath the Heavens, pouring the waters of life out upon the earth. He had read, once, that the woman on the card was the Sun herself, having taken on human form to bring balance and good fortune to mankind.
"I am more than you think I am," her voice echoed in his head.
With a grunt, Childermass swept L'Étoile and the other cards from his desk, and shuffled them away into the rest of the deck. He would not bother to learn any more of her that way.
Across the room, Miss Erquistoune was now watching him carefully, her golden eyes glittering in the lamplight. In a moment, he felt her magic: heat, like a warm hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, traveling down between his shoulderblades and along the length of his spine. He sucked in a breath as gooseflesh rose along his arms, his vision swam, his forehead beaded with sweat. His skull felt stuffed with cotton. If he had been standing, he would have fallen.
The candle before him flickered—and then the flame broke free of its wick, still burning, drifting through the air to alight on the back of his hand. He could feel its heat against his skin, but it did not burn. As if in a daze, he lifted his hand slowly, and twisted it around, watching as the flame danced along his knuckles and fingers and palm.
Childermass looked up, met Miss Erquistoune's eyes, still watching him so closely. She blinked; her lips curled up into a subtle, gentle smile.
"Georgiana, dear!" Mrs. Strange called. "It is your turn."
Childermass dropped his gaze; the little flame drifted back to its wick, crackling merrily; the heat retreated from his spine.
He shook his head, clearing it of the daze she had cast upon him, and retrieved his memorandum book from his pocket. He had recently replaced the book, so there were many empty pages, but still he flipped to one near the end. In the drawer of his desk, he found a bit of graphite, though he needed his knife to sharpen the point.
Then he pressed pencil to paper, and began to draw.
