Author's Note: Just a quick caution: For the most part of this story, both so far and what's to come, the insults people level at Georgiana and all Black people are implied or hinted at; this chapter gets a little more explicit. In my opinion, it's nothing obscene, and I've censored the worst of it, because no one comes to fanfiction looking for slurs, but the rest of what's said about her is still dehumanizing and awful.

I've been going back and forth for weeks, since I first started writing this chapter, trying to decide if I was going to leave that in or not. I have no interest in wielding racism for the sake of shock value, and that's not what I'm trying to do with that scene. I hope that comes across clearly enough in the writing itself (and if it doesn't, please, please let me know and I'll do all I can to change it). But it was important to me from the very beginning to have a woman of color as the main character of this fic, to see someone like myself represented in this way. And, when it comes to writing historical fiction (in particular, though I believe the same goes for all genres), with or without a fantasy element, I think it's important to not sugarcoat prejudice. So I ultimately decided to leave it in.

While I'm here, I also want to add that I think it's equally important to acknowledge historical figures who were able in some measure to circumvent that prejudice. Black history is full of far, far more than slavery; Black people have been doing incredible things since the dawn of time. In my research for this story (read: hours spent down an endless Wikipedia spiral), I've learned about plenty of people of color who were achieving noble status in England during and around Georgiana's time. There was a movie recently about Dido Belle, who died about 5 years before this story began. Queen Victoria herself had a Black goddaughter, Sara Forbes Bonetta. Mary Seacole and Alexandre Dumas were children during the time of this story. George Bridgetower was a violinist and composer who worked with Beethoven (for whom there is also significant evidence of mixed ancestry) and lived and worked right during this time. We've always been out here, we're still out here, and we will continue to be out here for the rest of human history.

Anyway. Suffice it to say that this chapter, even the icky part, was written with intention and care.


October 1812

The day was particularly cold, even for October, though one would hardly know it from the state of Admiral and Lady Harrington's parlor. The room—like the rest of the house—was filled with party-goers, the Admiral home on furlough and his wife eager to throw him and his new title and medals before the public gaze.

The lady of the house had it in mind to become a particular friend of Mrs. Strange, who was herself glad for the excuse to get out of Soho-square and to get her mind off of the absence of her husband.

Georgiana had found herself to care little for London society—of the people to whom she was introduced, most chose to ignore her entirely, which was indeed quite preferable to those others who pestered her with intrusive questions or openly insulted her. She had had no true desire to go, but with Jonathan away she had no cause nor conditions to perform much magic, and with Arabella present she had very few opportunities to safely sneak away, even at night. She had been stewing in a perpetual feeling of helplessness for some time now, and her nature raged against it.

To make matters worse, she had recently received a letter (seventeen pages in total) from her sister, Margaret. Their father had taken ill.

Her moods and temper had soured even further, and she was starting to realize how the household suffered for it. So when Arabella invited her along, she agreed, eager for a distraction or an outlet—or, at the very least, an opportunity to pretend that she was feeling more cheerful, for the sake of her friend's peace of mind.

Even once she realized that there was no chance of the evening or the company to improve anything in her life, especially her mood, Georgiana found herself quite unable to leave. From the moment she and Mrs. Strange crossed the threshold, they were informed rather constantly of the presence of Mr. Norrell and his friends, Lascelles and Drawlight, somewhere in the house. It was the first time since the auction of the Duke of Roxburghe's library that Norrell and Mrs. Strange had been in the same place at the same time, and there were still articles being published upon the subject of his horrid treatment of his pupil's wife that day (and his subsequent refusal to even hint at what knowledge he had acquired as a result).

Georgiana had no desire to abandon her friend to an encounter with the man—or, worse, to the speculation and gossip that his presence accrued—so she had stayed at Mrs. Strange's side for as long as she was able, until the mass and force of the crowd caused them to separate, and she lost sight of the much-shorter woman.

She moved, as swiftly as she could, from room to room in search of her, with no success. She asked after her, but could only be told that she'd been seen in Lady Harrington's company recently in a part of the house she had already searched.

Eventually, she gave up hope of ever finding her—taking solace in the thought that the lady of the house surely had enough sense to retire the both of them to quieter quarters—and resigned herself to linger near the doors, so that at least Arabella could not leave without her. She was making her way there, slowly through the crowd, when she heard it.

"Who on earth invited the giantess?"

She froze; the woman who answered him confirmed her suspicions.

"Hush, you! Don't you know? That is Mrs. Strange's companion."

Another voice claimed, "I heard it is not even human, but rather a golem Strange constructed to protect his wife while he is away!"

"Don't be stupid, Henry," the woman answered, laughing. "It is not a monster; it's only a n!"

Georgiana whirled, knowing her eyes were wide and wild, her face bright with humiliation; there was a burst of laughter, but no way for her to know from whence it came.

She wanted to scream, to rage, to burn the house down to nothing but cinders and ash.

Instead, she ran, forcing her way through the crowd, shoving aside men and women alike in her desperation to get out of this wretched house, this wretched city, this wretched island. With shaking hands, she retrieved her cloak from the coatroom and fled through the door, out into the cold, wet street.

Even there, she found no respite: coachmen and footmen and drunken revelers alike stared as she burst free of the house, their eyes hungry and watchful at the first sign of scandal. She bit back a curse and threw the cloak around her shoulders, lifted the hood to shield her face from their view, and fled around the corner of the house to the alleyway beside it.

It, at least, was blessedly empty, and she pressed her face up against the cool stone wall and tried to steady her labored thoughts and breaths. She wished she could cast Childermass' spell, wished the shadows would ever obey a command that came from her, but knew she could not. She could burn down the house, but Arabella was still inside. She could fly away, but not with so many potential witnesses.

And, again, Arabella was still inside.

She would go home. That, at least, was certain. She could leave a note for Mrs. Strange, attempt to find the servants' quarters and someone to deliver it to her. Then she would go home, have some tea, perhaps read a book or look through some of John's—no, Childermass' letters.

She sighed against the stone, wondering where she would find the paper to write Arabella, when she heard swift footsteps approaching in the alley.

She turned, but not fast enough; someone grabbed her shoulder, laid their arm across her chest, and flung her back into the wall. The back of her head hit the stone, her vision swam, her mind fizzed.

"That's what you get for eavesdropping, wretch," a voice hissed; she blinked and tried to focus, and found the drunken, sneering face of Lascelles before her.

She struggled to suck in a breath with his weight against her chest. He was saying something else, some cruel chastisement about knowing her place, about how he would teach her where it was, about how no one would ever take her side over his whether they believed her or not; but she heard little else beside the voice in her head that growled, "Let me have him."

She knew better than to give in, to let her rage consume her. At least, she had known that once, before tonight.

Georgiana closed her eyes, and let the Fire loose.


Stone crumbled beneath their fingers as they pushed off from the wall. The white man faltered back a step, brandishing some pointed metal with shaking hands. "H-how..? What are..?"

They laughed, knocked it out of his grip to clatter against the ground. "You think you can hurt us with that?" they mocked. "With anything?"

They grabbed him by the neck and lifted him off the ground, pinned him up against the wall. "Is it power you want?" they hissed, watching him squirm and gasp and scrabble at their hand. "Yes, I can see that it is. You exert violence on those you think inferior and call it strength. You surround yourself with those who do magic, but magic turns its face from you. You do not know what power is." They grinned. It had been a long time since they last had cause to lay a curse, but they could feel it: the old ties still held. "We swear this now: You never shall. You fiend, you enemy of magic; when your moment comes, and you think what you desire is before you, you will stretch out your hand, and it will be taken from you. We shall be keeping our eye on you."

They heaved him off the wall, then slammed him back against it and let him crumple to the ground. He did not get up.

They bent over him, making sure he was still breathing. "You should have let me kill him," they murmured, nudging him with their foot. "No. We will not kill, not with my hands. I know; but it would have felt so good. I know."

They straightened up, adjusted their hood so it covered their hair and hid their face, turned to go, but hesitated. "Still..." They glanced over their shoulder at the man on the ground.

The curse would stand for his wickedness; but for the insults to her person...

They twisted their hand into a fist. His clothes caught fire, but did not burn his flesh.

They hurried into the street, away from the house and the crowds, rounded a corner, and Ana paused and took a deep breath. The Fire retreated, curling itself back up into a ball within her belly, satisfied, now, and docile, but not sleeping. It never slept.

Ana reached out a trembling hand, steadied herself against a doorway. What had she done? What could she do?

She could feel the pull of his cards, knew he was nearby. But where?

Georgiana closed her eyes. Images swam before her; more than she could need, but she was afraid to miss him.

...There, in the back of a crowded room, his back to the wall so he could see all that went on around him, so nothing was out of his sight. He would know what to do.

She breathed a sigh of relief, and hurried down the street.


The alehouse was well occupied tonight, filled with coachmen and footmen all drinking and reveling in a few hours' reprieve from their masters.

Childermass himself was glad of a little respite, though he still was working to some degree, keeping an eye on Davey and Lucas that they did not indulge too strongly and find themselves unfit to drive when Norrell called.

Even so, the young men were not poor company, and he himself was just starting on his third mug of hot, spiced ale, and Childermass was finding the evening a little raucous for his taste, but overall pleasant.

Across the hall, a serving-girl squeaked as the kitchen fire flared up; but Childermass felt the heat along the back of his neck. His skin broke out in gooseflesh at the sudden change, his vision swam. The heat spread like molten glass, creeping down his spine.

Ana.

He lurched to his feet as the door burst open; a tall, female figure filled the doorway, hidden beneath a dark cloak. He could not see her face, shadowed as it was by her hood, but he knew she was looking right at crowd parted before her, all eyes on the elegant posture, the cloth and cut of dress and cloak that assured all who saw her that she was far too grand for a place such as this. She crossed the room to stand at his side.

"Leave us," he growled in the direction of Davey and Lucas.

"Sir?" Lucas squeaked; but Childermass shot him a look that promised he would not ask again, and both young men scrambled to their feet and hurried away, disappearing into the crowd.

Childermass swayed on his feet, the force of her magic making him dizzy; he fell back unto the bench.

"Mr. Childermass?" Georgiana gasped, gripping his arm and dropping to the seat beside him.

"You must calm down," he groaned, feeling feverish, nauseous. "I cannot take it."

"What? Oh!"

It was as if she pulled the heat out of him, though she spoke no words and made no movement. The heat receded, and Childermass could breathe again, and he blinked at Miss Erquistoune. He still could not see her face, but her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, trembling. "What is it? What has happened?"

She flinched at his voice, his harsh tone, but did not give him time to apologize. "I attacked Mr. Lascelles," she answered, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Childermass bristled at the very mention of the man, at the thought of him anywhere near her. "What did he do to you?"

Her entire body was now shaking. "I... He..." she snarled, and he could swear that a wisp of smoke escaped from beneath her hood. She shook her head, her fingers twisting tighter together.

Childermass passed his unfinished mug of ale into her hands, uncertain what else could be done to calm her. "It's alright." He put his hand upon her back—he would never consider such a thing under normal circumstances, but she relaxed at his touch, and leaned a little closer to him. "How did you know where to find me?"

She took a long drink of his ale, hissing more than gasping as it went down. "I looked," she answered slowly, "through all the fires of London, until I saw you."

"That sounds a useful trick," he murmured, and was rewarded with a sharp bark of a laugh.

"Indeed," she agreed, "though I saw a great deal more than I wished to."

"I would imagine so."

She laughed again, a little lighter this time. After a moment's hesitation, she set the mug back upon the table, and then leaned over sideways to rest her head upon his shoulder. He froze in surprise; but then put his arm around her, to keep her steady there.

"I got separated from Arabella," she told him quietly, her breath warm on his neck. "As I looked for her, I heard them saying things about me. Horrid things. I ran out of the house, but I did not know Lascelles was with them, and he followed me into the alley. He had a knife, said that no one would ever believe me over him."

Childermass tightened his arm around her, gritting his teeth. "Did he hurt you?"

"No. I threw him off me," she hissed, her body tensing again. "He hit his head, and fell, and I left him there. But not before I... I lit all his clothes on fire."

Childermass barked a laugh—it surprised them both, and Georgiana lifted her head from his shoulder and turned to face him. "Sorry," he huffed, composing himself. "I know this is serious, but—he has no clothes?"

Her face was still cast in the shadow of her hood, but the light of the alehouse seemed to reflect off her gleaming eyes, and illuminated the wicked grin that spread across her features at the thought. "No money, either," she sang. "He had some bills in his pockets; they are gone, too."

Childermass laughed again, taking up the mug himself and having another swallow of ale. "I can think of no man more deserving," he told her.

"Nor I," she agreed, softly. "But, as delightful as is the thought, he was right. If he accuses me, or reveals that I have cast some magic upon him... No one in London would believe me over a white gentleman. He could have me arrested, have my magic exposed—" Her breath caught, and she shook her head. Childermass passed the mug back to her; she took it from him with a laugh, thanked him, and took a long, deep drink.

"We will have to make you untouchable," he told her softly, laying his hand upon her arm. "I know you do not wish it; but we must make it known that you are more than just a lady's companion, that you are cousin to Jonathan Strange."

She gripped the mug tightly; he could feel the muscle in her arm constrict. "My family are well-respected in Edinburgh, but this is London. Will that be enough?"

"Strange is a hero, away in Portugal, outwitting the French with the wonders of English magic. But...you may be right." He shook his head, already regretting what he was about to say. "We may need to make known your...late husband as well."

Miss Erquistoune went very still; across the room, the fire hissed down to embers, and he saw that her eyes were not merely reflecting the light—they were glowing.

"How did you—?" she began, but her voice broke, and she shook her head, looking away from him. After a moment, she whispered, "If you had but asked me, I would have told you."

"I know that now," he assured her. "But I did not trust you then, when I sent the inquiry. By the time I received a reply..." He sighed heavily, and started again. "I am sorry, Miss Erquistoune: for prying into the details of your life, and for your loss. He seemed a good man."

She laughed, a sad and brittle thing. "He was a fool, my Gavin. But, aye, a good one."

Childermass watched as she lifted the mug of ale again to her lips. Her hands shook, but only a little. "Tell me about him?" he asked, gently.

She gave another coarse laugh. The kitchen fire was building itself up again, though no one else seemed to notice. "If you wish. Our families' homes were close; I had known him all my life. He was always so full of laughter, so quick to think the best of people. He thought he could change the world, merely by wanting it enough. His family...tolerated me, better than most. But when he said he wished to marry me, they would not have it. His mother declared I would never be a Matheson—so Gavin called himself an Erquistoune, to spite her. I did not wish..." She shook herself, and took another drink of ale. "I did not wish to fight her. Why would I want part in a family ashamed to have me? But I think he... The fact that they told him he could not, only made him want it more. Sometimes I wondered...whether he loved fighting that woman more than he loved me."

Childermass shook his head. "That could not be true, my lady."

Whatever glow there had been in her eyes had faded; still, he could feel her staring very intently at him. "...Thank you, Childermass," she breathed. "I know you are right. I do. We had four very happy months together, before his regiment was called. He died within the year. His mother blamed me—he only took a commission because they said he would be given no inheritance with me as his wife. I was cast out of my home. There were no Banns read, no licenses procured, and with Gavin dead and the pressure from Lady Matheson, all our witnesses denied we had ever been wed. But people still remember. They know how well he loved me, know why the family would not honour our marriage. I returned to my father's house free of public disgrace, but only just."

She shook her head, set the mug of ale down on the table, and withdrew further away from him. "I must be honest with you, Mr. Childermass: I do not see how such a story would be to my credit."

He put a hand on her arm again, and leaned in intently, searching for her eyes beneath the hood. "It will the way I tell it," he assured her. "You have done nothing worthy of disgrace, my lady. I will not let Lascelles harm you any more than he has done. Do you trust me?"

"Of course," she breathed. "But... If there is any man in London who could truly do me harm... He has Norrell's ear."

"Aye. But so do I."

He could feel her eyes upon him, studying his face. After a moment, she nodded. "What do you need me to do?"

He took a deep breath, and straightened, but did not remove his hand. "I need you to return to the party. I know you do not wish it, but we must make it seem that you never even left, make them doubt him from the first, make him doubt it for himself." He cast his eyes about the room, full of the coachmen and footmen of many of the wealthiest names in London. "I will stay here, start revealing what I know. These men will tell the other servants, who will tell their friends and masters; and no one with any sense doubts the gossip of their servants. By the morning, half of London will know you are not a woman to be trifled with. And without his friends' support, he will lack the confidence to bring any accusation against you to Norrell. I swear it."

She was silent for a moment, apparently resigning herself to returning to the party; but then she took a sharp breath and leaned in toward him. The fabric of her hood and the tip of her nose brushed his skin; she kissed his cheek, her lips impossibly warm and soft.

"Thank you, John Childermass," she murmured into his ear. "You are a very good friend."

With that, she was gone, making her way through the crowd and leaving as swiftly as she had come. Childermass stared after her, watching the door long after she was gone, finishing off the last of the ale they'd shared.

Then he suddenly stood, and looked until he spotted Lucas and Davey at the bar, flirting with a serving-girl. She was one of the alehouse-keeper's daughters, worked almost every night, and was very fond of both hearing and spreading new gossip.

Childermass smirked, and began to make his way toward them, absently reaching up to touch his cheek.