Author's Note: Alright well, good news is that I was able to finish this chapter much faster than my usual rate, and I'm starting to really get back into this story and these characters and that feels great. But I could really use some feedback out here, just sayin'.


February 1813

The last thing Georgiana had wanted to do, so soon after her return to Soho-square, was to suffer through another afternoon at the house of one of the wives of Jonathan's military connections, at Arabella's side. But she had missed Mrs. Strange very dearly in her time away, and the invitation had come addressed to "Miss Erquistoune" first and then to the lady of the house, so she was all but obliged to attend.

Thus she found herself, on this bright and crisp day, so near to the beauty of spring she thought she could taste it on the wind, trapped inside Lady Harrington's parlour. The room smelled so strongly of lavender that her head began to swim the moment she entered, and then to throb with every passing breath. The tea was too weak, the scones and sandwiches too dry, the couch she was seated upon too stiff and uncomfortable, the conversation too vapid-and far too often focused upon herself.

"How is your father, Miss Erquistoune? We have heard he has been unwell."

"You have? I mean... Thank you for your concern. I was just home for Christmas, and he was quite recovered by then."

"Oh! That is quite good news!"

"And where is home for you, Miss Georgiana?"

She blinked; she did not even know the name of the woman addressing her so. "I... It is in Edinburgh, with my family."

"Oh! And what a lovely town, do you not think?"

She frowned, bafflement growing by the minute, but did agree it to be the most lovely, despite easily sharing the size and scope of London, so it could hardly be considered a mere town.

They thought her answer delightful.

George wanted to gag.

Normally, at such events, she was able to go almost wholly ignored, to allow her mind to wander as it pleased, a smiling piece of furniture in these people's frivolous lives, as all ladies' companions were wont to be. Now, she still felt herself a prop, but more like a doll or an art-piece, something to be passed around and gawked at and talked about-and, when the gaggle began to crowd around her, and touch her skin, her hair, she had only to send Arabella one fast, desperate look before her friend was up and making their excuses.

"Oh! I dare say, we have an appointment, new curtains, you know, and oh! Would you look at the time? Come, Georgiana, we must be going, we really must! Oh no, I'm sorry, Georgiana cannot stay, I fear I have no eye whatever for drapery, I would be lost without her! Yes, yes, we certainly must get together again soon, of course. Yes, goodbye! Goodbye!"

In the carriage, Arabella was nothing but apologies, but Ana could hardly speak until they were well out of sight of the Lady's house, well on their way back to Soho-square. She could not wrap her mind around the strangeness. "What was that about?" she finally rasped, running both hands along her hair as though her own touch could smear that of strangers away. She missed her sisters already.

"I'm sorry, Georgiana," Bell echoed once more. "I should have realized, should have warned you..."

Ana frowned, turned to her friend. "Warned me? Of what?"

The woman bit her lip, twisting her fingers together in her lap. "Since you left for Christmas, I have been receiving many letters...asking about you."

"What?"

"I meant to tell you, but... Well, I did not wish to worry you, so soon after your travels, and..." She shook her head with a sigh. "It would appear that your true relationship to Jonathan and I has been found out."

The carriage hit something solid in the road, and jolted around them. George felt all the breath rush out of her lungs, thinking of the party that had caused her to flee back home for the holidays ahead of schedule, of the feeling of Lascelles' throat beneath her hand, of the assurances John Childermass had made her that night. Whatever story the man had crafted, it must have proven far too compelling. "He has made me a spectacle," she breathed.

"I am sure Jonathan would never have wanted that," Bell assured, reaching across to take her hand, and Ana was far too grateful to not need to explain her words, she could not imagine correcting the wrong assumption.

"I know. I know," she murmured, absently, trying to think. For years now, she had worked to keep herself secret, to prevent the scandal of her very existence from touching her cousin's blessed reputation. Yet even so, all had come to light-and the result was not remotely as she had imagined or worried it would be.

She could not decide whether this was better or worse.

Prejudice and hate she was prepared for, accustomed to. This awful...admiration, she was not. What had John said?

The carriage rocked to a stop in front of the Strange's home, but she lingered in the seat a moment longer, closing her eyes. There were many fires burning in the house at Hanover-square. She would not allow herself to use those in personal quarters, despite how often she thought of it, an itch she must never scratch; but the library fireplace was safe enough, and she could see that he was there, and so she took a breath and held it, let the flames die down, and when she released her breath they burned back, higher than before, and she saw that Childermass had risen to his feet and was crossing the rug to investigate, brow creased and head cocked to the side.

She opened her eyes, feeling more calm just for the glimpse of him, and stood and followed Arabella out of the carriage and up the steps into the house.


The kitchen in the Strange's home was smaller than that of her parents', but over the years it had become one of Georgiana's favorite places in all of London. With Jonathan away, it saw far less use, and offered her a peaceful place to busy herself when her thoughts were muddled, as they were now. With Arabella away for the evening, there was no one to disturb her, nothing the servants might need while their lady was gone, as they had all already had their meal.

Ana had been invited along, but had told Mrs. Strange she wished to stay home and wash her hair, and that much had certainly been true-indeed, she had stayed in the bath far longer than necessary, as if doing so could wash away the feeling of strangers' hands on her skin and in her hair, the sense that her body was nothing but an object to be handled as any white person should wish and then discarded when they tired of her.

It did not quite work. But she emerged from the bath feeling much more calm than she had gone into it, and had wrapped her hair in one of the new scarves her sisters had given her for her birthday, and had put on her most comfortable house-dress, and had found more than enough supplies in the pantry to be able to make her favorite spice-cake (she had little enough skill in cooking, but she was clever with an oven and enjoyed baking a great deal, and was always glad to have something sweet to show for her efforts).

She was taking the cake out from the oven when she heard the knock. With a smile, she set the cake out to cool, then crossed the room and opened the servants' door.

It had started to rain; but Childermass hardly seemed to notice, standing at the base of the back stairs, his hair loose and wet, his great-coat and rumpled hat glistening with moisture.

"Oh goodness, Childermass, come in from the rain!" she urged, swinging the door open wide; but he had lifted his eyes to look at her, and now merely stood there, staring.

His lips were parted, his face even paler than usual, his already-large, dark eyes gone wide and wondering. Georgiana shifted on her feet, tamping the Fire down further for good measure. She had gotten much better at not projecting her nature when he was nearby, and thought she had done enough tonight; but he looked as though he might swoon, which was the typical effect her magic had on him. Her efforts appeared to have no effect, however, and she was growing rather worried.

She cocked her head to the side and reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching him. "All right there, Childermass?"

"Joan wore her hair like that," he breathed, so soft she had to strain to hear him.

She wracked her brain, trying to think where she had heard him mention the name before. "Joan..? Oh!" She reached up, fingering the silk scarf around her hair. "Your...mother wrapped her hair like this?" she asked, very gently, afraid to open what she assumed to be some very old wounds.

Still, the question seemed to startle him from his daze: his eyes widened a fraction further, and he bowed his head quickly. "Forgive me," he blurted, shaking his head (and spraying little drops of rain from the brim of his hat in the process). "It has...been a long time."

She reached out again, this time happy to bridge the gap, to place her hand on his arm. "Would you like to come in, Mr. Childermass?"

He did not raise his head, and was silent so long she began to fear the answer would be no. But finally he nodded, and murmured, "Yes, please."

She tugged his arm and led him in, the door closing on its own behind them. There was already a chair near the fire, and he helped himself to it after setting his hat and great-coat on the rack to dry.

Ana poured a little magic into the fire, to warm him, though he did not appear to notice. Indeed, he still seemed more than a little dazed, staring off at nothing, his wet hair plastered to his face. She set a kettle of water on the fire for tea; as it was heating, she glazed the cake.

When the kettle sang, she grabbed it off the fire with her bare hands, and Childermass seemed to see it but said nothing. So she brewed the tea, sliced the cake, piled all upon a tray, then set that on a little stool before him and brought over a chair of her own. When he did not move, still staring into the fire, she reached across and put her hand again upon his arm.

He flinched, and his eyes locked on hers. With a sigh, he shook himself, and pushed his hair back and free from his face. "Forgive me, Miss Erquistoune. It has been long since last I thought of her."

She touched her fingers to the scarf, uncertain. "I could take it off if you like, though my hair—"

"No! No, please do not. It is not a bad reminder, only an unexpected one." He leaned forward, and shook his head. "You surprised me, that is all."

She nodded, pretending not to notice the tremor in his voice or that he seemed to be reassuring himself and not her. "What was she like?" she asked, as gently as she could.

"Beautiful," he breathed. "And clever. As kind as she could have been to a thing like me." He lifted his eyes, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. "I doubt I was much of an easy son."

"No, I would not think so," she teased, very glad of the lift in his spirits, slight as it may be.

"Regardless," he said, his voice far steadier, reaching out to draw the slice of cake a little closer to his person, "what thought you of Eighteen Wonders?"

"I thought it a waste of good paper," she said, thrilling in the little laugh he gave in response. "Whatever the author's gender, it is clear they were apprenticed to Pale. All the same unnecessary intricacies, those unintelligible charts, the ridiculous equipment! It is a wonder they ever achieved any magic at all with such nonsense."

"You seem to dislike every book I ever bring you," he grumbled, raising a heaping forkful of the spice-cake to his mouth.

"Perhaps, but I like that you bring them," she answered softly, a little too honestly, and cleared her throat, turned away. "And anyway, I did like some things. I thought Ormskirk's Revelations quaint enough. And Goubert's Apollo was at least interesting; the illustrations were downright delightful. My goodness," she breathed, turning back and seeing that his slice of cake was nearly gone already. "Does your Mr. Norrell not feed you, Childermass?"

"My master neither knows nor cares how his servants are fed, Miss Erquistoune." He glanced up at her over the near-empty plate, his eyes full of amusement. "I assure you, we are fed quite well."

"I am hardly surprised, but glad to hear it." She stood, and fetched a basket from where it hung on the wall, placed the rest of the cake inside, and wrapped it up in a spare bit of gingham. "Take this back with you, then. Surely the others deserve a slice, as well."

He polished off the remaining crumbs, washed it down with the tea, and took the basket from her with a frown. "Did you not make this for yourself and Mrs. Strange?"

"I made it to keep myself occupied," she told him, shaking her head. "If your people like it half as well as you did, I shall be satisfied."

"If they like it half as well, I shall be requesting a great many cakes from you, Miss Erquistoune. Now, what has bothered you, that you would need such a distraction?" he asked, giving her so little time to relish in the compliment. "What did you to our fire?"

She sighed, and leaned against the back of her chair. There was a sadness still present in his eyes, and he kept glancing toward her headscarf, and she could hardly bear to mention what had taken place this morning, lest he feel some guilt at the ill repercussions his kindness had wrought. "I am sorry for it, sorry that I let such a little thing upset me so. Some of Arabella's wealthy friends were unkind to me, and I missed you while I was away and it made me impatient to see you. I should not have let it get to me, or at least should have found a better way to contact you."

He frowned again. "I knew you were back in town, I would have come. You did not accompany Mrs. Strange to Harley-street. Are you sure it was nothing?"

"How do you..? Were you watching the house, for her to leave?"

He shrugged. "Mrs. Strange always goes to see Lady Pole on Thursdays," he said, though it was not quite an answer to the question she had asked. "Yet you did not go with her."

She shook her head. "Lady Pole is Bell's friend, not mine. And that house... I do not know what curse Norrell inflicted upon the poor woman, but that house reeks of a magic I cannot begin to bear."

"You've felt it, too?"

She turned and met his eye, the intensity of his gaze. "Only just. Lady Pole knows what I am, or that I am something, though I cannot begin to imagine how she could. She screams as though I burn her if I even cross the threshold, calls me witch and demon if I come within her sight. So no, I did not accompany Mrs. Strange, as to do so would mean waiting, alone, in the carriage for the duration of my friend's visit, and I cannot say I care to spend my time in such a manner." She sighed and turned her head. "It had nothing at all to do with the things Lady Harrington's friends said to me."

"Lady Harrington?" Childermass rose to his feet, expression darkening though his features did not move. "What did they say to you?"

Georgiana smiled softly and reached across, touched her fingers to his cheek, just for a moment, before turning and stepping away to retrieve two things from the table. "Nothing worse than I have heard before, sir."

"That gives me little comfort, my lady," he growled.

"No, I would imagine not," she murmured. "But come; I have your book, and something else besides."

He took Eighteen Wonders and tucked it away into one of his many mysterious pockets, eyeing the parcel in her hands curiously. "Something else?"

"A gift," she said, holding it out to him.

"I cannot accept it."

"What, do you not celebrate Christmas in Yorkshire?" she teased, placing it in his hands.

"I did not get you anything," he said, so earnestly and sincerely she could hardly believe it was John Childermass saying it.

"No? You who have been my only friend in London? You who have loaned me all these books, even just to hear how strongly I hate them?"

"Loaned, aye, Miss Erquistoune," he said, frowning.

She laughed. "Then you may return it when you are done with it, if that would satisfy you."

His frown deepened; but finally, he looked down at the thing in his hands, turned it over, slid his long fingers beneath the edge of the paper, and unwrapped the copy of Lord Portishead's A Child's History of the Raven King that she had found in the bookstore in Edinburgh, the only book about magic they had on offer. He grinned.

"I have it on good authority," she said, taking a step forward, "that Mr. Gilbert Norrell does not have a copy of this in his library."

"He does not. I have not read it, have not had the chance." He lifted his head and met her eye, and only then did she realize just how close they were to one another; she could feel his breath against her skin, could see that his pupils were wide and dark, glittering in the light of the kitchen fire. "Thank you, Geo-"

His grin disappeared, lips pressing tightly together even as hers fell apart, the good humour in his eyes vanishing in place of a panic at what he had almost said. Her heart pounded in her chest, so suddenly she had to gasp to catch her breath-how close she had been to hearing her name, in his voice, and God above, what would that have done to her? Here and now, in the Strange's kitchen, in this place she knew they were alone and no one in the house would hear them? What would she have done to him?

Nothing good, nothing proper or appropriate or fitting of her station, she knew that even as he turned from her, hurrying into his still-damp great-coat and retrieving his sad hat with a terrible silence, and she snatched up the basket and thrust it into his hands before he could throw open the door and flee from her like this.

"Here, don't forget," she said, as evenly as she could force her voice to be, and he took the handle from her, kept his head down so she could not meet his eye.

"Thank you, Miss Erquistoune," he answered stiffly. "I am sure the other servants will be most glad of this."

She flinched at the unnecessary reminder of his station, reached out to place her hand on his. "I will want to hear what you think of the book."

"Of course," he breathed. "And I will bring you another to occupy you, soon enough. But I must go now, before Mrs. Strange returns."

"If you must."

He lifted his eyes, looking at her from beneath dark lashes, and for a moment, she thought he might actually try it, that he might kiss her, that she would surely let him. But instead, he shifted his grip on the basket, and lifted her hand to his mouth, and slid her knuckles against his lips for half an instant before turning and flinging open the door and stepping back out into the rain. "Good night, Miss Erquistoune."

She pressed her hand to her chest, and caught the door before it could swing shut behind him. "Good night, Mr. Childermass."