January 1815

Childermass had seated himself at the servants' dining-table beneath the Ridlington house, well occupied by his pipe as the staff bustled around him to deliver a variety of beverages and messages to and from the party upstairs. The other butlers and stewards often awaited their masters' summons at a nearby pub; but Norrell was growing exceedingly paranoid the longer they stayed in London (particularly after the evening, some years back, in which Mr. Lascelles had been attacked and robbed of all his clothing, under very mysterious circumstances), and continually required his man of business stay in the house, in case he were needed.

It was a burden, though not nearly so tiresome as Norrell believed, as Childermass was well-liked by the servants at Hanover-square and, thus, all the servants of London (or very nearly). They gave him freedom to do as he chose, and only ever asked he lend a hand if things were truly dire, in which case he was glad to do so to relieve some of their burden. Indeed, the nights oft presented an opportunity to be left alone to his own thoughts, without the worries of his master's latest schemes.

So engrossed he'd been in his mind's own wanderings, that it took a sudden burning of his fingers to realize that his pipe—and the kitchen fire—had increased in heat dramatically. He caught his pipe by the stem before it could clatter to the ground, and whirled to find the figure of Miss Erquistoune standing before the fire, her hands gripping the mantle tightly enough to turn her knuckles white.

"My lady—" he called before he'd fully risen from his chair. "Here, come away from the fire." She did not appear to have heard him, and failed to respond in any way. Worry made him bold enough to lay a hand upon her back and speak directly into her ear, "My lady?"

She whirled with a rage he had rarely had cause to witness in a woman, the fire roaring high in the grate; but when she saw that it was only him, she sighed and relaxed, her hands falling limp to her sides. "John," she breathed, and so taken was he by the sound of his Christian name from between her lips that he very nearly failed to notice the scorch marks her fingers had left in the mantle.

"Come away from the fire," he echoed softly, now he had her attention.

She frowned, glanced around, and spotted the blaze she'd built. "Oh!" she gasped; with a wave of her hand, the fire eased into something more manageable, and she allowed him to guide her into one of the chairs at the table.

He sat as well, drawing his chair far closer to hers than he rightly should. "You must be more careful, Miss Erquistoune," he hissed, forcing her golden eyes to focus upon his. "If someone had seen—"

"Oh, Miss Georgiana! Didn't see ya come down." It was one of the young maids, setting a heavy tray piled high with dirtied crystalware down on the table. She eyed Childermass and his closeness for only a moment, before fixing the lady with a sly grin. "Downstairs, there's a bottle o'that scotch you like so much, if you've a thirst."

"Thank you, Agnes," she said sweetly, and the girl bobbed her head, heaved up her tray, and bustled away. Georgiana rose slowly to her feet, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Do you care to have a drink with me, Mr. Childermass? It is a very good scotch."

He merely blinked at her in silence twice, trying to figure out just what she was up to and why. But he failed to come to it, and simply croaked, "Aye."

She nodded and promised to return swiftly, then disappeared behind a passing servant. He took a moment to collect himself, dumping the little ash that remained in his pipe into the now softly-crackling fire. He had seen Miss Erquistoune a few times since her cousin returned from war, but they had spoken only once—there was no reason for him to bring her books when Strange could do the same. And even before then, he had not allowed himself to visit too often or for too long, not after that night in the Stranges' kitchen when she gave him the book, not after what he'd nearly done to her. He had forgotten how strongly she affected him.

The woman was a nuisance, a terror, in more ways than one—but how she'd looked at him! So much anger, so swiftly followed by so much relief. And how quick his name had come to her lips, as if that was how she thought of him in her most private thoughts...

It did not bear dwelling upon. Miss Erquistoune was above his station, no matter how strange she was, no matter what she could do, no matter how the colour of her skin affected others' perception of her status. John Childermass was hardly a man to bow to societal convention, but this was not a woman he could ever have—not without irreparable damage to her already-tenuous reputation and her family's good standing, at the very least.

He cleaned and repacked his pipe to otherwise occupy his mind; but when he pulled out his box of matches, he found that all had been burnt up. He stared down at the blackened tips for a long moment, and then fell to laughter. When Miss Erquistoune returned with a bottle and two glasses, that was how she found him.

"What on earth has happened to you, Childermass?"

He shook his head, tossed the useless box down on the table before her. "You destroyed my matches, Erquistoune."

Her mouth opened in surprise, and then twisted into something sheepish and repentant, though clearly holding back her equal mirth. "Oh—Oh, I'm... John, I am sorry, I did not mean..."

He laughed again, and she followed suit, slumping quickly into the chair beside him, her skirts billowing up ridiculously. She muttered what had to be a curse or two in Gaelic, patting the fabric back into place; then she held out her hand, palm up, to him. "Let me see that pipe."

He hesitated, frowned, glanced around. The servants were busy, surely, but surely not too busy to notice what he suspected she was about to do. "If someone were to see—" he began, but she took it from his hand anyway.

"You spend too much time with that Mr. Norrell," she grumbled, and then gave the pipe much scrutiny, as though what she had to do involved a great deal of care. When she spoke again, it was so soft he had to lean in, straining to hear her. "The fires in a house do not go out when I am present. I will claim until my dying breath that it is Jonathan's influence, but the staff are hardly fools. 'Tis only a little less work for them, but enough to have earned their trust, and thus their silence." She pressed a delicate fingertip into the bowl of his pipe, wrapped her own lips around the stem and puffed softly until it took. Smoke curled from her nose and mouth when she spoke again, "Most seem to believe me Jonathan's secret apprentice, and I fear I have not the heart to correct them. But—at least at Lady Ridlington's, and a few other houses in town—so long as I open a bottle of something, and leave the rest for whoever might be around to finish it off, I find that any questions I may attract manage to find their own answers."

He took the pipe from her with only a slight tremble to his hands, the image of her mouth upon it permanently seared into his memory. "And thus...scotch?"

She grimaced, uncorking the bottle with practised ease and pouring two fingers for each of them. "Well, I am Scottish—or something very like it. And Lady Deckebach is a close, dear friend of Lady Ridlington's," she murmured, lifting her glass and downing its contents in one go with nary a wince nor a shudder, then pouring herself another. "I tend to find myself requiring something strong in this house."

Childermass took a sip of his drink, watching Miss Erquistoune carefully. When she failed to make her second glass disappear as quickly as the first, he pressed, "Is Lady Deckebach the woman I have to thank for the loss of my matches?"

She closed her eyes and sighed, slumping back in her chair in a most improper way. "No," she grumbled, "that blame is entirely mine own. I should not have lost myself like that, and I thank you, Childermass, for bringing me back. I... I ought not make excuses, but as you have witnessed one moment of weakness tonight, I pray you could forgive me another: my...condition makes me prone to allowing my anger to grow unchecked." She lifted her glass from the table and held it, instead, against her temple. Her eyes watched him cautiously through dark lashes. "There are a certain set of rumors currently circulating about myself. Am I correct in assuming you are aware of them?"

He cleared his throat, took another drink of the scotch to mask averting his eyes, having finally realized the true direction of this winding conversation. "...I am," he finally answered simply; she did not need him to elaborate.

"...Of course," she breathed, begrudging. "Indeed, if there is anyone in London more aware than I, I would believe it to be you. If I have heard it true, you have your thumb on the pulse of the entire city."

It was a good scotch, and he wished that he had drunk enough of it to explain away his behavior; but he had had very little, and yet still he leaned in close enough to see the streaks of brown in her golden eyes, to feel the puff of her breath against his skin, to smell her—a dizzying blend of sweat and rosewater and smoke. He leaned in far too close for anyone's good, put his hand at her wrist and his thumb at the inner curve to feel her pulse thrumming away, and said, "Only on the things that matter."

He fled back nearly as quickly, not trusting himself to linger so close to her...but her free hand shot out and caught the fabric of his sleeve, holding his wrist fast below the table. Her eyes burned into his.

With a growl, he twisted his hand to find the fabric of her glove beneath his palm, and gripped her arm tight. "And what, pray," he began, softly but evenly, even with her fingers creeping higher along the curve of his arm, even with the heat of her flesh so near, "did Lady Deckebach mistake to say that has distressed you so, my lady?"

She hissed, and he would swear he saw smoke pass from between her teeth, though she had long since returned his pipe (now resting, smoldering, forgotten on the table). "Evidently she has it from the 'highest authority' that I am neither Jonathan's bastard daughter, nor his mistress—but rather both at the same time." She shook her head sharply, a very dark look crossing her face. But then she took a deep breath, composed herself, eased the fingers digging too harshly into the flesh of his arm. "I suppose I shall have to congratulate Jonathan on such a remarkable feat, as he is not even ten years my senior."

Childermass snorted at that, and she flashed him a silly, lopsided grin, brandishing her glass high. "And thus, scotch," she declared.

He watched with much interest as she tilted her head back, baring her throat to his gaze, and threw back the rest of her drink. After a moment, he followed suit, feeling her watching him just as closely. Her right arm was otherwise occupied, and he was quite resistant to the idea of letting it free, so he reached across for the bottle and refilled their glasses.

She laughed softly, her thumb gently stroking his arm. "Thank you, John. But please do not allow me any more than that; I fear I approach my limit."

"As you like." He shook his head, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Perhaps my work in the matter of our friend Lascelles was too effective; I drew you into the public eye, ignited their interest...and now this. I do not wish to make more trouble for you, my lady—but if you wish it, I will do all in my power to put an end to this nonsense."

Her expression turned thoughtful; she leaned back in her chair, her hand sliding down his forearm until they held one another's wrists. "Any other man to offer such a miracle would find himself laughed from the room. But from you... Well, I know you to be capable of any number of impossible things, John Childermass. I would not be saddened to be free of this, though I admit I do fear the potential of any backlash to further soil my cousin's good name."

"If it would distress you, Miss Erquistoune, I would not allow it."

"Indeed?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "I wonder what I could have done to deserve such devotion?"

He cast his eye about, watching the other servants, busy with their work but too close for talk such as this—too close for much of what had already been said. "My reasons are my own," he muttered. "Is it not enough to know you have it?"

"Aye, it is far more than enough." She drank down the rest of her scotch, though slowly now, eyeing him carefully all the while. She set the glass down with care and said, "I believe I have had my fill of parties tonight. Would that I could see myself home, for it is not far; but it is still quite early, and, sadly, I must await Mr. Strange's pleasure."

He laughed—they were well past the need for such games, but there was a mischievous gleam in her eye that he quite liked, so he was glad to play along. "I suppose that I could see you safely home, my lady, if you have such a great desire?"

"Indeed?" she asked through a dangerously sweet grin. "Your Mr. Norrell will not miss you?"

"My Mr. Norrell will have to get along without me," he grumbled, following her suit and finishing off his drink. "I am certain he is capable."

"Thank you, John," she murmured, only now releasing his wrist and withdrawing her hand. "I will send word to Arabella that I feel unwell. Do you have any paper? And something to write with?"

Childermass nodded, reaching into his pocket for his memorandum book and a bit of graphite. He handed her the pencil gladly, but hesitated with the book, thinking of all that was within. Well. He supposed it was quite past time for her to see. By the tone of their conversation tonight, she may be flattered; but the likely result would be her fleeing from him, which would be better for the both of them in the long run, no matter how he dreaded the very thought. With a sigh, he passed it along. "Take whichever page you like."

Miss Erquistoune frowned at his strange behavior, but flipped open the book anyway, evidently unconcerned. She gasped, however, when she saw what was inside. He turned to look, and saw that she'd landed on one of the sketches he'd made of the statues speaking at the Cathedral at York. She turned a page, and found the Cathedral's exterior, tucked beneath a list of fees once due to all the booksellers in town. Another page: a list of magicians Norrell had had him run out of Manchester, and his favorite tree along the Hurt, blooming in the spring. Another had the fireplace in the library at Hurtfew, a rare and merry fire burning. Her eyes lingered on that one, her finger tracing the edges of the graphite flames.

"Did you draw all of these?" she breathed.

He chuckled around his pipe. "Who else? No one, save you and I, has ever seen inside that book."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide and surprised and searching through his. He did not know what she was looking for, nor what she found; but eventually she turned away, slipped a few more pages ahead. "You are unduly talented, John Childermass. I wonder what other things your hands are capable of." He coughed, choking on pipe smoke; but she gave him no time to respond, let alone recover. "Ah! Is this Jonathan?"

He looked down, saw the drawing he'd made of Strange standing before the mirror in Norrell's library, arms outstretched to the book he'd trapped within it. "Aye," he croaked, and cleared his throat. "When first he came to Hanover-square to show Norrell his magic."

She grinned up at him. "You certainly managed to capture his hair."

He lifted a brow at her. "Did not you have a message to write, my lady?" he asked, nervous as to the contents of the remaining pages.

"Oh. Yes, I did," she murmured, flipping ahead so far that, for a moment, he thought she had missed them all. But he could have no such luck; in a moment, she gasped again, her hands stilled. "...Oh."

The image was of her, smiling, though not at the viewer; he'd taken great care in the small dimple of her left cheek, the rounded slope of her nose, the subtle arch of her brow. It had been the first sketch in a very long time to make his hands itch for colored paints, though he knew he could never truly do her eyes justice.

On the next page, she was scolding a rough approximation of Strange for some little act of thoughtlessness; the curious blend of annoyance and fondness in her features and countenance had stuck with him in his mind's eye for days until he'd had a chance to get it down on paper.

Another page, Georgiana sat at Norrell's dining table, at one of the very rare dinners his master hosted, tall and elegant and imperious. Around it were scratched his furious thoughts: "What is she? Magician? Enchantress? Some form of witch? Surely no faerie, nor practitioner of any English magic. Why fire? Are there elemental magicians? How does she do it? Why does Norrell not take notice of the candles? How does he not see her? How does any man? How do I stop?"

She read all of this carefully, eyes tracing his untidy scrawl, and then slowly flipped the page. It was his latest work of her, though based on the first time he saw her; he'd needed time to study her features, to get the expression just right. She gazed out of the page, both ferocious and delighted, sizing him up, surprised not at his sudden appearance but at his substance. Above her head, he'd scratched out the first words she'd said to him; "Ah, the shadow speaks."

"...Oh," the real Georgiana said, almost reverently, fingering the edge of the page. When she turned it and saw that the next page was blank, she seemed surprised, as if she'd forgotten that a blank page was what she had come looking for. With a start, she tore the blank page out and scrawled something to her friend.

"Oh! Miss Agnes?" The girl from before stopped in her steps, a nervous butler grumbling curses as he squeezed to get by her. "Do you know my friend, Mrs. Strange? Could you take this to her?"

"Of course, Miss. Will Mr. Strange do, in her stead?"

"No, no, it must be Arabella, please. Mr. Childermass will be seeing me home—Jonathan would...not understand."

The girl Agnes gave Childermass a knowing grin, tucking the letter into her skirts. "Aye, Miss Georgiana. Mrs. Strange, it is. Have a good night, Miss."

"Thank you, Agnes, and you," Ana said, laughing. "Ready, Mr. Childermass?"

He stood, fixing this Agnes with a withering look; the girl responded with yet another grin, bobbed again, and ran off. When he returned, he would take aim that no word of this was spread to anyone, save Mrs. Strange. "Aye, my lady," he grumbled.

Miss Erquistoune took his arm, and together they wove their way out of the kitchens. He deposited her at the door, pressed his way through the throng of servants to the coat-room to retrieve his great-coat and the lady's cloak (a deep red, nearly burgundy velvet, trimmed with gold thread, a stark and elegant contrast to the cream-coloured gown she wore tonight). Then he returned to her, helped her into the cloak; and together they journeyed into the alleyway and out onto the street.

Childermass spotted Davey tending the horses, and they took Norrell's carriage to Soho-square.

Miss Erquistoune was silent when they got into the carriage, merely staring out the window, removing her gloves and then chewing on her thumbnail. He watched her the whole time. Twice, she took in a sharp breath as if to speak, but apparently thought better of it. He did not press her; and the third time, her soft voice carried across to him, "Where did you learn to draw?"

He laughed, shook his head. "Nowhere. Everywhere. I draw what I see."

She laughed in turn, though bitterly, her voice even softer as she said, "Then you see me very well, sir."

Childermass frowned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, waiting for her to finally turn to meet his eye. "Aye, I do."

She stared, eyes wide, and had just opened her mouth to speak when the carriage lurched to a stop outside of the Strange's home.

He got out and helped her down. Before he could say a thing, she grabbed his arm and hurried off, dragging him along behind her. He waved at Davey to stay and let her pull him along. She did not go up to the door, but around the side and to the back of the house, near the servants' entrance. "Miss Erquistoune—"

She tugged his arm, grabbed his collar, and pulled his lips to hers.

The sky cracked open; the stones cried out; the woman before him was made of fire.

Childermass opened his eyes, saw that it was Georgiana.

Georgiana.

He broke away from her, caught her cheek in his hand. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, worried, uncertain. He let his hand slide back into her hair, let the weight of his body press hers back against the wall of the house; he put his face into the curve of her neck so he could smell her again, the scent of her adding to his dizziness, and he let his lips brush against her skin as he spoke the words of the spell.

She shivered against him as the shadows spread over them both; he pulled away to look at her, and found her watching him carefully. It was darker now with the shadows; but a part of him could see her truly, burning red-hot in the darkness. Her eyes were glowing; her breath was hot against his skin.

"Georgiana," he groaned.

She grinned, and kissed him again.

Again, he was somewhere—something—else. A part of him could feel and taste and smell: her warm, soft body beneath him, her full lips sliding against his, her wet tongue sneaking past his lips and teeth and into his mouth, the scotch she'd drunk, the smoke she carried with her always, the sweat and rosewater of tonight. But another part of him could hear, and see: the stones and trees and clouds screaming, the woman aflame but never burning, the sky itself heavy with messages and questions and stories in a language he did not know, but it called to him—

"What?" he tried to ask, forgetting that his mouth was busy, that his tongue was in Ana's mouth, that it was very happy there and very reluctant to be bothered with forming words, she was so warm and eager, she felt so good, she'd started this, she'd wanted this, she'd wanted him..!

He pressed his fist into the stone wall beneath her, the pain enough to ground him; the stone itself cried out in what he knew to be protest though he did not know the words. The pain grounded him, and he broke his mouth apart from hers. The world fell silent and dumb and still again, and Childermass took a deep breath of the cool night air and tried again, "What is this?"

"Mm–what is what?" Ana echoed slowly, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, peeling open her eyes with evident effort; but when she focused, and saw him, she gasped. "Oh," she breathed, and then, "sorry." She reached up, passed her fingers over his eyes and ears and mouth, and took a sharp breath. "Sorry. I did not realize..." Her voice trailed off, and she stared at him, her eyes curious and wondering. She cocked her head to the side, a gesture he'd seen from her a hundred times before, but for the first time, with her golden eyes gleaming in his shadows, he realized that it made him think of birds. "You are so sensitive to the magic around you," she breathed, and then her swollen lips curled into a positively wicked grin. "What are you, John Childermass?"

He knew it, suddenly. He understood. But he would wait for her to tell him herself. He wanted, in that moment more than anything else, for her to trust him.

"Yours," he answered, and kissed her again.

There was no magic this time, no other world, nothing to distract him from her softness and her sweetness, from the sounds she made in her pleasure, from the way she curled her hands about his neck and dug her fingers into his hair.

She made such delicious noises, and groaned his name every time her lips broke from his, and much sooner than he liked he had to press his hands against the wall and push himself away from her.

"Any more of that," he warned, gasping, "and I would have you here against this wall."

"That a promise?" she purred, moving in to kiss him again; but he pressed his forehead to hers and kept her just out of reach.

He shook his head, grinning at the way the end of his nose brushed against hers. "The first time I have you," he growled, reaching up to run his fingers along the short curls at her temple, "I will have you properly—on a bed, with all the time we need."

She bit her lip, staring up at him with wide, golden-brown eyes. For once, there was no humour in her voice as she asked, "The first time?"

"Aye." He ran his thumb along her cheekbone. "Now, that is a promise."

"I will hold you to it." She pulled away from him, resting her head back against the wall, her eyes drifting closed. The corners of her mouth tugged downward, her brow creasing in concern. "I... You should go back, John. I have kept you too long." Her eyes opened, heavily, sadly. "Arabella is worried that I am truly ill, they are leaving now. And Norrell never stays long after Jonathan has gone."

Childermass frowned. "How do you..?"

She reached up, and laid one hand across his eyes. At first, he could see nothing but darkness; but then, it was like someone had opened a window right before him, a window into a house that was on fire. Through the haze of heat and the flames, he could make out the figure of Mr. Norrell, pacing anxiously, as Strange and his wife bowed and said their goodbyes.

He gasped, and pulled away from her hand—the vision cleared away. "You...look through the fires!"

She grinned, a little crookedly, a little teasingly. "I have told you so before. Did you not believe me?"

"I..." He shook his head, trying to clear the strange dizziness Miss Erquistoune's magic inflicted upon him. "I did not understand."

She laughed, as light and sweet as sunlight, and reached into the pocket of her cloak. "Before you go," she said, softly, "I have something for you. Jonathan said Norrell would be there tonight, so I hoped I would see you." She placed a small, cloth purse into his hands.

He undid the tie and opened the bag, dumping its contents into his palm with a frown. They were... "Buttons?"

A very pretty color rose in her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, reaching across to finger one of those sewn onto his coat. "Last I saw you, I noticed your other coat was missing more than a few," she told him, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "If you bring it by the house, well... I am not particularly skilled with a needle, but I will replace them for you."

He noticed a curious shape in the carving upon them and took a step back from her, dispersing the shadows that he might see them clearly. "They are ravens!"

"Yes," she laughed. "They made me think of you. I am a little late; but happy Christmas, Childermass."

"I..." He stared dumbly, not sure how to explain what this meant to him. "Thank you, Ana," he said, knowing it wasn't nearly enough, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I...had not gotten you—"

She put her hands on his cheeks, and drew his mouth back to hers, and kissed him sweetly. He could feel her mouth curling upward in a grin against his own lips, and wondered if there were any better feeling in the world. When she pulled away, she pressed her forehead against his, still grinning, and put her hand on his, folding his fingers over the handful of little wooden ravens. "I cannot say how I have missed you," she breathed. "Now you have a reason to come and visit me again. That is all the gift I could want."

He kissed her again, less than sweet, more urgent and yearning, trying to give her all he could not say.

When she broke away, he took her up in his arms, holding her to his chest. "I will find as many reasons as I can," he promised, "to come and visit you again."

She laughed, a little breathless, put her hand on his chest, and pushed him away gently. "I look forward to it. But I have kept you away far too long, and Davey is still waiting for you. You must go."

"...I must," he grumbled, shaking his head. But he opened his hand, looking fondly at her gift, and managed to give her a smile and a nod. "I will see you very soon," he promised. "Good night, Georgiana."

She grinned, and kissed him swiftly, one last time. "Good night, John."