Author's Note: Oof, sorry for the delay on this one. There was a lot in this one that needed to be covered and I wanted it all to be a cohesive thing because it takes place over the span of just two days, but wow there's just...a lot. I do wanna maintain some semblance of time passing, though, and I don't want there to be just a million page breaks here, so I decided to split this "chapter" into 3 parts. Also changed things to a slightly higher content rating, just to be on the safe side here ;P
March 1815 - part 1
She ignored the cabbie's half-hearted offer of a hand, thrusting a couple of coins into his palm instead, and rushed out of the cab and onto the street. Her steps were light and swift—she'd have flown if only she'd been able—as she rounded the corner to Hanover-square, and then ducked into the alley beside Norrell's house and around the back, to the servants' entrance.
There she finally stopped, and caught her breath: John was already there, though his tall, dark form was crouched on the back step, arm extending to set out a small dish of food. The cat he held it out to noticed her before he did—it turned and hissed as she stepped out of the shadows.
"Easy, there," she called, in the language of birds (in which all cats were naturally proficient). "I am not here for you."
"This human is mine," the creature yowled in reply.
Georgiana drew herself up, pain and anger sparking through her. "He is mine first!" she hissed.
The cat eyed her suspiciously; but eventually decided she was no threat, and turned back to the food. Childermass watched the exchange with interest, but neither rose nor spoke until the cat was eating.
"What did you say to her?" he asked finally, softly.
"That I am a friend," was the best answer Ana could give. "What are you doing?"
He stroked the cat's back very tenderly, and the creature purred in response. There was a soft smile on his face when he pulled back and stood to his feet, and then shrugged. "She's pregnant," was the only answer he gave.
Ana sighed and looked more closely, noting the cat's rounded stomach and slowness of movements. "Then why not take her inside?"
John rolled his eyes. "Norrell is allergic," he snorted, as though he believed the allergy to be of his master's own making. But then he looked at her fully, and frowned. "What are you doing here? Georgiana, what's wrong?"
She took a tentative step forward, but then lost her nerve. She held out the bundle of well-worn fabric in her hands, as though it might protect her. "I finished your buttons."
He descended the step, still frowning, and came and took the coat from her, rubbing his thumb along one of the raven-buttons. "It looks very fine," he decided. "But you need not have come all this way."
"I needed to see you," she murmured.
He nodded, as though he had expected as much, and asked, "Why?"
She swallowed thickly, and steeled herself. "I am... Jonathan and Arabella are r-returning to Shropshire."
His frown deepened; he shook his head. "No."
"It has been decided."
"You can't go."
"I cannot stay!" she cried, more than a little desperately. He took her up in his arms, letting the coat fall to the ground, and pulled her against the wall of the house. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck; but still she felt his breath against her skin as he whispered the words, felt the coolness of his shadows overcome them and tuck them both away, out of the reach of prying eyes.
"You cannot go," he breathed again, his lips brushing against her cheek.
She shook her head, blinking back tears at the pain in his voice. "I will go with them to Shropshire for a few days, and then return to Edinburgh from there," she told him, pulling away from his cool skin, though still unable to meet his dark, watchful eyes. "After that, I do not know what will happen. The British army is on its way to Belgium, and Wellington has made it no secret that he wishes to have Jonathan join them there. I may stay home long enough to see my sisters, and then, perhaps, be back to Shropshire for Arabella's sake. Or I may stay in Scotland entirely. But I cannot return to London."
"You cannot go," he repeated, shaking his head.
She grabbed his face in both her hands, kissed his lips clumsily, desperately; he pinned her body against the wall with his own, and met her kiss greedily, stealing her breath, his hands clutching at any part of her they could find.
"I will speak to Norrell," he groaned against her skin, when she finally pushed him away that they might both catch their breath. "He will apologize to Strange, convince him to stay—or we will find work for you in town, a good word from him and any bookshop would take you on–or–or–"
"I have a duty to my family," she reminded him softly, shaking her head, "one that I have neglected far too long. I am twenty-eight now, and unmarried; I should have settled in with a gentleman long ago, but as I... It is not... I am not free to choose what I want for my life. I am not free to choose you."
He gripped her chin and turned her head, forced her to meet his enormous, searching eyes. "But you would? You would choose me?"
"In one hundred lifetimes, John Childermass, I would choose you."
Apparently, even more than the words she said, there was something in the way she said them that caught his attention; he seemed to recognize that she was speaking with conviction—with experience. His expression grew, somehow, even darker, and he leaned in close enough to kiss her, but his gaze did not break from hers, and their lips failed to touch. "I ask you now, my lady, for the last time: what are you?"
She tilted her head, looking above them. "Where is your room? Can I see your window from here?"
He frowned, but nodded. "In the attic, on the end," he said, pointing above their heads. "Why?"
"Tonight," she instructed, "once all are abed—or enough to cause you no trouble—open your shutters, and wait for me to join you."
His frown deepened, his brow creasing in confusion. "You will climb to my window to tell me your secret? Why not just say it now?"
She shook her head with a breathy laugh. "No. I will come to your window, to show you. It will be better that way," she assured him. "Just...lay some wood in the fireplace, but do not light it. And if you might leave out a spare shirt for me, I would be glad of it."
"A spare shirt?"
"Aye," she teased, a poor approximation of his accent, a sly smirk on her face. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Strange instructions, I am aware. But will you follow them? Do you trust me?"
His arm snaked around her back, his lips found their way to her cheek. "You know I do," he growled against her skin, grazing his lips and tongue and teeth along the skin of her cheek, her neck, down and down until he met her collarbone, and there he stayed as she gasped and sighed against him. He sucked her flesh into his mouth, his teeth pressing lightly into her softness.
She trembled in his arms, she clung to him, she tilted her head back and bared her neck to him and whispered his name, "John." Beneath his lips, her pulse thrummed and sung. "John," she groaned again. "John, really, I must go."
He groaned, but pried himself away. Her skin was flushed, her eyes dark; the edge of her collarbone was already pink and swelling, and she shivered when he brushed his thumb against it. He tugged the neck of her chemise over the mark he'd made. "Forgive me," he murmured, and she laughed breathlessly, knowing well that neither of them were sorry for it.
"I must go," she said, laying a hand against his cheek, but only for a moment. She frowned, suddenly worried, uncertain. For all his talk, all his eagerness, all his dreaded curiosity to know what she was, there was still a chance the answer would not please him. "If you... After I have shown you all I am... If you still want me after that, you may leave whatever marks you like," she said, and then turned, freeing herself from his arms and shadows, and fleeing back the way she had come.
Childermass lost track of how much time he stood there, staring after her, his mind gone blank at her boldness.
The woman was a terror.
But he would gladly be hers to torment, if it meant she might stay. He turned, retrieved his coat from where they had dropped it, and sank to a seat on the back step. For all her talk of a lack of skill in needlework, Ana had done a very fine job in replacing his buttons. He ran his finger along the face of one, feeling the ridges of the little raven volant—and felt heat rush up into his hand and wrist and arm. With a frown, he flipped the fabric over, investigating her stitches.
There was...something there, he could almost see it..!
Childermass shook his head, and unfocused his eyes, and stopped looking so closely, and...there! Among the dark thread she had used, if he did not look directly, he could see tiny threads of reddish-gold, the colour of her magic. And not just on the buttons... He followed the lines as they spread out, like branches or webs, woven throughout the inner lining of his coat, along the lapels and back and sleeves and collar. He laid his open palm against the magic, and closed his eyes. It was tinged with her heat and smoke, of course—but this felt like magic he knew.
Miss Erquistoune had sewn a spell of protection into his coat.
The cat finished her food, and came and curled herself about his leg, stark white against the shadows that still clung to him.
He brushed off his spell, and reached down to pet the creature's fur. After a moment, he lifted her gingerly into his arms, stood, and took her inside, Norrell's allergies be damned.
