Author's Note: Alright, and onto part 2! If it looks like George, and it smells like George...
March 1815 - part 2
Childermass sat at his desk, a book opened before him, though it had been some time since his mind had taken in any of the words on any of the pages. There was much he wished to do, and not much time in which to do it.
The first would be easy enough. He had had it for a very long time, long before he ever had any idea what to do with it. But the spell was something else. He had cast protections before, though nothing so deep nor enduring as the one she had woven into his coat with strands of heat. He figured there was something to that, binding the magic to a particular element, and he imagined he could do the same, if he could but find the right agent.
He'd thought the book could help him. There was still a chance that it might. But night had fallen, and his shutters were open–though he had yet left the glass closed, to keep out the lingering chill of winter—and Childermass could not seem to keep his attention away from the window.
What if she did not come?
He shook his head, attempting to clear it of such a thought. She had kissed him, not the other way around. She had told him how to let her in. She wanted this, wanted him.
It was unfair to doubt her, perhaps; Miss Erquistoune had proven herself remarkable and steadfast, time and again. Yet he could not help but to worry she would realize that he was not enough, that she could still seek a man who would suit her in the ways he could not, in status and in wealth...
And in proximity, he remembered with a sigh. She would be leaving London soon, with no viable excuse to return. And though, despite his shortcomings, Norrell allowed his man of business exceptional freedom to come and go as he pleased in the pursuit of his business, even Childermass could not stretch his duties so far as Scotland.
It was possible that he would never see her again.
He could scarcely imagine what it would be like to go back to the way things had been, before Miss Erquistoune had forced her way into his life. He was not sure he remembered how.
He had kept so many secrets in his life; but she was the first person to ever wish to keep his in return. All his life, he had fashioned himself into something that people would overlook; but she had seen him from the very first. When had John Childermass ever been in want of a confidante, a companion? Never, until Miss Erquistoune, with her sharp tongue and her perfumed letters and her clever mind, with her watchful eyes and her easy laughter and her magic that pulled at him whenever she was near.
For years, he had been certain that she would not—could not—consider him in the way he considered her. He had resigned himself to that certainty.
And then she'd dragged him into an alley and kissed him senseless—or, rather, quite the opposite.
Childermass shook his head, rested his elbows on the desk, and ran his hands through his hair. He would not check the time again, he needed to focus on his book, needed to give her something that could prove all she meant to him. Georgiana Erquistoune had shown him, quite literally, that there was more to magic than what he had seen—for that alone, he could never truly repay her.
But he could try.
He sighed, ran his hands down his face, and refocused on his reading. There must be something..!
The tapping was sharp and loud and unmistakable. He turned and saw the bird, like a blaze burning in his window, bright against the night. The golden-brown eyes he knew peered at him through the glass; then she tapped her beak again, insistent.
Childermass stood and hurried across the room and swung the window open. There was scarcely room for her; he had not known quite what to expect—the descriptions in the books he'd found were varied, and oft conflicting—but he certainly had not thought her to be so big. With the navy, he had seen the massive Indian peafowl; but she was larger still than those, shuffling through the small window-frame until she had room to spread her wings, revealing brilliant, golden feathers tucked away beneath the rest, the deep and blazing scarlet, the colour of Ana's hair.
With one beat of those wings, she was aloft, and Childermass watched in wonder as she dove into his cold fireplace and erupted into flames.
The fire flared, so bright he could not say where feathers ended and flames began. But then a dark shape took form, half-hidden behind the haze.
First an arm, and then a leg, and then the whole body of Georgiana Erquistoune emerged from the fire—the whole, bare body, all dark, freckled skin and soft, delicious curves. She did not spare him a single glance, merely cast her eyes about until they landed on the shirt he'd hung upon the mantle, which she then swiftly slid herself into.
The shirt fell short of her knees—when she raised her arms in a catlike stretch, it crept even higher, but then fell back again. Either way, it was nowhere near decent. Childermass snatched the counterpane from atop his bed and rather flung it about her shoulders.
The woman laughed, turning to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes like molten gold, glowing despite the fire and the candles. But she drew the blanket across her chest, and she stood a little hunched so it covered her body from his sight. "Mmmn, she never lets me burn like that," she said, her voice crooning, almost crackling. "I suppose I should thank you, John Childermass."
Childermass frowned, picking up the knife that lay on his nightstand so she could see it. "You are not my Georgiana."
The creature reared back strangely, as though unaccustomed to this body and the ways that it moved, but then grinned at him. "Not solely, no. But, oh! how she thrills to hear you call her yours! Do not fear, Mr. Childermass, she is quite here, and quite safe. I am a part of her, but she is also a part of me. She said you would have questions, and that I would be better suited to their answers. But first, perhaps you could answer one of our own? How did you know I was not her?"
His frown deepened, but he lowered the knife. "Your voice is wrong. And your eyes too bright. You look at me as if I am a puzzle to be solved, but she has long since solved me. And Miss Erquistoune does not slouch when she stands; she would never be so timid."
The not-Georgiana laughed again. "You are right on all the counts that matter, though I fear the timidity is truly hers. She does not wish to be so exposed before you—she is quite afraid you will find her displeasing. Oh. And she very greatly wishes I had not said that."
"There is no chance of that," Childermass huffed before he could stop himself.
"That's what I said—!" the being cried, turning away from him. Its—her—eyes went unfocused, as if listening to a voice he could not hear. "Oh. Yes, well—alright. No, I will not." The creature turned her eyes back to him and shrugged. "Forgive us. I have not had such a stubborn host in quite some time, I am disused to being told what to do. Your questions, sir?"
"You are a Phoenix, a firebird, that much I already suspected. But what are you truly? A spirit? A demon, of some sort?"
She grinned, and he wondered whose smugness this was: Ana's, or the creature's? Did it even matter? "You are as clever as she thinks you, or very nearly. Some that have named me have called me that, yes. It is not quite enough, but I am rather fond of the word. Still, I am not only a bird—and if I were to be considered a spirit, that would be close enough. Every match lit by human hands, every blaze built by falling lightning, every spark shot from crashing stone, speaks of me. But it is mankind who gave me form—you humans, with your stories! I have never known such creatures as you. You weave your reality into words, give form where once there was none. You told stories around me, and caught my attention; and then you told stories of me, and caught my affection. Such as it is."
"Then you have been called a great many things. Why take the form of a bird?"
The phoenix rolled her eyes (a gesture it had almost certainly learned from Ana, or the other way around). "Please, sir, she is quite anxious to see you here. Pray don't waste our time with questions you know the answer to."
Childermass frowned, unsure precisely what to make of such a statement. But he set the puzzle aside for a moment, and tried at another. "What is the extent of this possession? Where do you end, and she begin?"
"It is a fair question but, I am sorry to say, a wrong one. The girl is me and I am her. And though I am more than this, she is all she is—with and without me." The phoenix eyed him carefully, then nodded. "If you worry at the root of her affections, I assure you they are true. I do not interfere with such things, nor do they interest me beyond the effect they have upon my host. If it seems I do—well, it takes a great deal to turn this one's head, and I was intrigued to see the creature that accomplished it. I have not been disappointed. She is not—ah," it said, her eyes going unfocused again, and then it flashed a sheepish grin. "She wishes me to say no more than that. But you have proven a creature of deep curiosity; surely you have more questions?"
"Just the one for you, I believe: What caused you to inhabit Georgiana? Why was she chosen?"
"Ahh, now that is a worthy question, and one which I am glad to answer. When my host dies, I am set free to roam the earth again, looking for another. It had been quite some time since my last, during which I found nothing suitable. Truly, I had quite resigned myself to never exist again in solid form. But then I heard a woman's voice in my flames."
A dark look crossed her face, a rage like she'd shown in the Radcliffe's kitchen. "I do not know who set the fire, nor who barred the door. If I did, I assure you they would see a most unpleasant end. Whoever caused it, the woman was trapped inside, and too far gone for me to aid her. Even so, she did not pray for her own salvation, but for that of the child she carried. Such a request could not be ignored; I may not be human, nor have I had a heart I did not borrow, but I have inhabited enough to be capable of some compassion."
"You...helped Georgiana's mother?"
"I kept the woman strong until she was discovered, yes; and when this girl was born, I assumed my place within. It was only a matter of chance that the doctor was there to see her mother away, and that he fell so deeply in love with us, and that he and his wife had been trying for a third child but were unable to produce one. That is not my sort of magic. But they took us in—named us Georgiana, of all things, and as flattering as that is, the favor was entirely mine own. Still, the Erquistounes have been good to us, and we have been glad to find ourselves a part of them. She is very fond of the parents and the sisters both."
"So you take care of her, protect her?"
"Of course! In doing so, I protect myself. Someday, Death will come for her, and I will be freed to find another; but I will not allow him to come before his time, you may rest assured. Now, that is two more questions than you had intended. Is your curiosity now sated?"
"Hardly. But I would have Georgiana back, if you please."
The phoenix nodded with a smile, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. "Before I go," it began—the voice sounding as though it came from a place further and further away—"a word of caution: What magic your magician has done to Miss Pole I do not know, but I do not trust it. Nor, I think, should you. I know what it is to be reborn; that woman... Hers is a half-life, if it can be called a life at all. Whatever she has now is worse than death. Take great care, Mr. Childermass..."
The voice grew softer and softer; her eyes lost the yellow glow. She hung her head, and then shuddered, and then gasped. When she looked up, her eyes were streaked with brown again, and she gazed at him with the familiarity of a woman returning to her home after a long time away, walking through her front door and finding everything just as she had left it. "John," she said, her voice low and sultry, as it should be, and he lurched forward and leaned against the bed, his hands on either side of her hips.
"Ana."
She grinned. "I did not think you knew me so well."
"Not half as well as I should like," he said.
"We shall have to do something about that, then," she said, releasing her hold on his blanket so the fabric fell loose around her. "Come here."
"I have desired this for so long now," he breathed, and she laughed and corded her fingers through his hair.
"Why did you not tell me?"
"It was not my place."
She shook her head, all sign of laughter gone, and took his hand in hers, drawing it down over the swell of her breasts and the plane of her middle and the softness of her thighs, beneath the hem of his shirt that she wore to the warmth and wetness between her legs. "Your place is here."
"Aye," he growled, finding work for his fingers there, watching as her breath hitched and her eyes closed and her teeth caught her bottom lip. "I know that now."
She nodded, rocking her hips against his hand. "If you had but told me, I would have been yours years ago."
He ducked his head and kissed her, tugging at her lip with his teeth as he pulled away. "I thought you did not wish to be possessed."
Her golden eyes watched him carefully, her pupils wide and dark. "Nor will I be. But I would gladly share myself with you, if that would suit?"
"Aye, that would suit me well," he agreed, kissing her neck. "Shared," he murmured, working his lips down her chest, mouth wet against the thin cotton, the only thing that separated her skin from him, and she fell back, unable to keep upright with these things he was doing to her. "Cherished," he added, lips over her rib cage, and then over her navel. "Adored," he breathed, adding his mouth to his fingers as she squirmed and gasped and laughed beneath him. "Whatever you should like."
Georgiana woke sometime in the middle of the night, forgetting where she was, who she was with, why she was there. She rolled over in the bed and felt something solid behind her, something that groaned, and an arm snaked around her waist.
She gasped and turned over; John Childermass pulled her closer.
He was still asleep, or close enough to it, and she settled back into the pillows to stare at him. His hair was loose and wild, falling in his face, spread far across his pillow and hers. In sleep, the bags under his eyes looked less pronounced; the wrinkles on his forehead and the crease between his brow were smoothed away. His breathing was heavy and even. He snored, though only a little.
She smiled to herself, reaching over to brush his hair out of his face, to run the tip of her finger along the bridge of his nose. The snoring stopped, but his eyes refused to open.
"What you doin', George?"
She laughed. "You never call me George."
"Do in my head."
"Did I ever tell you how much I like your nose?"
"Tickles," he grumbled.
"Shhh, go back to sleep."
"You go back to sleep."
She shook her head, pulling her hand away. "No... No, I should go now, before the sun comes up."
He frowned, his eyes cracking open. "No."
"John."
He shook his head, wrapping his arm tighter around her, pulling her closer. "Stay. We have hours to morning, at least. Stay with me."
She laughed, burying her face into the crook of his neck. "I am not always so easily convinced."
"I am well aware."
She put her hand on his chest, closed her eyes, and very easily slipped back into sleep.
When she woke again, John was already awake, propping himself up on his elbow, watching her and winding a coil of her hair around his finger. Despite all that had happened, all they had done in the darkness, she felt bashful at his careful study, here in the little grey light of the approaching day. She tugged the covers up over her nose.
"Good morning," she greeted softly.
He shook his head, pulling the covers away; and rolled over, half-pinning her down with his body; and kissed her, long and slow and deep. Beneath the sheets, his large, rough hands crept along her bare skin, and his legs wove their way between and around her own.
He broke away, pressed his forehead to hers, and breathed, "Good morning."
She laughed, more than a little breathlessly, and rolled him back off of her. "You should not have let me sleep so late."
"It's not yet dawn," he grumbled-—his voice, always low and rough and full of Yorkshire, was nearly unintelligible with sleep added to the mix. "You can stay a little longer."
She shook her head and heaved herself up to sitting, pushing a little further from his grasping hands. She was not as sore as she had expected to be, but knew this ache would not be leaving her body soon. "That will not work a second time, my love. I must go, or I'll be seen."
He sat up as well—with infuriating swiftness—and fixed her with an intense look. "Am I? Your love?"
She laughed again, and reached across to lay her hand against his cheek. "Sorry, have I been too subtle?"
He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, his arms holding her close but not too tight. In the night, he had been gentle—she had not forgotten the way his hands had trembled when first he touched her, nor would she ever; this man, the very image of composure, of self-possession, so easily undone by a few soft words, a gentle touch—but to be shown this same tenderness here, with the sunrise fast approaching...
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him to her, trying not to think how she might never see him again. It was a foolish thought—she would burn the earth to ash before she let anything happen to him, she would storm Heaven and Hell and all the Other Lands if anyone dared take him from her.
"We will not always be apart," she promised him, running her fingers through his hair. "I will find a way to return to you. But the Stranges will not leave for another day, at least. Will you... May I come see you again tonight?"
"You must."
She laughed. "Well, if I must..."
"You must. I will have something for you by then."
"Something for me?" she asked, pulling back with a grin, doing her best not to feel so girlish and delighted by the thought of presents but fighting a losing battle. "A gift?"
He shook his head, dark eyes filled with mischief. "A promise."
Birdsong crept through the open window, and they both drew apart. With a sigh, Georgiana rose out of the bed, and crossed the little room to his fireplace. So quiet he moved! She had not realized John followed her until he wrapped his arms around her a last time. She leaned back against him, lifted a hand to cover his at her shoulder. "How long had you known what I was? Before last night?"
"Not long," he murmured, indulging, softly kissing her neck. "I realized the night when first you kissed me."
"Why did you not say?"
"I wanted you to tell me." He turned her to face him, raking his hand through her hair, watching hungrily at the way it made her lips part and her eyelids flutter. "I wanted you to trust me."
She could not meet his eyes, but placed a hand on his cheek. "I will be back tonight," she murmured, "and we can speak of trust, and promises."
"Ana," he began, but she kissed him and stepped back, closer to the fire. How could she possibly explain what his words meant to her? How could she admit that her Gavin had loved her, and married her, and died without ever knowing the truth of her? How could she own to the guilt that came of showing herself and the creature inside her to this man?
How could she live with herself, knowing that the love she had given her husband had never been this true?
She could not, not yet, not now, not with the first hint of daylight beginning to creep onto London soil, her chances of making it back to Soho-square unseen dwindling with each passing breath. She shook her head, and told him, "Tonight," and turned and stepped into the flames.
