Author's Note: Hello again friends! Sorry for the long delay; I went through a rough patch with my writing for a while, and I'm just now starting to clamber back out of there. Hopefully I can keep this momentum going, and it won't be another year before I update again _


January 1816

Childermass slept poorly, that second night after having been shot. The physicians had done what they could for him, had cleaned and dressed his wound, but he had rejected their offer of more laudanum; the pain he could endure, and he wanted to have his wits about him.

Yet it meant he slept fitfully, with dreams of dark and dreary roads; of fog so dense his body could scarcely pass through it; of open fields heavy and ripe for harvest, their crops the broken and rotting bodies of Christian men and women alike. At one of these, the fog let him close enough to see that the dead all had skin as pale, and hair as long and dark, as his own. A hundred, no, a thousand empty copies of his face stared back at him, lifeless.

He reeled back with a cry; the pain in his shoulder burst forth out of him and flew about his head, flame-bright. A wind blew into him, carrying the voices of the dead in one long, ruinous groan; but it buffeted his pain, and the flame flared up, tall and bright and furious. It took on human shape, and held its hand out to him.

He took its hand, and was not burned.

"What are you doing here? " called a voice from all around him, a voice composed of the hiss and roar of a wildfire. The figure tugged at his hand, drawing him close. "Come back to me."

He obeyed, letting it pull him free of that cold and wretched place, into its heat and light.

Childermass awoke.

He could hear the sound of a fire crackling in his fireplace, could feel its heat filling the room. There was a small, warm hand in his.

He peeled open his eyes, and saw that he was not alone. Ana sat beside him, in the chair Norrell had inhabited just hours before. He had never seen her thus; her coils of hair hung loose and limp about her slumped shoulders, and she wore a black gown dusted with ash, and there were dark circles beneath her dull and unfocused eyes.

But, oh, it had been long since last he'd seen her, and she was beautiful, and she was here.

He gripped her hand, and she blinked and turned, her eyes coming to rest upon his face. She sighed, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his forehead. "Oh John," she murmured against his skin, her voice rough as though from disuse, and then pulled away. "What has happened to you, my love?"

He frowned and shifted in his bed, trying to draw closer to her without putting too much strain upon his shoulder. "I was shot," he groaned.

She reached up with her free hand and smoothed his hair back from his face. "That much I can see," she gently teased. "Did you at least deserve it?"

He laughed, but only once, as the pain wrung his breath from him. "Hardly. It was meant for Norrell, not I."

She frowned deeply; it was clear she wondered why he would not allow the bullet to hit its mark, but she gave no voice to such a question. Instead, she reached behind him to his nightstand to retrieve a glass of water, put it to his lips, and helped him drink. The water was warm from her touch.

"Who did this to you?" she asked softly, setting the glass back down that her free hand might return to his hair.

He groaned, both at the sweetness of her touch and at the prospect of answering her question. "Lady Pole," he sighed.

"...What? "

"Norrell said she was distressed. He told me of Mrs. Strange; I am sorry for your loss."

Ana shook her head, and cast a dark look about the room, as though she might find Norrell or Lascelles hiding in a corner somewhere, to loose her anger upon them. "My loss is both less and more than that," she snarled. "Arabella Strange is not dead."

With a groan, he tried to sit up; but she put her hand to his good shoulder and would not let him. "What do you mean? What else could she be?"

She gripped his shoulder, and shook her head. "Many things. Which one, I do not know. I have been searching for her, but every time I get close, I am taken back to that place..."

Childermass took a sharp breath, remembering the forsaken place where she had found him. "The field?"

Her hold on his shoulder loosened, and Georgiana peered down at him, her saddened, golden eyes gone thoughtful and wondering. "Yes... Yes, the field; or the vision of one, at least. A special torment crafted for me, as I have made myself most unwelcome in Faerie. So how came you to it? Since when have you known how to travel between worlds? And how did you know where to find me?" She leaned in, eyeing him carefully, her head tilting to the side. "Tell me truly, now, John; what has happened to you?"

Norrell had denied it, had quarreled with him about the truth of his claims. But this was Georgiana. She held no fear of any magic greater than her own, if there even was such a thing; and more importantly, she would listen to him and believe what he said was true, whether she liked that truth or not.

He shook his head. "Whatever it was, it was not by my choice. Just before I was shot, I... Something put me upon the King's Roads. I thought I must be dreaming, but then I knew I did not sleep, that I was here, at Hanover-square. When I came back to myself, I tried to follow the magic, and it led me out into the street, to Lady Pole, and then she shot me. But she was... She was in Faerie. She drew me there."

"Lady Pole..? Lady Pole... " Ana looked concerned, but not surprised; she shook her head. "What else did you see there?"

Childermass frowned, trying to make sense of his experience, trying to find the words to describe it. "I saw... I saw the world as it could be, all things filled with a magic of their own. And... And the sky spoke to me."

She nodded, her brow furrowed. "What did it say?"

"I thought it asked me a question," he croaked, his throat gone dry. "I did not understand."

"It asked..." Ana exhaled sharply, as though she'd been holding her breath, then snatched up the water again and helped him to drink. "What are you, John Childermass? " she whispered.

He shook his head, swallowing hard. "You know all I am."

She sat back, straightening her spine, and looked down at their hands clasped together. She lifted his hand, and wove her fingers through his. "Perhaps," she said softly, her gaze not leaving their hands. "But Faerie or no, the sky does not speak to just anyone." She smirked, a bare glimmer of her usual humor. "Just when I think I understand you, must you create some new mystery to thwart me?"

He pulled her hand to his mouth, and kissed her knuckles softly. She sighed and smiled, but her eyes were weary. "Come here," he begged, releasing her hand to push back his covers and clear a space for her.

She shook her head, sucking her teeth at the sight of his exposed chest, reaching across to brush her fingertips along his bandages. "Why weren't you wearing your coat?"

He huffed a laugh, catching her hand again in his. "I'm sorry I got myself shot, Ana. Come here anyway. The bed's too cold without you."

She opened her mouth, then closed it, her lips twisting into a wry smirk. "Oh, very well," she breathed, and stood. "Let me latch the door."

He watched her do so, and then watched with interest as she removed her shawl and boots and gown and stays. "How came you here, Georgiana?" At her questioning glance, he gestured toward the dress now folded atop his clothes-rack. "When you have flown here before, your clothes have not come with you."

"Ah," she said with a laugh. "You brought me here. Did you not notice?" She removed another layer, and returned to him. Even her shift and stockings were darkened for mourning Mrs. Strange, and she kept them on as she climbed into the bed and curled her body against his.

"It is difficult for me to travel upon the Roads," she explained softly, pressing a hand against his chest, the warmth of her touch soothing the muscles in his aching shoulder. "I have no accord with your Fitheach-dubh, so I cannot control the doors you English magicians use. I may only return the way I came, or try my luck with wherever the doors might take me, or follow a magician through. You found me in that place, and when you left, I followed."

"I am no magician, George."

"Oh, right, of course not," she said, rolling her eyes. "But I followed you all the same. Are you in much pain?"

He shook his head and pressed his face into her hair—the smell of rosewater was faint, the smoke strong. "Not much. It comes and goes, but it has gone now."

"I am glad to hear it." She eased herself up on her elbow and leaned in, pressing her sweet lips to his.

He groaned, his chest aching; in their time apart, he'd nearly forgotten the taste of her mouth, the soft fullness of her lips. And when she pulled herself away, far too soon, he cursed the hole in his shoulder more viciously than he had yet done, as it kept him from moving after her, from pinning her beneath his body in this bed, from giving her all of himself tonight.

"And what has become of Lady Pole?"

He sighed, screwing his eyes shut, forcing himself to stop thinking of the body beneath that black shift, of the woman who loved him, here at his side. "Nothing yet. Norrell would see her hanged, though for the injury to his pride far above any done to me; but he will not risk the loss of Walter Pole's favor. I imagine we will send her away, to Bedlam or some other such place—"

"Oh!" she gasped, releasing him to sit up upon her elbows and meet his eye. "Send her to Segundus!"

"...What? "

She was grinning now, eyes bright, a plan coming to life before them. "He was just saying to me—he ran into a man upon the street, quite clearly beyond his wits, and he remarked how dreadful it is that there is nowhere in Yorkshire for such people to go!" She dropped back down into the pillows, her arm draping easily across his stomach. "Starecross would fill the role adequately, I should say! I know I can convince him into such a change of profession, but," she leaned in, lowering her voice though there was no one to overhear them, "John Segundus is an English magician, as knowledgeable as any could be without access to Norrell's books. I know you care little for him, but the man is short of neither compassion nor cleverness; together, we may be able to uncover what has been done to her!"

Childermass frowned, glaring up at his ceiling. "You truly believe her madness is Norrell's doing?" he asked, though he could see the logic in it, more easily than he wished.

"I do not believe it is madness that ails her," she hissed. "But what it is I do not know. It must be his doing; his magic clings to her, I see it as plain as I see you!" She took a deep breath, shook her head. "Magicians... Magicians are like bridges. You stand upon the space between worlds, and choose what is allowed to pass from one into the other. You say Lady Pole was there, in Faerie. Perhaps, in returning her from Death, a part of her soul got lost along the journey, imprisoned in Faerie even as her body walks upon the earth. I would be very glad to believe such a loss a mistake on Norrell's part, but I cannot. There is too much to suggest that it was by design, though why and for what purpose I cannot fathom."

"And you think Mrs. Strange is...what, trapped there with her? You cannot think Norrell to have done that, too. He is a liar and a fool, but he is not so heartless, even now."

"'A liar and a fool'?" she echoed, frowning deeply. "I have never heard you speak of Norrell so harshly. John Childermass, what has that man done to you?"

"All magicians lie," he sighed bitterly, shaking his head. "That one more than most."

"All magicians?" Ana asked.

He shrugged his good shoulder. "So I've been told."

She frowned. "Yourself included?

"I am no magician, Georgiana."

She snorted a laugh. "I suppose I have my answer, then."

"Of course I lie, George. But not to you." He sighed again. "You'd see right through me all the same; I stopped trying years ago."

"Such a clever husband have I," she murmured, her usual mirth finally appearing in her golden eyes.

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing each knuckle and the pads of her fingers. How he had missed her gentle teasing, and the sound of her voice, and the press of her tender body against his in the narrow bed, and the smell of her, and the softness of her dark skin...

She curled her fingers against his cheek, stroking lightly, and smiled at him so sweetly he could scarcely believe it, that a woman like her would look so fondly upon a wretched thing like him.

"Georgiana... " he breathed.

Her gently-spoken, "Yes, love?" was nearly his undoing. But he closed his eyes and cleared his throat and asked his question.

"Are you certain about sending the woman to Starecross? Lady Pole is no friend of yours, as you have said yourself."

In his fireplace, the flames hissed and snapped. "She may not be fond of me, but it was not I that shot her husband. Though, if I'm honest, she would likely thank me for the kindness. All the same, if her options are myself or the noose, I surely imagine myself the lesser punishment. And if she could lead me to Bell..." Ana sighed, the annoyance in her eyes giving way to the sadness they had held earlier. "I must find her, John. Even if that means showing kindness to the woman who did this to you."

"I was not her target, my girl," he said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. "And you will find Mrs. Strange."

She rested her head upon his unwounded shoulder, slowly winding her arm about his waist. "How do you know?"

He kissed her forehead, and waited for her to meet his eyes. "Because I know you. Because you are brave, and kind, and full of wonders, and because the people you love are loved powerfully. I know you will not give up. And so you will find her."

"How good you are to me," she said softly, but Childermass shook his head.

"Not scarcely as good as you deserve, but I am trying. Now," he said, shifting to lie more comfortably against her, ignoring the twinge of pain in his shoulder. "It has been some time since last I had a letter. How have you been? How fare your sisters?"

She smiled, and began to tell him all she knew about the Erquistounes of Edinburgh, and their domestic, straightforward lives; and of the quiet, monotonous days she had passed at Starecross since Norrell disavowed the school for magicians; and how she had attempted to fill those days by trying her hand at watercolour landscapes though it had been many years since she learned to paint and she had never had much skill in it before, and seemed to have even less now. She said only a little about her journey to Shropshire and what she saw there, scarcely mentioning that she had quarreled with Strange in recent days, and though John wished to know more, it was evident she did not wish to discuss it so he held his tongue.

There was not much room in Childermass' bed, but there never had been and she seemed content to curl herself around him as she spoke, careful of his wound. She pulled the counterpane tighter about herself than him, but she made everything warmer and he did not lament its loss. It did not take long for her voice to start trailing off, for her eyes to start drifting closed.

He kissed her forehead, and she smiled and hummed and pressed closer to his neck.

"Forgive me," she murmured. "It has been a long day."

"Get your sleep," he told her softly, brushing his lips against her hair. "I will still be here when you wake."

She sighed, her breath warm upon his skin. "Would that that were always true."

He kissed her forehead again, aching for her lips, but the angle was wrong and he had not the heart to move her. "It will be soon, I swear it."

"I know," she reassured. "I will have you for my own if I must steal you away myself."

He laughed at the thought. "Aye? And where would you secret me away? Would you take me off to live with you in the land of birds?"

She grinned, opening an eye and leaning back to fix him with a teasing look. "I was thinking of somewhere closer to Edinburgh," she laughed. "Although, I confess, I am growing fonder of York by the very day."

When he kissed her then, he could feel her lips curved upward in a smile—one that stayed in its place even when she pulled away, and settled, and fell asleep pressed tight against him.