Author's Note: Okay, well, see, what had happened was... Honestly, I have no idea. I didn't forget about this story! But I told myself I'd work on something else for a little while, try to keep my writing fresh while I let a few ideas percolate, and...I got distracted. So if anyone is still hanging with me here, please know that I am deeply grateful for your patience, and while I can't make any promises I will do my best to keep from lapsing so severely again.

I was planning to just wait until I had the whole rest of the fic complete before updating, to keep from getting anyone's hopes up and failing to follow through; but then I was working on this chapter and had so much fun writing it, and I just couldn't keep it to myself! I personally love epistolaries, so if that's not your thing I'm sorry because that's all this is lol. But, wow, I was rereading this whole story this past week to get myself back into the flow of it, and I was honestly surprised by (how good it was, damn, and) by how much fondness I still felt for these characters, and that they feel for each other. I tried to pour a lot of that fondness into these letters, and I really hope it comes through. I've missed them so much!

Also, if you'll forgive me a quick almost-shameless plug, I recently made a little writing blog you can find over on Tumblr, bittercoldbrew! It's still a bit sporadic, and mostly a place for me to collect snippets of things I'm working on and images, quotes, or other things that give me inspiration. So feel free to come find me there to (keep me focused and/or) talk about Childermass! Or George! Or both!

I'm trying to keep this short, so I'll try to wrap it up. Thank you again to all of you still willing to bear with me, and to any new readers this may attract, welcome, and thank you too! I do hope you all enjoy this latest chapter, and hope to have another one for you soon!


February - March 1816

John—

I miss you terribly.

I regret to begin a letter in such a way, but it seems all I can think of.

I am here in Edinburgh, at my beloved desk in my old room of my parents' home, and I suspect I should much prefer to be nearly anywhere else. But they wished to know all I could share of what occurred at Ashfair House. How small a fraction of the truth could I tell them, and you know I dislike to keep such secrets, but I cannot see another choice to make. Is there a way for me to tell my respectable mother, my science-minded father, my darling sisters, that I know for certain Arabella is not dead because the ageless inhuman spirit I carry within me can travel to the other side of Hell, and has not found her there? If there is, I am sure I do not know it. Nor do I think there is anyone who would believe such a claim, aside from you yourself. I could not even bring Jonathan to do so.

He and I had another row before I left. Several of them, if I am honest.

I have since learned that he has again quit Clun for London. I believe he wishes to entreat N to help him, to teach him what terrible magic he once performed. I have never before placed such hopes on that man's most unpleasant and disagreeable nature, which I think will prevent him from giving in to such a request. Even if I believed there the slightest possibility of success, the thought of seeing my friend brought to the same state that afflicts Lady P fills me with a dread I cannot endure.

Segundus wrote me, and says that the woman so afflicted has arrived and settled at Starecross. As eager as I am to return to that place, the knowledge that she is there fills me with worries. I do not think S has told her about me or that I am coming, and I cannot imagine her to receive me very well. But I will not be driven from the place I am making my home; not by her, nor by N, nor by any other. And you saw her there, upon the Roads. If I could make of her a handsel, if she could help me to find Bell...

I spend my nights in those other lands, searching for her, though even now I have made no more progress than when last I saw you. Whatever doors I enter through, whatever paths I take, I am forever driven back to the field where once you found me. I am using more of myself, with more regularity, than ever I have done before.

How strange it is, to think of all the years this power has been in the world, and to know that this is the most for which any of us have ever wielded it. Yet, even so, that land confounds and disorients me beyond what ever I thought I could bear.

Thus I spend my days feeling tired and dull and very foolish, and missing you.

I know not whether it was this heaviness or N's magic, but I tried to look in on you at H-square yesterday, and found myself peering into a very comfortable-looking farmhouse somewhere out in Tewkesbury. My next attempt brought me to one of the now-empty rooms at Ashfair House. My third go was indeed most embarrassing, and I shall not bother to transcribe what I saw here, but I am certain you will laugh at me when I do tell you.

How I ache for the sound.

I could scarcely keep myself from running through the flames, once I finally saw you there, sitting at your desk in that room, cards laid out before you. You looked displeased with whatever they showed you, but I was so grateful just to see you. How handsome you are, my John; how I long to feel your hair between my fingers and hold your face in my hands, to kiss your mouth, to have you in bed beside me and, aye, to hear you laugh at me. I would remake the world to have you near.

You turned and looked to the fire, and your expression softened so sweetly I could have sworn you felt me watching. I hope dearly that you did; I hope that you always do. You scooped more coals into the grate, though you should know by now that I need no fuel to burn for your sake. But I imagine the other servants would notice rather quickly, if your room was always warm but the pail never diminished—

I must end this letter soon. That is the second of my sisters to walk in and catch me writing. I have told them I am attempting to compose something to our cousin, and they leave me be and ask no questions. Still, I do not like to deceive them, above all. Mags nearly caught me last night with your ring upon my finger; I only just got it out of sight before she noticed.

Being here is more difficult than I remembered. I see my sisters with their husbands and children, and I love all my family very dearly but the sight of them together makes me a little miserable, with you so far from me. I know that is a terrible impulse, and I would never admit such a thing to anyone, save you.

I wish most dreadfully to have no reason for keeping you a secret. And I fear, in my constant muddled state, that I might say something aloud that I should not.

Therefore, I will be returning to Yorkshire in another day or two. I imagine, by the time you receive this, I will be there and able to be more myself, more safely.

Please write me soon, and keep yourself safe.

Give Davey my eternal thanks for secreting these letters to you.

And do try not to get yourself shot at again.

All my love,

G


Ana—

Forgive me the late response. N's business has seen me all about the South of England, and I was away from H-square for some days. I have only now returned from Spitalfields, where I saw your cousin and the engravings he has commissioned for his book. I found them very fine, and I think you should be pleased as well, should ever you see them; but I know that N intends some great and terrible feat of magic to put an end to the book, and will not hear a word I say against it. You've mentioned before that you and S have both received drafts of many of the chapters to be included within. I think you have been very wise to keep them safely stowed away, and should continue to do so, and make no mention of them to any other until this business has passed.

While I was there, your cousin made me an offer, the likes of which I would not tempt fate by putting down on paper; but by my saying so I am certain you know the sort I mean. He seemed to wish it a great deal, and I was almost sorry to deny him. But my refusal prompted him to remark that he was "beginning to understand" what it is you see in me. I took this to be an even greater compliment than the offer itself, as after all these years that is a thing to elude me still.

I tell you this because I wish you to know my impression of the man in his current state. I am truly sorry that you have quarrelled; but I do think he feels it all very badly, and I hope that he is able to overcome his pride and apologize to you soon. I do not like you to be unhappy, and I know how such a friction between you makes you so.

I know, also, how keeping secrets from your sisters wounds you, and for my role in that, I am far sorrier still. Were there any other way for me to both have you and to do what must be done, I would pursue it in all earnestness. Were I to love you far less, and if I could become less selfish a man, then perhaps I would be able to relieve you of myself, and thus this burden. But I cannot, nor can I find the will even to try.

My feet keep carrying me to Soho-square when I am not looking, to find you and seek your counsel. It is a habit I must find some way to break, given that L is endeavouring to have me followed. He has not yet been successful, but I have little desire to expend my luck in that regard more than necessary lately.

Indeed, I believe I managed to consume some great deal of it by being away from London on N's behalf, and in the present company of several men of incontestable repute, when a certain remarkable event occurred here in town. It was quite late, but there was some strangeness with all the fireplaces in the house, and thus we were none of us abed and all could attest to my being there. An adequate enough report of what happened was written up in the paper; I have included it with this letter, as I am sure it will catch your interest. I am most curious to hear what you think of it.

My cards are near unreadable these days, their messages so confound me. They say I am to stay with N, but do not tell me why. They tell me I am on a journey, but cannot show where it will lead. Even when I ask them after you, they say little to assuage my worries.

Your cousin told me of the spells he used to place himself upon the King's Roads, for which I am grateful, and if ever you are lost I will go and fetch you back—this I swear, by that ring I gave you. But I would much prefer you safe, here on this side of the rain, even if you cannot be with me. Please be careful, my girl.

N grows more difficult by the day, and all the more reliant on L. I think it likely that they will retreat to the Abbey soon, out of fear of both your cousin and the public's increasing displeasure, in equal portion. I should be very glad to be closer to you; but even so, their fears are very great, and the spells N casts for his protection are difficult and convoluted, and I think we will not have an easy time in seeing one another until that magic is broken. But, whether we leave London or not, I will do all I can to come to you soon.

Do not doubt that I think of you always.

Yours,

J


FIRE AT BRUTON-STREET

In the small hours of Thursday morning, fire broke out in a house on Bruton-Street, the home of a Mr. H– Lascelles. The fire appeared to have originated at the writing desk of the master's bedchamber, due perhaps to an upturned candle or a tobacco-pipe waylaid too close to some papers. The flames then spread, via the walls and carpet, to a nearby wardrobe, and on to the master's own bed, at which point the blaze was quenched by some bold and enterprising servants.

The name of Mr. Lascelles will be familiar to the reader as that of the editor of The Friends of English Magic, and the man himself a close personal friend to London's own esteemed magician, Mr. G– Norrell. Although desk and wardrobe and all their contents were destroyed in this event, we and our readers may rest assured that no part of the next installment of the Friends are included in that tragic loss.


John—

You are, as always, correct; indeed I found that article most intriguing. I have always greatly enjoyed charter fairs, in particular the displays of unusual produce. Admittedly I was a little saddened to see that you were uncommonly imprecise with your penknife, and thus my copy of the story was incomplete. I was—and still am—deeply curious to learn more about what "rude shapes" the farmer from Tilbury was able to achieve with his parsnips.

Though perhaps you were referring to the article on its reverse? That certainly sounds like a most distressing morning for our friend L. Such a shame about his wardrobe; I wonder if very much of his clothing was lost? He always did place a great deal of value on such things. But beyond my paltry condolences, I cannot imagine what more you think I could contribute to the subject, so I will assume you meant the parsnips.

I will note, however, that perhaps the man should be more careful about whose letters he means to lay his scheming hands upon, if he does not wish them to spontaneously combust.

Please give Davey my thanks, yet again.

With all my love,

G


Ana—

I should be very glad to show you a rude shape of my own when next I see you, if that would satisfy your curiosity.

Yours,

J


John—

I know yours would satisfy a great deal more than that.

Soon, please,

G