A.N Hello! To any readers, my apologies for my absence in posting but I am back. I increased this rating to an M mainly for this chapter and who knows perhaps further in the future. Though I allude to a lot of things in previous chapters, I didn't want every chapter to have smut as I feel it loses impact. But this part of the story felt necessary to describe some of the more M rated antics of the characters. I only hope it does them justice. As always reviews, follows and faves make my day so to those of you who have, merci beaucoup you're wonderful and to anyone who may do in the future, you're fabulous!

Childermass arrived as promised that evening, as Rosie heard the church nearby strike nine, the rapping of his hand at her door came soon after. The man had a key, yet he always knocked like any guest. It was a strange sort of gallantry for a man with a past like his, but then even thieves had a code of conduct. Rosie had been preoccupied all day and though she knew she would see the wound for herself soon enough, his arrival made her all the more impatient. Guessing his imminent arrival, she had contrived filling her large tin bath and had been boiling water for the last hour. Childermass stepped in, his cheeks oddly pinched with colour from the cold. Her anger at his absence still simmered, he knew that well enough, but despite all of Rosie's frustration towards him, she was happy he was here.

The bath was large enough for them both to settle in and as they stood by it, the steam from the fresh, warm water rose in misty curls and dissipated. They undressed idly, Rosie's hands reached immediately for his shirt buttons and his hands dropped to their sides as she undid them, pushing the fabric from his shoulders. Right now, building desire by undressing him was not her aim; she was searching for the wound. Childermass still wore a dressing but it was less of a necessity now for Norrell had had a doctor examine it several times and assure them both that all was as it should be. Peeling back the cotton, Rosie took a look at the stitching; the flesh still flushed but was healing.

"You're a bloody idiot, John." Rosie exclaimed at the sight of it, her fingers gently brushing over the rough stitching. It had been done by the finest Norrell could find she was sure, but the sight of it irked her beyond belief. To put himself in such a position, whatever the incident had to do with magic was ridiculous in her eyes. The skin of his chest and arms was ghostly white, for a man with such dark hair and eyes, he was incredibly fair. Leaning forward, Rosie pressed a kiss to the wound, remaining there a long moment, her hands holding Childermass' as she did so. The sigh that escaped her lips made him witness to the full extent of her anxiety in recent weeks, the revelation of his accident only heightening it. His lips sought her forehead and he kissed it, then unthreading his hands from hers they came up to cup her cheeks. When he kissed her, he felt each of her eyes betray a single tear. They slowly slid over her smooth cheeks and the salty taste of them soon spread on his lips. Pulling back a little he murmured close to her face.

"I did magic, Rosie… Norrell knows."

"Much good it did you." She replied sombrely.

"I saved his life."

"Would he do the same for you?" she asked and for a moment his eyes only looked into hers, saying nothing. Rosie saw the answer there and she laughed. "No, he would not."

Childermass remembered only a few years earlier in York when Rosie's spirits has been particularly fired up by drink. She had staggered into the public house and sang to the crowd until her voice was raw, supping the stuff that had done her no favours in the past until her words were slurred and she struggled to sing. It had been some time since she had got herself into a state such as that and it was fortuitous that it happened on a night when Childermass had come to visit her. Having not found her either in her lodgings nor her regular haunts, he had looked far and wide until he found her revelling amongst strangers. Rosie had seemed to banish any care, even for her own person and merely felt herself a vessel for merriment for the pleasure of others. Once coaxing her outside, he had stood whilst she had vomited violently two or three times, yet she was silent. Whatever had prompted this episode baffled him, but he was a man who had to know the root of a thing. What he was not told he surmised for himself. Yet on this point Rosie had clammed up, even to this day she had never told him how she had reached such a stupor, but afterwards she had faithfully promised not to repeat it. Nor had she for that had been the day Rosie had made the bargain to both herself and him that she would no longer drink.

Now as he looked into her eyes, he recognised the same feeling which he had looked at her that few years ago. It was looking at someone not knowing what had brought them to such a point and fearing where else the current would take them should they continue. There would never be a time where Rosie would ask him to renounce what he was doing and leave Norrell or indeed magic behind. She loved him enough to know she must love this part of him. Were it not for the shooting, she would've been proud that he was bold in displaying the magic he knew and not hiding in the wings of Norrell's glory. But Rosie loved the man, not the magic and it was hard at times for her to watch the future of magic engulf him. When cooped up with Norrell at Hurtfew it seemed a pipe dream, though she always hoped for his sake that the time for magic would come. But now it was here, it was not as clear cut as she imagined.

There was more to say but that was for later, settling together in the water, he seated in front of her they allowed the warmth to envelop them. Their bodies relaxed and melded together and she carefully washed his chest and arms, her movements as hypnotic as ever. When her hands moved to his scalp, Childermass fell under the bewitchment of her fingertips, coaxed to the brink of slumber several times. They stroked back and forth across the skin of his scalp, the roots of his hair tingled with stimulation. Sometimes she circled and dragged her nail ends with delicious dexterity to the base of his ears and tickled his neck. There was nowhere else in the world where he felt so at peace. Magic ran in his veins and now was its time, but there was nothing like her, Rosie was her own breed of magic. In that moment he felt every inch of her around him, the feel of her legs against his, the swell of her breasts pressed against his back and the faint beat of her heart against his skin. Childermass felt as possessed as when he had used Belasis Scopus. Finding a sense of clarity born from passionate love he rose from the water suddenly, jerking Rosie in shock. Helping her up he found himself lifting her from the bath and placing her down on the soft rug before the fire and began kissing her wildly. Their bodies were still dripping wet from their submergence and each felt consumed by a heat that did not derive from the water.

Childermass' lips were everywhere, destroying any barriers that still kept her from him due to anger or hurt. In truth, holding him as she had, Rosie had forgotten the hurt some time before, but his onslaught was determined to banish any final shreds. Her fingers threaded in his hair and tugged at the scalp as his actions made her arch and writhe beneath him. But Rosie was not a woman to submit without a thought, any choice to be with him was not purely because he could render her senseless. She may have had a weakness for drink in the past, but a feeble woman she was not. Her pull on his hair dragged his face close to hers and she kissed him deeply, demanding and somewhat brutal in her action. When his face was close to hers, locked in bruising kisses she pulled back and pushed him away saying firmly.

"Not here!"

She rose to her feet and moved towards the stairs, disappearing into the rooms above, insisting his company and he followed. Once finding her upon the bed again, she pushed him onto his back and proceeded to move above him in a wilfully passionate pace, daring him to look at her except when her eyes happened to gaze upon the wound. Here her ferocity seemed to increase and soon she set such a brutal pace that he would be undone in no time at all. The insistent urge of her hips flung him towards the oblivion she always brought him too, though this was the first time he had seen her so unfledged in her boldness to usurp his control. It had always been a natural meeting of equals in their passion, but now she was showing him, reminding him in the best way she could that he needed her. For did she not care for him the most, love him the most and absorb him in a way that no Mistress Magic could ever do? Magic may be his earthly life but she would show herself to be his soul.

Her cries rose as she moved and she was becoming as undone as he, yet try as he might, he could not urge himself to alter how they were now. There was something in this new sense of abandon, this defiant spirit that she showed that he would not quell for the world. There was as much as witch about this woman who knew no magic as any he had ever heard of. It was her mere person that bewitched him, full of faults and vulnerabilities as she was. Yet she claimed his own and loved him nonetheless.

When all was over between them, she lay limp and boneless on his chest. In those last moments where their pleasure was peaking she had crushed her lips to his, their final cries muffled between them. Now she lay panting for breath as he too tried to regulate his own. His mind returned to that moment where he conjured Belasis Scopus and all at once he wished she had seen him. How he wanted somehow for there to be a time when the two great things in his life could co-exist. That seemed a far off possibility at the moment. Childermass thought of Jonathan Strange and how he had Arabella waiting for him always, regardless of magic. In that moment, he felt a twinge of envy that was unlike him. Though an apprentice, Strange was a man of means and Childermass now saw, a man as skilled as his own master. Here it appeared their positions were poles apart as unlike Strange, Childermass was slowly building his own moments, but now was not the time for them to unify.

After some time Rosie moved her face from the crook of his shoulder and looked at him and Childermass gently pushed stray, rebellious tendrils from her face. His dark eyes observed as her as though for the first time and as if he had known her centuries. It was an odd sensation to feel so, but it ran deep like waters in the earth. As if Rosie were able to read his mine she asked quietly.

"When the time comes John, would you want us both?"

Childermass looked at her, his hand resting against her cheek.

"Yes."

Their eyes remained locked for a long moment; Rosie seeming to test the truth of this. There was deep earnestness in his eyes and strong determination too.

"Then…" she said sleepily, her eyes slowly blinking and a hand coming up to stifle a yawn. "I'll wait."