"Oh my, if you could- Chil- Childermass! Please make sure they use the gloves," Mr Norrell fretted, pointing an accusing finger at the men carrying the crates of books into Hurtfew Abbey. "Please. Be most careful, sirs. These are precious."
John Childermass, Mr. Norrell's man of business in his service for fifteen years, slapped a pair of dusting gloves on the chest of one of the movers and arched his dark eyebrows without a word. The men complied dutifully.
"At least Edward had the sense to see them properly packaged before their voyage," Mr. Norrell murmured as he ran nimble fingers down the side of a wooden crate, his small blue eyes alight with greed.
"I do believe the man was dead before they set sail," Childermass replied, gently cracking open the edge of the crate.
"Yes, you are correct. Quite dead, if I'm not mistaken. There wasn't anything left of him to bury after the fire-"
"Except for the hands," a female voice, a strange sound for the halls of Hurtfew, stated plainly. "I am surprised you were not informed of that macabre detail."
A young woman stood in the dying light, calmly removing her gloves and bonnet as though she were the lady of the house returning from a trip to town. She gave Mr. Norrell a weary but cordial smile, her slippers silent on the stone floor as she moved towards them. Mr. Norrell's jaw slackened. He had forgotten entirely about the young woman accompanying the books despite the fact that she was their true owner. He straightened his posture and gave a short bow, holding out a hand to take hers. Childermass shrugged in apathy then continued to open the crate.
"Miss Savage, may I introduce myself. I am Gilbert Norrell." He took her hand and gave it a light shake though his eyes drifted towards the next round of boxes being lugged into the abbey. "I hope your journey wasn't too taxing. I myself am not fond of travel."
"It was tiring but my stay in London was refreshing."
A moment of awkward silence passed between them, the young woman waiting expectantly for the proper welcoming measures. Mr. Norrell rarely had guests, much less one like Miss Savage. As his ward, she was to become part of the household. He hardly had any notion on how to address such a circumstance. And the books... his mind spun as he tried to calculate how many he now possessed, if there would be room in his library for them all, when he could get them rebound for certainly the Caribbean air must have damaged more than a few of them-
"Mr. Norrell, I would be obliged if you could show me to my rooms," Miss Savage interrupted his distracted thoughts.
The little man in the old fashioned powdered wig jumped as though she had woken him from a dream. He gave a curt nod and motioned for Childermass. "Yes, of course. I do apologize. You must be weary. Childermass, if you please?"
Miss Savage gazed after him in surprised amusement as he left her for an open crate. Norrell's manner was nothing to be expected in a gracious host. Even though he had spent his ragged childhood pickpocketing on city streets, Childermass had caught on quickly to the rules of proper etiquette, if only to make up for his master's short comings.
"Miss Savage-" Childermass rose to his feet and looked her in the eye for the first time.
Shadows drifted around her shoulders and curled under her chin like ivy vines. It was a wild, strange magic that made the light hazy around her, nothing like the magic his master performed. This was altogether more ancient, malevolent even, and it clung to her like dust. Childermass swallowed and glanced back at Norrell. The little man was digging gingerly through the crate he had just opened, oblivious to what he had invited into the abbey.
"I should very much like to rest," she stated, the edge to her weary voice barely concealed. She seemed as ignorant to the magic as his master, but perhaps it was a ruse. Perhaps Miss Savage had been given the opportunity to go through her father's books and had become a lady magician but one more powerful than Norrell despite his years of study. Childermass drew close and studied her till she looked away from his probing gaze. There was no guile in her muddy green eyes. But he would keep close watch on her just the same.
"If you will follow me, Miss Savage." Childermass lit a candelabra and led her into the depths of the abbey.
The winding halls twisted like decrepit oak branches till Mercy was certain she would never be able to find her own way. The abbey seemed have been translated from the pages of a novel by Mrs. Radcliff with Gothic towers the color of old snow, trimmed with medieval crownings. Hemmed in by monstrous green hedges and bony, late winter trees, it was all very romantic.
But Mr. Norrell was nothing she had expected in the owner of such a house. A neat, fussy, little man who was perhaps a few years younger than her father, he wore a dated powdered wig and a pinched expression. For the brief moment he'd spoken to her, he'd barely looked at her before dismissing her rudely.
And then the man servant of his who led her through the house.
Mercy hadn't known where to look as he had loomed over her, glaring into her face as though she wore a mask he was trying to see past. She could not imagine what a man like him would be good for in the service of a gentleman. Ten or fifteen years older than her, he seemed more the type to frequent taverns filled with smugglers and horse thieves.
"Stay close, Miss Savage." The servant named Childermass instructed dryly. His heavy Yorkshire drawl bounced off the corridor walls. "The way is...convoluted."
She thought that to be an understatement but complied just the same. He came to a sudden stop outside a large door, sconces on the wall lit in expectation. The hinges creaked as he opened it. She passed him and surveyed her new chambers. There was a sitting room with a hearth and cheerful fire. The door to an adjoining room showed the foot of a four poster bed. A glow filled the room though the light from the windows and the fire did not account for it.
"My things?" She turned towards the servant named Childermass but did not look him in the eye.
"They will be brought up presently."
"I should like a pot of tea as well." She laid a hand on the high back of a gray sopha and tapped her fingers.
The floorboards under Childermass's feet squeaked as he moved a step into the room. "Are your quarters sufficient, Miss Savage?"
"Quite, thank you."
"I will have dinner sent up to you, if you wish."
Mercy pursed her mouth in distaste. "My host does not wish to dine with me?"
A wry twist of his lips betrayed his cool expression. "I apologize for my master. He is unaccustomed to guests."
"But I am not a guest, am I?" Mercy could not help demanding.
If she was expected to reside at Hurtfew Abbey, she needed to feel like she belonged. However, following their brief encounter, Mr. Norrell gave her the impression that he would never make her feel that way. It crushed any hope of finding an ounce of her father in the man, a comforting paternal figure to ease the pain of Edward Savage's passing. All the little man was concerned with were those books. She fought to maintain control of her nerves and took a deep breath.
"No, you are not." Childermass took another step forward and peered at her from across the room, studying her with a dizzying mix of concern and suspicion.
"What is it, sir? Why do you insist on looking at me like that?" She petitioned shrilly.
Childermass took another impertinent step closer and reached out for her left ear. With quick fingers, he retrieved an ivy leaf, green with life despite the chill outside, from where it had been tangled in her hair. She blinked after it. A brief memory surfaced of an encounter in a tavern only to be drowned once more in the present.
"I do not mean to offend, Miss Savage. You are not what I expected."
"And what did you expect?"
"Not you." Childermass growled, twirling the leaf between his ink smudged fingers thoughtfully.
The air shifted between them, the light dimming and the walls creaking with age. A chill ran up Mercy's spine as though a phantom touch had brushed over her shoulder blade. Childermass's keen gaze shot upwards, gazing past her into the empty room. He was holding his breath, lips parted and brow creased in confusion. The spell of the moment was shattered as two servants carried one of her trunks into the room.
A messy curl loose from the queue at the base of his neck drifted over the side of his face as Childermass turned his unsettling glare on her. "If there is anything else I can do-"
"N-no, thank you," Mercy stuttered, wanting the man to leave. "I will have supper in my rooms."
"Very well. Good evening."
Mercy gripped the back of the sopha and inhaled deeply through her nose only to find Childermass had left the scent of wild moors and spiced ale in the air.