London, England, 1811
Mary's trip to the market the following week proved much less eventful. There was even fresh herring at the fishmonger's stand for Mrs. Strange's pie. Despite the sunshine and the air warming with the promise of spring, Mary felt a deep chill in her heart. She had not slept well since the street magician had given her an unwanted and foreboding prophecy.
Jeremy had insisted that she had nothing to fear, that he knew the man as Vinculus, a vagabond popular among the gentry but with no grounding as a proper magician. Nothing like their employer. Jeremy was set to follow Mr. Strange to the Iberian Peninsula and join the fight against Napoleon. Magic was to enter the front lines of war and Jeremy felt himself an expert on the subject. He wasn't a bad sort but Mary was weary of tolerating his inflated speeches on the subject. She had too much to do around the house for Mrs. Strange in preparation for her husband's departure.
"Seems Mr. Norrell is visiting," Jeremy observed as they approached the square.
The man's fine carriage sat out front. Mary grimaced. Mrs. Strange had a particular dislike for her husband's teacher. Mary had only seen the man once from afar and agreed with her mistress. Norrell was a neat, fussy, little man who did not give the impression that his reputation boasted as England's greatest magician.
They cut around to the servant's entrance at the back of the house. The kitchens were over warm as the cook and other house maid were in a tizzy preparing tea for finicky Mr. Norrell. Mary removed her bonnet and gloves then hung up her rough, woolen cloak. Despite the roaring fire, her extremities felt like ice.
"Was the herring good this week?" the cook, Mrs. Bloom, asked as she unwrapped the brown paper and smelled it.
"Of course it is," Mary declared. "Do you think I would buy it otherwise?"
The other maid, Sarah, directed a playful wink at Mary. "Of course not, you and your fine airs wouldn't allow it."
A low chuckle came from the corner. Mary turned as she tied her apron around her waist. A man, scruffy about the jaw with ragged black hair tied loosely in a queue, was reclining in a chair against the wall. He pulled a pipe from the pocket of his black garrick coat and chewed on the stem thoughtfully, his gaze honed on the herring as it was deboned by Mrs. Bloom's nimble fingers.
"Who are you?" Jeremy asked disdainfully.
"He is Mr. Norrell's man of business. Mind your manners." Mrs. Bloom swatted Jeremy with an oily hand.
Mr. Norrell's servant shifted to cross his long legs. His heavy lidded eyes lifted to Mary.
"So what do you do exactly as Mr. Norrell's man of business?" Jeremy asked.
"This and that." The man didn't take his eyes from Mary as he answered. She looked away, feeling flushed.
"I've heard tell that you read fortunes," Sarah commented with a flirty grin. "Like those magicians with their yellow tents used to do."
"You mean the ones Norrell drove from the city?" Jeremy scoffed. He straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm going to be journeying with Mr. Strange to the peninsula, to fight the French with magic."
"Are you now?" The man replied dryly.
"Would you read my fortune?" Sarah asked, prancing over.
"Shameless girl," Mrs. Bloom muttered as she took the kettle from the hearth.
Mary remained by the table arranging the tray for tea, her focus centered entirely on her task. The air hummed with an electricity that emanated from the man in the corner. It was nearly impossible for her to ignore. She was stunned the others hadn't noticed.
After a long silence, she dared a glance in his direction and met eyes once more. Jeremy's babbling, Mrs. Bloom's grousing and Sarah's flirtations muted as though they were underwater. Or perhaps she was the one submerged. A memory flickered into her mind's eye. A handshake between friends and a cup of tea. The scene changed to the night stained window of a carriage, a pair of warm arms holding her tightly as they bounced down a country road.
Mary ripped herself from the stranger's trance. Those images were only from dreams, she reminded herself. But why had they felt so real?
"I'll read that young lady's fortune," he spoke.
Mary did not need to look over to know he meant her. There was the feathery shuffle of worn paper as Norrell's man mixed a deck of old cards in his ink smudged hands. Mary's heart dropped to her stomach when she noticed that the backs of them matched the card she had stashed in her purse.
A footman for the carriage stuck his head into the kitchen. "Childermass, the master is ready."
The man servant named Childermass rose to his feet and tucked his hat under his arm. He slipped the deck of cards into his pocket.
"Evening to you all." He nodded to the room but ignored Mary, his thick Yorkshire accent rolling over them like fog.
"Isn't that the way of it, eh? We spend all that time and energy into making the man a fine tea and he leaves without a drop," Mrs. Bloom said after he'd left.
"The mistress won't be happy," Sarah chirped. "Though I do wish we could have seen some magic. I wish you had let him read your fortune, Mary."
"I don't believe Mary needs any more counterfeit fortunes." Jeremy stepped protectively behind Mary.
She tried not to roll her eyes and picked up the tray to bring the tea out to Mrs. Strange. The porcelain rattled as her hands trembled. Mrs. Bloom gave her a concerned glance.
"It's only a little heavy," Mary explained before excusing herself into the coolness of the stairway leading up to the front rooms.
After delivering the tea to Mrs. Strange in her sitting room, her mistress clearly grateful that her guest had left, Mary paused in the hall outside. She rubbed her hands together, trying to quell the inexplicable fear rising in her chest. She fished her purse from under her apron and pulled out the tattered card. The letters on the back that had been etched into the tavern bill were clear in the candle light from a nearby sconce.
C-H-I-L-D
Childermass had been the man's name. Mary shivered as the candle next to her flared and the bells from the nearby church tolled the hour.