Chapter Text
Childermass has not even removed his boots before the knock comes at the door.
“Who is it?” he says sharply. He has been riding most of the day and is in no mood for conversation.
“Letter for Mr Childermass. Landlord said he’s taken this room.”
Childermass sighs, gets to his feet and opens the door. The messenger holds out a piece of grubby paper, smeared and torn at the edges.
“What did you do, use it as a shoe?”
The messenger flushes. “It was like that when I got it – I’ve only brought it Bradford to Leeds. The man before said he’d come from Lincoln.”
Childermass blinks. He was only two days in Lincoln, and less than that in Bradford. Someone is going to great pains to find him.
He digs a coin out of his pocket. The messenger bobs nervously, hands him the letter and scurries off. Childermass turns back into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
“The York Society?” Vinculus wipes gravy off his chin as he chews the last of the pie Childermass had ordered for supper. “It has a northern smell, I think.”
“You no more smell the north in this than I do.” Childermass turns the letter over. The seal is plain, pushed with a simple round of cork or wood. The York Society adopted the flare of the Starre Inn as its official symbol last year, and Arabella Strange uses her husband’s ring.
There is only one other person who would go to such efforts to get a letter to him, and he has not written in five months.
Childermass lifts the wax with a crack.
Mr James Honeyfoot to John Childermass July 15th, 1818
My good Mr Childermass,
I hope that this letter finds you swiftly. The last we heard was that you were in London, but that was in May and I understand that you have been travelling for some time. I am breaking Mr Segundus’s trust in writing to you without his knowledge, but he will not hear of doing it himself. I do not know if you have quarrelled, but I beg you to return to Starecross with all possible urgency. Mr Segundus remains ill. The doctor has visited twice this week, and I fear he can only be with us again soon. I do not know if you can be of any assistance, but it is most serious. Please, do not delay.
You may find us awaiting your arrival at Starecross.
Yours sincerely,
James Honeyfoot.
Childermass had not done anything so foolish as to swear that he would never to go back to Starecross. He knew the York Society would require his or Vinculus’s presence, or that some other unavoidable business would take him to Yorkshire, even to the hall itself. But he has kept his mind from it, to the extent of burning every one of Segundus’s letters without opening them. England is still settling after the disappearance of Strange and Norrell, magical factions splitting and spatting, and he has been busy with the King's Book. Now, Honeyfoot’s letter reaches into his head and plucks memories not properly buried.
He frowns. Mr Segundus remains ill. Remains. Honeyfoot’s handwriting is neat, but the letter has not been properly aired before folding and blots of ink smudge the words. It must have been written in some haste.
The date is more than three weeks old.
“Well?” Vinculus raises an eyebrow.
Childermass clenches his fist around the letter, wrinkling the paper. “We are going to Starecross.”
*
He leaves Vinculus a little way outside Leeds – Brewer cannot carry both of them for long, and Childermass needs to go faster than he can walk.
“Don’t you worry about me,” Vinculus says, grinning. “I shan’t run off.”
“I have no fear of that.” Vinculus may infuriate him at times, but they’ve been travelling for long enough to somewhat trust each other. "I will see you at the hall."
Vinculus steps back, straightens his hat. “You had better ride quickly – it is going to rain.”
Vinculus, as usual, is right. The fair weather holds until the afternoon, but by the time York comes into sight the Minster is shrouded in grey cloud. Soon after, the sky bursts. Fields flood within minutes, mud scudding over the uneven country tracks. Childermass curses and pulls back on the reins to slow Brewer’s pace. The sky darkens, though the air stays hot. Childermass follows the road on instinct, navigating the maze of country lanes, sheep ditches and stone walls without truly seeing them. Rainwater gathers on the brim of his hat.
He had been quietly pleased when Mrs Lennox and Segundus announced their intention to turn the hall into a school, once Norrell could no longer object. Starecross was unsuitable for a madhouse, despite its location – there were too many places to hide, and a hundred ways in and out. The pupils were eager, and Mr Segundus even more so. It was a good thing, good for the hall, good for magic.
Starecross village is quiet, lights blinking at the windows. No-one is about. The road turns from dirt to stone, and the packhorse bridge to the hall looms out of the dark. Childermass's stomach sinks. Water drips from the hedges in the gardens and makes puddles in the flower beds. Trees creak and sway. Only a handful of windows are lit. Childermass frowns – even if some of the pupils have returned home to help with the harvest, there are always those who stay. In the early evening, even in the middle of a storm, it has no business being so quiet.
No-one sees him approach, or they aren’t inclined to greet him if they do. Childermass ties Brewer by the stream that ripples through the east part of the grounds and throws a blanket over him to keep the rain-spatter off. Brewer snorts. Childermass pats his nose and hurries to the house, making instinctively for the kitchen entrance. Weak candlelight filters under the door. There is no sound of rushing feet or crashing pans.
He knocks twice.
“Who’s there?” Charles’s voice is hoarse.
“Childermass.”
Charles opens the door. His face is pale and a piece of potato peel is stuck to his apron.
“You have come at a bad time.”
“What has happened?” Childermass steps past Charles into the kitchen, tugging his hat from his head. Rainwater patters onto the stone flags. “I received a letter that Mr Segundus had been taken ill.”
Charles pulls off his apron. His hands shake. “I will go fetch Mr Honeyfoot. He will want to explain it himself.”
Childermass’s blood chills underneath his damp skin. “Is it so serious?”
“Please…wait here. Leave your boots by the fire – they must be very wet.”
Charles hurries out of the room, leaving Childermass with his mouth open. The hook that holds the maid’s aprons is crammed – meaning that none of them are here, or at least, they aren’t wearing their aprons – so Childermass hangs his coat over the nearest chair and puts his dripping hat on top of it. The cards slip easily into his hand. He shuffles carefully, keeping his mind loose. They never tell him what he needs to now if he forces the question onto them. He turns them over slowly. Two of batons, six of cups...
“Mr Childermass!”
Childermass starts, almost dropping the deck. Honeyfoot’s ruddy face has lost some of its usual colour, and his hair is thinner, but he moves into the kitchen with his usual energy, almost dragging Charles after him.
“I got your letter.” Childermass folds the cards back into his waistcoat and gets to his feet.
“Which one?”
“15th July.”
Honeyfoot winces.
“What?” Childermass steps forward. “What is wrong with Mr Segundus?”
Honeyfoot and Charles exchange a glance.
“It is the consumption.”
Honeyfoot’s voice is barely a whisper, but it reverberates in Childermass’s head like a bell. The house sways. Childermass reaches for a chair, misses, and steadies himself against the table.
He does not ask Honeyfoot to repeat himself, does not feign disbelief. It all makes too much sense.
“That is why there are no pupils,” he murmurs. His knuckles are white, close to his skin.
“The doctor thought it best. These things are apt to spread, especially in warm weather.”
“How long?”
“Since the spring.” Honeyfoot looks apologetic. “He fell ill with his chest January and could not seem to shake the cough, and then he got worse and..." He swallows. "The doctor has tried all he can, I have even looked into magic, but there is nothing Mr Segundus or I know that will help. Mr Segundus made me promise not to bother you with it, but he has been so bad since June, and I thought that you would…want to be informed. I cannot pretend that I know what argument you have had, but I could not in my right mind leave you ignorant.”
“Is there any hope?” Childermass’s voice catches in his throat.
“The doctor says there is not.”
The light dims. For a moment, Childermass is convinced he is on the deck of a ship, and the floor is rolling back and forth beneath his feet.
“I need to see him.”
Honeyfoot gives him a long look. “The doctor says that he is not to be made too excited.”
Hang the doctor! Childermass wants to shout, but he only nods.
“Very well. Follow me.”
“I would rather go alone.”
“I am not sure…”
“I give you my word, I will do nothing to make him worse.”
Honeyfoot sighs. “We put him in Lady Pole’s old room – it has the most space, and there are no stairs. We can ready you some warm towels before you catch a chill yourself.”
Childermass looks down at the wet patches on his trousers and shirt. He had forgotten the rain. “Brewer will need bringing in.”
"I'll get him." Charles hurries around the table. A draught blows in as he opens the door to the garden, then is quickly shut off.
Childermass makes to step out of the kitchen, but Honeyfoot puts a hand on his arm. “If Mr Segundus is out of sorts, then you must forgive him. He is very ill.”
Childermass nods. Honeyfoot stands aside.
The hall is dim, his boots too loud on the flags. There is an odd smell – of dust and enforced silence - and the door to Lady Pole’s room is closed. Childermass hesitates in front of it, throat dry. He should knock, but then Segundus will ask who it is. Somewhere deep in the house, a clock strikes four. The rain beats on the roof and windows, a hundred tiny heartbeats.
Childermass clenches his fists, knocks once and pushes the door open before he can receive an answer. The air of the room is close and sour - it takes him back to the kitchen table in Hanover Square, a pair of tweezers in the flesh of his shoulder and the grip of magic at the edge of his thoughts.
“Ah.” Segundus’s voice is thin as Venetian glass. Sheets rustle. “I wondered if Mr Honeyfoot would write to you. I told him not to, but I thought…perhaps…”
Segundus is propped on the bed in the middle of the room, a basin at his left hand and his right in a fist on his chest. The sheets are tucked up to his waist, rumpled and stained. Segundus has always been short and thin, but he’s shorter and thinner now, and his lips are cracked. He looks at Childermass sideways, like he doesn’t have the strength to turn his head.
“I am glad you have come during the day. I am very much worse at night.”
Childermass opens his mouth, shuts it again.
“I am sorry to have shocked you. I was not so bad, in the spring. I was busy with my book, and I had the pupils to think of. I told you as much in my letters.”
“I did not read them.” The confession slips out before he can stop it.
Segundus smiles. It’s too long for his thin face. “That is good.”
“Good?”
“Of course. I would much rather that you never read my letters than ignored them.”
“You did not send any after April.”
“I told you that I was ill, and you did not come.” Segundus takes another loud breath. There is a rattle in his chest like a sail in a storm. “I thought that if you did not return knowing that, then nothing would bring you back.”
Childermass wishes he hadn’t left his hat and coat in the kitchen – he feels very exposed in only his damp shirt and waistcoat. “I would have come.”
“John...”
“Don’t.”
The shadows around Segundus’s mouth lengthen as his lips turn down. “I am sorry. But there is no-one here – the pupils have all been sent away.”
There is a chair by the bed. Childermass sits on it, puts his elbows on his knees. “If someone were to hear…”
“It is not proper, I know.” Segundus’s knuckles are white, his fingers thin. “But you see, I am a respectable figure these days. No-one suspects me of improper things.”
“And me?”
Segundus’s mouth twitches. “That is different. You look quite like a rogue from one of Miss Radcliffe’s stories. I knew it when I first saw you at Hurtfew – I could hardly remember what I had seen there in the library, but, after you came to visit Lady Pole, and we turned you away…I found that I remembered the way you stood against the wall – like a tree, like…like you had no respect for anything you saw. I was half-afraid of you, really, but…but…”
“Segundus…”
“I wish you would call me John. I do not think anyone would notice.”
“Is it magic?”
“What?”
"This." Childermass nods at the bed, the bloodstained sheets and the chipped white basin. "Some…remnant of last year?”
“My parents both died young, and a weak constitution was always likely to be my inheritance. So, no. I do not believe so.” He smiles again. “Thankfully, none of the pupils seem to have developed it. They will come back soon, when this is over.”
Childermass hasn’t much liking for the word ‘over’, but he cannot pretend there’s any comfort in this room, with its stale air and the window fastened tightly shut.
Segundus stretches out his hand and puts it on Childermass’s wrist. His fingernails are too long, and they pinch. “I am glad you have come.”
“Segundus…”
“You must not…” Segundus swallows. “There is nothing to be done about the way things are, or the way they were left. I am simply glad that you are here. You are my friend, I hope.”
Childermass is still reaching for a reply when Segundus pitches forward, bracing his hand against Childermass’s knee. A cough echoes off the stone walls and blood mists the rim of the basin. Childermass moves instinctively, putting his free palm to the small of Segundus’s back to help him to lean forward. Coughs race up one after the other, hardly a breath between them. Segundus’s nightgown turns damp, and the knobs of his spine shift under Childermass’s hand. A vein stands out on his forehead.
At last, the coughs fade, first to gulps, then to a steady rasp. Segundus murmurs something, but his voice is too hoarse to make out.
“I can’t hear you.” Childermass’s heart is in his boots. He had seen consumption enough in his childhood and at sea, but never so closely, never in someone who he cared so much about.
“I said…” Segundus’s eyes are closed. He makes no attempt to open them. “That I no longer have any faith in the poets…dying is most unpleasant.”
“Aye.” Childermass tries to laugh, fails. “I could have told you that before now.”
Silence stretches, apart from the wheeze at the back of Segundus’s throat. They are both waiting for something, but Childermass isn't certain what.
“Segundus,” he murmurs. “John…”
“No.” Segundus squeezes his eyes more tightly shut. “Do not call me that because I am dying. It is not fair.”
Childermass looks at his lap. “Is there anything I can do?”
“You would be better to leave. Go back to London.”
“I am not leaving you like this.”
“There is nothing to be done. I will not get any better, only a great deal worse.”
Childermass winces. Segundus looks like a ghost already - the months show in the shadows on his face, the loose skin of his neck.
“I will stay,” he says firmly.
No reply. Childermass looks up. Segundus is quiet on the bed. His eyes are still shut, but the lids are relaxed and his breathing is even, apart from the wheeze at the back of his throat.
“John?”
Nothing. Childermass waits a moment and then, gently, he moves Segundus’s hand from his knee and puts it on the bed. Segundus shifts, pursing his cracked lips. His eyelids are almost translucent, blue veins standing out sharply.
Childermass takes the stained basin from the covers and pushes his chair aside. Perhaps the house senses his need for quiet, because the hinges of the door don’t creak as he steps through it.
*
He runs into Honeyfoot in the hall, stepping to the side just in time to avoid spilling the basin over him.
“My apologies.” His voice is hoarse. “Mr Segundus is asleep, and I did not know what to do with this.”
“Charles can empty it in the outhouse.”
“No. I will do it.” He has to get outside, away from Lady Pole's room and the smell of blood.
“You should get dry. Charles has some towels.” Honeyfoot sighs. “I suppose this has been rather a shock for you.”
“How long has he been like this?”
“He has been very ill for some time, but he has been bedridden these past three weeks.” Honeyfoot shifts. “In fact, I wanted to ask, now that you have seen him, if…only you have been reading the King’s Letters.”
Blood rushes in Childermass’s ears. “If there were anything I could do, do you not think I would have put it into the world to be used?” He shakes his head. “I have gleaned almost nothing this past year.”
“But…Mr Childermass, you are one of the best magicians England has left. Can you not try?”
“Hundreds of people die every year,” Childermass growls. “Why should he be saved, out of all of them?”
Honeyfoot’s round face twists in shock. Childermass pushes past him and all-but runs out of the hall. He ignores Charles calling his name, kicks open the kitchen door and strides into the garden. Rain plasters his hair to his face and neck. The air is confused, halfway between chill and cloying. A tree showers him with heavy droplets as he pushes through its branches.
His foot catches on a root and the basin slips from his grasp into the mud. He stares at it, uncomprehending, like a stranger who’s done him a great offence. He wants to believe Honeyfoot, believe that there is something to be done. Pale’s Restoration and Rectification might reverse a recent calamity, but this is no accident, and far from recent. Teilo’s Hand might stop a flow of blood or other fluid, but Childermass knows nothing more than its name and hasn’t much idea of how to perform it. Even if he did, Segundus is in the last stages. His body must be damaged beyond immediate repair.
He knows of nothing else - Strange and Norrell are gone and the Raven King vanished to who knows where. Water drips from his hair, traces the thin scar on his cheek and trickles into his collar. He’s too late.
A twig cracks, and Childermass starts. Honeyfoot is hovering at his elbow, looking apologetic.
“I did not mean to disturb you,” he says. “Only, I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Guilt warms Childermass's cheeks. He looks up, forces himself to meet Honeyfoot’s eyes. Stripped of his ruddy complexion and boundless energy, Honeyfoot looks every one of his years.
Childermass clears his throat. “I did not mean to be curt. What I meant was, that I can save no-one with magic, no matter who they are.”
“I understand, sir. I did not hold out much hope, but I had to ask. Mr Segundus is almost like my own son. He has so much passion…” Honeyfoot’s face shifts, and he steps back. “My apologies. I am being maudlin – I often get so when I am tired, and I have not seen High Petergate in two weeks.”
“You are good, to stay here when everyone else has gone.”
"We might have hired someone to do it, but neither Charles or myself wanted that. He does not deserve the company of strangers when...well."
Childermass stoops, picks up the basin. “I hope you understand that I will stay and help you, now that I am here.” There is no question of him doing anything else. He cannot leave.
“Oh! That is greatly appreciated – we have found it quite difficult, Charles and I. I would have written to you sooner, but Mr Segundus did not want me to.”
He looks at Childermass hopefully. Childermass inclines his head, says nothing.
“Ah. No matter.” Honeyfoot looks like it matters a great deal, only he does not have the courage to say so. “Scholars will argue about the most trivial things, and you have been very busy. You are here now, and that is what matters.”
“Yes. I am here now.” The words are hollow and uncomfortable.
“Come.” Honeyfoot smiles. “The house is not so bad – I spend a lot of time in the kitchen these days. It is cool when the weather gets warm, and a small fire is welcome at night.”
Honeyfoot takes the basin and puts it under his arm, turning back to Starecross. He doesn't invite Childermass to follow him, but Childermass does. There is no other choice.