Chapter Text
It started with bells.
Or rather, it started Miss Redruth, who, upon hearing them ring from the Minster, commented on the strange paradox of bells – how odd it was that Fairies were drawn to them in many tales and yet scared away by the sound of a Sunday chime. She turned to Mr Childermass and asked if he had any insight on this, seeing as he was the Reader of the Book, and very well-versed in magic besides. Miss Redruth never cared who she might offend by implying that a man who had once been a servant was more learned than any number of gentlemen, but then again, there was not much disputing the fact that Childermass was the only Reader of the King's Book.
This was how it started, and the end of it (or rather, the middle, though Childermass did not realise it at the time) was that Childermass told Miss Redruth quite firmly that bells were a dangerous thing when it came to magic and should not be used unless absolutely necessary. If the tone of his voice was sharper than usual, it was because the conversation had brought back an unpleasant memory of Hanover Square and the mournful tolling of a bell that had almost drawn him into a faint, just before he had performed Belasis’s Scopus. This made his shoulder ache, which shortened his temper, but the words were barely out of his mouth before John Segundus was at Miss Redruth’s elbow, saying that her question was quite pertinent. He declared that he believed bells had great potential, both for charms of protection and to enhance more common spells, and Mr Childermass was quite churlish to address Miss Redruth’s question in such a manner.
For, though they should have had plenty in common, from a love of magic to their first names – and perhaps other, more personal things, if they had cared to discuss them – it was widely known that if John Segundus and John Childermass were found in a room together, then they would be found arguing. Childermass had only been in York a handful of times since the disappearance of Hurtfew Abbey and the natural confusion that followed, but no matter how few their encounters, he and Mr Segundus could not seem to agree on anything. If Segundus said that birch would surely aid in a certain spell, then Childermass was certain to reply that it would not. Childermass might remark that it was like to rain that day, and Mr Segundus would retort that there was an equal chance of fair weather, and add that Mr Childermass was far too gloomy about such matters and should consider adjusting his manner to prevent others from despairing at his presence.
It was strange, of course. Mr Segundus was generally considered to be good-tempered, and Childermass had undertaken more than twenty years in Gilbert Norrell’s service, enduring the company of gentlemen far more infuriating than Mr Segundus. Some said that becoming the Reader had given Childermass new airs in life, others that Mr Segundus was growing cantankerous, as some men do when they near middle-age. But those who observed them more frequently saw that Mr Childermass and Mr Segundus were only argumentative with each other.
This disagreement, the one arising with Miss Redruth and her question about bells in the meeting room of the Starre Inn, was no different to any of the others. Childermass, sensing the sharp edge of Segundus’s voice, bristled, and reminded Segundus sharply that there had been bells at Starecross when it had been a madhouse, which was clear evidence they ought not to be meddled with, and besides, Mr Segundus would do well to mind his own business.
His tone was sharp, even allowing for their usual arguments – for Childermass’s mood that evening was particularly bad. This was not only because of the memory of Hanover Square, and the ache in his shoulder. In addition to these, he had had an encounter on the way towards York, which, though he did not care to show it, had left him gravely shaken.
The sides of the track were frosted white, and Childermass’s breath came in silver puffs as he rode. The evening was not advanced, but the winter’s early darkness caused a shiver of unease on his skin. Vinculus had fallen behind, and Childermass could no longer hear his singing. It was not that he wanted to hear it – few people did – but Vinculus was his Book, and Childermass had learned to keep him close, when he could. He was about to turn back and see where Vinculus had gotten to when a soft, quick voice made him pause. Childermass blinked. There was a figure at the side of the road. They held no lantern, and yet there was light on and about them, like they were pulling down the shine of the moon. Enough that Childermass could see a face, or parts of it, dark eyes in the dark night.
Childermass put his hand to his hat, and removed it. He removed his hat for very few people, whether he was expected to or not, but the figure at the side of the road prompted an odd feeling in him, a piece of ice melting slowly - a strange, safe feeling. When he breathed, he could smell heat, though there was no woodsmoke in the air.
‘Can I help you?’ Childermass said, his usual gruffness somewhat hoarse.
‘Oh, yes.’ A man’s voice, soft as water going over a round stone. It reminded Childermass of something. Someone. ‘It is only that I have a great many books that need moving from one shelf to another, and I find that I must have help to do it.’
Why would anyone have books out on the road? Childermass blinked, and it seemed to take an hour for his eyes to open again. He slipped forward on the saddle.
‘Yes, too many, I am afraid. It is not far at all. If you would just come down from your horse, I am sure we can have them moved in so little time that you would not even notice it.’
The figure stepped forward. He was not tall, and not short, in fact not any particular height at all, and yet Childermass got the impression that he was short, with eyes and hair the colour of memory and…
He blinked. The man’s hair was dark, and so were his eyes. He stood nervously at the edge of the path, clasping his hands.
Childermass hesitated. Something nagged at the back of his mind and made him reluctant to get down from Brewer. ‘Is there no-one else who can help you? I must be in York by…’ What time was it? He could not remember. ‘That is, I-’
‘Oh no, it must be you.’ The figure’s voice tilted. ‘You are the only one who can help me.’
It was reassuring, that this person was so certain that Childermass could help. It made him feel warm and wanted, like he had received an invitation to sit by a fire. Perhaps the stranger had a fire. Perhaps, once Childermass had helped him move his books, he would invite Childermass to share it, and Childermass would be able to sit for an hour or two, smoke his pipe and listen to that strange, flowing voice. It was not particularly beautiful or musical, and yet…yet…
The man stepped forward, reaching up towards Childermass, and Childermass had the strangest feeling that the man was about to touch him, put a hand to his neck or even his lips, and this tugged something deep in his stomach. Then Brewer tossed his head, and Childermass started, instinctively tightening his grip on the reins. The cold wind snagged his hair. His legs wanted very much to dismount from Brewer and go help the strange, quick man with his books, but the rest of him wanted to reach into his pocket.
‘Come,’ the stranger said. ‘Won’t you be kind, and help me?’
Childermass put his hand into his pocket, found a piece of fabric, dry and crumpled. He pulled it out. A red handkerchief. He frowned. It had no doubt been expensive, to come in such a deep, rich colour. He could not understand why he would have bought it, except…except…
He brought the handkerchief closer to his face, and stopped. The figure on the road was no longer as short as Childermass remembered – in fact, they were neither short nor tall, and their hair was not dark, but the colour of memories and the bright moonlight. Brewer snorted nervously. Childermass gripped the red handkerchief, reaching for a spell of protection or banishment. In an instant, the figure’s face flickered into a sharp, pointed smile, and they vanished. Childermass blinked. The air, which had been so heavy and sweet like woodsmoke, was clear and cold again. His ears rang. The red handkerchief trembled in his grasp.
The fairy – for that, of course, was what the figure had been – was gone.
The ride to York after meeting the figure seemed particularly long, and Childermass had to stop at the nearby village to wait for Vinculus, explain no-one was to travel by that road until he said so, and that he would return as soon as possible with some solution. What this might be, he was not sure, and this did nothing to improve his temper. His senses were still queasy when he reached the Starre Inn, and he was annoyed that the fairy had so nearly tricked him, when he should have known in the first moment that there was something of magic about it.
He was annoyed, perhaps most of all, that the fairy seemed to think the best way to entice him was to take on the form of small, quick men with dark eyes, who smelled and sounded rather like John Segundus.
Therefore, at the meeting, it took very little for Mr Childermass and Mr Segundus to begin arguing about bells, until Miss Redruth said that she must introduce Mr Segundus to her friend, and pulled him away.
Once they were gone, Childermass let out a long breath. He looked around for Vinculus, planning to quit York as soon as was possible and return to the village where he had issued the warning, whether he had a solution or not. But Vinculus was nowhere to be seen. With a huff, Childermass set out to look for him.
Vinculus was not in the corridor, or the stairwell. Childermass did not find him in the public room, the stables, or street. Eventually, he returned to the meeting room in the none-too-optimistic hope that Vinculus had simply slipped out of his sight for a moment and had since returned. The members of the Society were long-gone, leaving behind them a mess of dirty plates and bits of paper. There was no sign of Vinculus.
Childermass sighed. He turned to leave and, because his mind elsewhere, ran head-long into Mr Segundus, who had just entered the room. Segundus, whose height was not substantial (a fact that had frequently invited cruel comment in his school days) rebounded off Childermass into a nearby chair that had not been properly pushed back under the table.
‘Excuse me!’ Segundus said, brushing down his rumpled coat, ‘I would thank you to watch where you are going, Mr Childermass!’
Childermass’s jaw tightened. ‘I will watch where I am going when people stop standing about in doorways clogging them up!’
If Mr Honeyfoot had been present at the Society that evening it might have been different, for he would have taken Mr Segundus aside and told him not to mind Mr Childermass, who was clearly tired from his journey and therefore unable to keep a civil tongue in his head. But Mr Honeyfoot’s bad leg was very stiff in the cold weather, which had forced him to remain at home.
Segundus quivered. ‘You are quite insufferable, Mr Childermass! I will say it again as I have a hundred times, your manners are impossible, and you would do well to adjust them!’
‘My manners are none of your business.’
‘I think you will find that they are, especially when you make use of my hall on occasion!’
‘I can quite easily stay elsewhere. I would have thought you might have welcomed my help, seeing as you are planning to set up your school again.’
Mr Segundus spluttered. ‘Do not expect me to ask how you know that! I have no desire to hear about your unpleasant dealings and spying. And I do not need your help. I never have.’
‘Good. Because I’m not offering it.’
‘Good.’
‘And whilst we are about it,’ Childermass said, warming to his theme, ‘when I need your advice on bells, or any other form of magic, I will ask for it. You needn’t interrupt my conversations to give it.’
‘Miss Redruth is a member of the Society. I am quite at liberty to speak to her on any aspect of magic I see fit.’
‘It was my opinion that she asked. I gave it.’
‘And I held a different one.’ Segundus set his shoulders back and lifted to his full height. ‘This is a magical society, Mr Childermass, not one of Mr Norrell’s periodicals. All opinions are encouraged – especially those that advocate magic for its full and proper use.’
The argument took up from there and went on for some time, during which Segundus managed to tidy up most of the room without seeming to notice. Childermass leaned against the doorframe in a sideways manner he knew would irritate Segundus, until one of them – as was inevitable – decided to stride from the room. In this case the strider was Mr Segundus, red-faced and trembling with indignation. Usually, Childermass would watch him leave and satisfy himself that he had won some small victory in making Segundus turn pink all the way to his ears. This time, however, he could not linger. He needed to find Vinculus, and return to the village.
After waiting a minute or so to ensure Segundus would not see him leave, Childermass slipped down the stairs. He paused for a moment in the public room to ask the lady behind the bar if she’d seen Vinculus, but she hadn’t. As Vinculus was very hard to miss, this meant that he must be outside somewhere. Childermass pulled his coat tight around his shoulders, ducked his head and slipped out of the door. He stood for a moment in the empty street, letting the chatter of the public room fade behind him, wondering which way to go first.
It came upon him quickly, that the street was not quite empty. He turned, and saw Segundus, his hat pulled low on his head. He was half in one of the alleys that came off the main road, and he was talking to someone. This was not unusual – as a member of the Society, Segundus had need to speak to all sorts of people – but there was something about the way he stood that made Childermass keep looking. Segundus was very still, leaning back on his heels, and his hands were not in his pockets, as they usually were when he was outside.
He looked…tense.
Childermass didn’t waste time in calling out. He simply melted into the shadows at the side of the road and slipped quietly up the street. Snow creaked under his boots. A candle in a high window shone yellow on the frost, shimmered as he moved past it so that he could see the person in front of Segundus in the alley. It was a man, carrying a stout stick. His face was hidden in a scarf, and he had a tight hold on Segundus’s left forearm. Childermass’s skin prickled, and he edged forward, trying to get a better look at the man, wondering if he was someone from the York Society, a few of whom were not comfortable with Segundus’s good fortune in gaining Starecross Hall, and the patronage of Mrs Lennox.
Then the man pulled, dragging Segundus into the alley. Segundus let out a sharp cry, and tried to twist away, but the man held him tight, and raised the stick. Segundus threw up his right arm, and there was a crack like a wheel passing over a twig. Segundus stumbled and fell.
Childermass had hold of his knife in an instant, because he had been a sailor before he was a magician, and a pickpocket before either, and he had carried a knife since he was very, very young. The blade hit the man’s shoulder and buried in the skin. The man screamed. Segundus twisted, stumbling half to his feet and starting towards the mouth of the alley. He saw Childermass, and his eyes widened.
Snow crunched. Childermass began to turn, too late. Something made contact with the back of his head with a sharp, shuddering pain. For a moment, the air was still, and then the world seemed to shoot upwards – the street, Segundus, the man clawing at the knife in his shoulder, the yellow light from the candle in the high window, all rising above him like they’d been lifted away, into the sky.