Work Text:
Everything was in confusion in the house in Hanover-square. A high-pitched sound of Mr Norrell’s laughter, sound previously unheard by anyone in England or Faerie echoed in the corridors. The ever present Drawlight and Lascelles were in the foulest of moods, which pleased John Childermass more than he cared to share with anyone. The very air in the spacious house has cleared, every room has been bathed in the golden light, as if summer itself has found reasons to linger in those walls.
This has been going on for a few days. One would not have to look far to find the explanation. A tall man in the center of the library was bowing his head in an unconvincing attempt of humility, while Britain’s only practical magician rained praise upon him. Childermass was eager for this to be over and in dire need of a new pipe, for his master was holding his old one as carefully as one would a precious gem with an expression of pure euphoria. The pipe has bloomed, a handful of white flowers were timidly opening up. Sweet spring fragrance mixed in the room with something else, something new. Childermass sniffed and settled his gaze on the tall man — it must be him. Perhaps this is his smell, his presence that Childermass could feel at the tips of the fingers, that tickled Norrell so, made him laugh with delight. The old fool was utterly infatuated, perhaps for the very first time.
Of course Jonathan Strange was exactly the man to be showered in such affection from Norrell, London, even the whole of England, his cocky expression and ironic smile marked his inevitable celebrity. Already Childermass heard him described as almost handsome, consensus being that his cheerful disposition and charm made up plenty for any flaws in his appearance. It’s the almost part that Childermass found the most interesting, he found imperfections becoming to the young man. The English magic was not a gentle affair, despite what Norrell had everyone believe, it was messy, it required getting one’s hands dirty. Strange looked like the man for the job. His unruly red hair and a glint in his eye made him appear somewhat wild, just on the edge of what would is considered respectable, his crooked fangs gave his smiles a distinct animal characteristic. Despite the pleasant manner, Childermass knew, Norrell could never tame this man. Yes, it was the almost that made him look like a magician.
“Dear Mr. Strange, have you called for a specific flower, have you defined its shape and size in the spell?”
Perhaps Childermass was staring too intently because Strange turned and locked eyes with him and smiled conspiratorially.
“It is an apple wood pipe, sir, carved it myself” offered Childermass. “And it is the apple blossom.”
“Indeed, no spell is required, the wood knew very well what the flower ought to be, I simply… asked it to shew me.”
Childermass decided then he is no longer needed in the library, besides he had many errands to attend to. He gave a quick nod to Strange, who still held his gaze and moved out of the room so swiftly, that black wings of his greatcoat raised the wind and caused pages of open books to tremble and turn. Strange’s expression changed, his smile became small, shrunk somewhat, he inhaled deeply and continued to look at the door even as the dark figure has disappeared.
***
Childermass was alone in the drawing room, which was normally infested by the odious couple of parasites of the house. He used this quiet to focus on his reading and once done decided to read the cards as well, but his questions came out vague and answers not at all helpful.
“Did you make them yourself? Do you suppose that makes them work? It is as if you are holding a conversation with yourself, with that part of you that never learned to use the words.”
He did not hear Strange enter, but he did not startle easy, and he especially would not be startled by a man in fashionable breeches. “Perhaps, Sir. I believe it is sometimes wise to not to seek meaning and reason behind magic.”
“That is precisely how I feel. Nonetheless it would be wonderful to converse with those secret part of me that I can feel moving just below my consciousness. I feel from that Jonathan Strange I have much to learn, though I suspect he would make a dreadful teacher.”
“Well, sir, you must be used to those by now.“
Strange laughed in surprise. “One cannot complain, after all I am the only pupil of the greatest magician in England. Or so they say." His tone and manner changed however when he added "It’s generous of you to let me have what is clearly yours.”
“Mr Norrell never offered to take me as a pupil.” Childermass responded coldly and finally raised his eyes from the cards. He did not let on that he did not like what he saw — Page of Wands oming up again and again: an encounter, difficultie and complications ahead, the state of things irreparably changed. Strange looked at him with an expression of a sort of guilt that a young child may display when caught.
“That did not stop you from becoming one. I shall be quite unhappy to hinder your pursuit of knowledge, Childermass.” He became thoughtful “Mrs. Strange always says I am terribly forgetful. An awful trait, but, well, it is no harm to anyone really, is it?” With that he left a book with bookmarks sticking out like needles out of hedgehog on the table, and left the room.
Childermas was vexed by this, but in the end his curiosity took over, and he picked up a book, it was called "The Craft of telling Foruntes and Divination, or Away with the Superstitions". He remembered once listening to Mr. Norrell complain about book's author being taken quite by said superstitions and lacking rationality. But then again Norrell rarely found authors that pleased him.
He opened the first bookmarked page, it described the practice of divination using cards, paper, and books. “The most precise instrument shall be a symbolic or physical token of one’s own nature… “ What is more like Childermass than dark inky figures on the back of the ale-house bills?
***
He found reasons to leave house more often, fortunately Norrell gave him ample excuses. His Master’s appetite for books grew only stronger now he had someone to share them with, but of course he did not share everything. Childermass was by now used to seeing strained politeness on the face of Jonathan Strange. Magician maintained manners, with frustration barely shewing through the fine cracks of wrinkles on his smiling face. They rarely have been alone, Childermass made sure of it, but when they did Strange’s face would drop like a porcelain mask, his shoulders would slump, as if the usual cheerfulness drained out of him. He despised being dependent on anyone, especially on someone like Norrell.
What Childermass could seemingly never get used to is the peculiar feeling of Strange entering the room, he could almost imagine a sparkle, like one could see taking off a woolen garment in the darkness. As if knowing that Strange no longer invaded Childermass privacy, but kept a habit of leaving books and notes in places where they are sure to be found by him. Sometimes Childermass would find a red curly hair stuck between pages, sometimes it was a white one. He was not displeased. Strange’s notes were polite, he never implied that unnamed reader did not read a book, lacked experience or skill to understand the subject, just pointed out the parts he himself found interesting and worthy of note. They often were, the magician had an eye for the essential.
A year and some months after Norrell accepted Strange as his pupil, on a cold winter afternoon despite Childermass’s efforts and famed ability to disappear, Strange found him smoking alone.
“Are you in need of my assistance, sir?”
“Oh very much so, but not immediately. Perhaps you could do me a favour and remember such stories of Raven king as one hears growing up in York? I understand you are busy, so if you require time take as much as you need.” Childermass knew many stories of the King.
“You probably know all there is to know by now, sir.”
“I certainly do not, I know but a fraction of what Norrell knows, and of that I know only the most dismissive opinions.” Childermass nodded but did not answer, Strange was not dissuaded by that. “I can’t help but wonder why the Raven King would only shew himself to children, servants, villagers, people of no magical reputation whatsoever. I’d say he is much closer to English mud than some historians are ready to admit. After all he was made of English magic, and England’s magic is made by him, her very stones and waters are full of his presence. He must have left tracks in the thick English mud, and gentlemen magicians do not care much for mud.”
“But you do, don’t you, sir?”
“I care for magic, care for it more than almost anything in the world, I am ravenous for it. And my studies, despite Mr. Norrell’s best efforts, led me to believe that English magic is the Raven king and vice versa.”
“Interesting notion, sir” Childermass kept a neutral expression as he was blowing out a ring of smoke, it vanished in the grey light of the room.
“You know it is true. You reek of magic like a drunkard reeks of sherry the morning after. When I do magic in the same room as you, it turns out potent and unpredictable. I can’t believe you are content running Norrell’s petty errands…” he stopped himself and stepped back. “I am sorry, Childermass. It was unfair and unkind. I am a fool and can’t keep my mouth shut, as Mrs. Strange often observes. Yet you must agree that I am right in this one thing, you ought to be doing magic, Childermass.”
“If you forgive me sir, I ought to get on with my work,” He bowed shortly and left, a large dark bird flying out of the room. Strange’s expression was pained. He looked out of the window to see Childermass leaving the house and moving swiftly off the square. Suddenly his dark figure stopped, and he turned to look precisely at Strange, who gasped and quickly moved away from the window.
***
Childermass was in terrible mood for the rest of the day. He decided to distract himself by checking in on one of Vinculus’s wives, the one who was in love with him. They met in a crowded grimy ale-house and that vexed him further. His mood turned to worse even, when after some sweet-talking she asked him about the Britain’s second magician.
“I heard that Strange is shockingly tall and his hair is of a most disagreeable ginger colour, is it true?” Childermass considered this.
“He is somewhat tall and ginger, but not more so than any other ginger and tall Englishman.” She appeared disappointed.
“Then what’s so special about him? He is the talk of the whole city.“
With the contempt heavy on his tongue Childermass answered, “Oh there’s something special about him. He reeks of magic, he is practically dripping in it. It’s magic he eats and drinks and it’s magic he chuses to dream of. Damn him, and damn his wild heathen magic.” With that Childermass finished his drink, bowed to the woman and left a coin on the table. To the people around them this seemed nothing short of a curse, even more so when in a few weeks they heard that Jonathan Strange has left London and went to War.
***
Childermass shuffled his cards absentmindedly in the dim light of his room. What was he wanted to ask of them? As he placed them one by on the table he remembered. He wanted to know if any terrible fate has befallen one Jonathan Strange in the Peninsula. Cards talked of many hardships, and of a The Knight of Wands, who overcpme them in a distinctly irksome manner. Then cards spellt a happy reunion. Something settled within Childermass, and he felt like takinga stroll. He put on his greatcoat and walked out of the house. When he realised where his legs had brought him, he was already knocking on the great wooden door in Soho-square.
He saw the inside of this house before, and he has met Mrs. Strange on multiple occasions, but this time they were alone. She insisted on bringing him refreshment before they spoke, and he was politely drinking tea in the smart drawing room.
“Mr. Childermass, you should try those biscuits, they are my sole source of pleasure in the last months.”
“I shall Mrs. Strange, but first I shall tell you something that I hope would be of some use to you, or perhaps not.” There was an intensity in her gaze now, she knew the moment she saw him that he came to talk of Jonathan. “I have a reason to believe that your husband is experiencing many hardships, but he will return to you whole and unharmed. I do not suppose that may be something you can put your faith in, but I do, perhaps it could be a small message of hope for you too.”
She sighed softly. “I am most grateful that you came here with this message, since my husband himself has not sent me one in a long time, it is of great comfort to me. Did you see it in your cards?" Childermass nodded "He had told me that you are most excellent with them. In fact, he often spoke of how much he admired your skill as well as your modesty. He himself is somewhat lacking in the latter."
“Your husband is most generous with his praise, Mrs. Strange.” He bowed politely.
“Oh, Mr. Childermass, we both know this is not so.” she answered laughing. "I am touched that you care for Jonathan so much to seek to know his fortune."
Childermass left soon. Mrs Strange was pleasant and warm, and he felt welcomed, yet he could not stay long. Despite Strange’s living there only for a short time, magic stayed in the walls like the smell of tobacco, in the house of a smoker. It made him dizzy and left a hollowness in his stomach. She did not seem to notice, like she didn’t notice that she was draped in his magic, as if Strange has charmed her against harm, which he might very well have done. She made sure he had some biscuits in his deep pockets as he was leaving.
When Childermass replaced the stench of magic with the stench of London’s streets he calmed somewhat. After all he’s done a good thing, brought peace of mind to Strange’s wife. However now he knew that he would have to live with the man’s presence in his life again, and he was no certain how that made him feel.
***
A year passed and Jonathan Strange was back in the house in Hannover-square. Childermass was glad to see him, tall and even leaner than before, framed by the window, even as it stirred familiar discomfort in him. He felt hairs on his forearms raise, as if he was in danger, when they greeted each other.
Once again he was taking on every errand and task imaginable, once again he found notes and books, lately mostly notes, as if forgotten around the house. But the atmosphere in the house was now different. Perhaps it was the war, perhaps it was Strange’s new skills, but something has changed. Strange’s brought with him hot wind of magic wild and strong.
Once, Norrell left them working in the same room. Childermass was writing a letter, when he felt Strange’s attentive gaze upon himself. “I am glad to see you are well, Childermass. I must confess I thought of you often in the Peninsula. I envied your famous composure, it is the skill I sorely needed.”
“Aye, sir, feeling is mutual. I hear you’ve managed well enough, perhaps your hair has more grey in it than it used to, but otherwise you are a picture of a hero.” Strange laughed and ruffled his hairs in response. Tan, grey hair, the confidence he carried himself with — all of it suited the magician well. “Mrs. Strange must be very happy to have you back, at least as much as Mr. Norrell allows her to.”
“Oh, she very much is, and she sends her gratitude. I must thank you as well, you have been so kind to her. She has confessed, that she believed so utterly the message you brought her, that she managed to sleep through the night for the first time in months the day you visited. I can never hope to repay this favour to you.”
“Do not think about it, sir. If I’ve given your Lady one restful night, that is more than I ever hoped to achieve with my visit.” He wanted to finish conversation here, but suddenly his curiosity took over his common sense. “You seem changed, sir.”
Strange smiled at him. “I was warned war has this effect on people.”
“It does, sir, but there’s something besides.” He paused to collect his thoughts. ”You smell like… a thunderstorm. Like a lightning about to hit” He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Forgive me sir, I am not making any sense today.” Strange looked at him in a peculiar way. They continued to work for a while in a somewhat uncomfortable silence.
“You smell like the snow.” Said Strange all of a sudden, Childermass raised his head sharply to look at him. “It is the sharp smell of heavy clouds flooding the sky, by which one knows with a certainty it is about to snow large flakes. And the silence that the snow brings. Yes, this is it, that is how I feel around you, Childermass.” He smiled. “I love nothing better than a good blizzard.”
***
Strange was now seeking his company more often, but they mostly shared silence. After time Childermass had to admit he no longer minded the way hair on the back of his neck stood up in the company of Strange, the way even water tasted different, charged and sweet. At first, they just sat hard at work until Mr. Norrell’s inevitable intrusion and sudden urgent need of one of them, usually Strange. Occasionally Strange would commence a conversation. When they did talk Childermass kept to himself and rarely asked anything, he preferred to listen and shared his opinions and ideas only when prompted.
With time such moments became natural, he was now looking forward to them as a respite in his busy day. One time they held a long discussion about the raising of the dead, both making an effort to dance around the subject of the resurrection of Lady Pole, until it became so ridiculous they had to acknowledge it and laughed amicably. They spoke later about how moving a body of water was a great deal different from moving a city. They argued repeatedly about the nature of temporal and spacial magic. Childermass argued they were the same, Strange countered that they were largely unrelated. After weeks, they settled on one being a subset of another. Of late, they were talking more and more often of the Raven King. Strange’s voice usually filled the room to the ceiling, but when John Uskglass joined their conversation, his tone would grow intimate, he would move closer to Childermass, and the candlelight dimmed.
“I know I can talk to you about him, your namesake, because Norrell may be your master, but he is not your lord. You are marked by the Raven King as clearly as his castles and abbeys marked by the ravens etched in their stones. How very disagreeable that must be to Mr. Norrell.”
“Aye, sir. I am a northerner and I will wait for the King to return even if I will die before it happens, and I shall wait beyond that also. And if I am lucky enough to live through the age of true Restoration of English Magic, then I shall welcome him and bow before him, for he is the one master I’ve known since birth. My English flesh is his as much as my own.”
“Indeed, it seems that all you do is in service of this goal alone. Unlike your master, you’ve been ally to the King’s cause, if he indeed desires to return.” He smiled. “Oh how selfish I must appear to you, and in truth I am. I am doing magic for my own sake, for my own insatiable hunger. Arabella says it is not good for me. And I know well she is right! Yet I can’t help it. But in one thing we agree, I am eager for the King to return, for I can feel that I am made of his magic, like trees are made of soil and sun. And so are you, Childermass. How clearly I can see it now.”
Childermass’s eyelids became heavy, then a familiar feeling of magic being done filled him like an intoxication. Strange looked at him inquisitively but then inhaled sharply with an expression of recognition.
“Is it your spell?” asked Childermass.
“I do not think it is a spell at all.” Strange’s wild smile brightened the room. “When you and I talk of magic, such things might occur.”
Childermass smiled in response, and looked out of the window. Heavy dark clouds crowded the sky. He opened a window and smelled the crisp air, heavy with anticipation of the first snow. A black bird flew above the square. A quiet descended on the great city and peace descended on Childermass. He heard Strange move just behind him, and he felt the prickles on his skin again.
“Yes, this smell, exactly like that” said Strange, and the first heavy flakes landed on Childermass’s black hair.
***
The house felt empty and quiet now. Childermass in turn felt dull, his head foggy. Mr. Norrell was permanently in the worst of his moods, and winter refused to let go its grasp of the city. Childermass missed the North, he even missed the dirty inns he spent so many uncomfortable nights in, he missed people speaking in accents considered here rough, but more pleasant than music to his ears.
He was in a foul mood, and he did not need to read his cards, for he knew precisely the answers to all his questions. He would remind himself that this is how life was before, Strange's short time here was only an aberration. Then he promptly ignored this rational argument. Instead, he unlocked a drawer in his table with a key he fished out of his deep pockets. There he stored important papers, and also notes that Strange left for him around the house. He shuffled them like cards and picked one.
Magic is a grueling work, is it not? One easily forgets that when it works, for then it is as easy as breathing and as delightful as a happy memory shared with a friend. One should once in a while do magic for the pleasure of it alone. And so Childermass did.
He looked out the window. The drizzle of the morning had stopped, and the streets were busy, all of it displeased him greatly. He closed his eyes and imagined Jonathan Strange, his long stride, his easy manners, the way he could illuminate any room. He tried to remember precisely the way Strange made him feel. When he opened his eyes, he saw a lightning in a distance. Big storm cloud was moving to cover Hannover-square swiftly, a thunder roared through the streets, then another lightning, this time closer, followed by a thunder quickly after. People started running in search of cover, he heard someone swearing.
To this he laughed like a madman. The air smelled of electricity and magic. Norrell would have a fit, if he found out, but it is no matter, he was away on government business and the only man who could tell has left London. Childermass put his face out of the window and let the first drops of rain wash away dark thoughts.
***
It is been a long time since they saw each other, and Childermass felt strongly that it ought to stay that way. But this notion was dismissed the moment Strange’s gaze stopped on him. “Childermass! Is that you?”
He felt the magic drain from him. “Well, sir, I could not expect to stay hidden from you for long.” It came out harsher than Childermass intended, Strange appeared not to care, he was happy they have met again.
They examined the engravings together, in the twilight of the house they were beautiful, haunting. Strange in turn was forthcoming and warm, but appeared dull, as if his usual brilliance disappeared. Childermass knew it would pain him to see the man so, but even in grief, Strange charged the air with static.
Childermass asked him about the King’s Roads. Strange answered with his signature candow. He paused before proceeding. “Is it not time Childermass, that you left Mr. Norrell’s service and came to me? There need to be none of this servant nonsense. You would simply be my pupil and assistant.”
The temptation was unbearable. Alas, he could not betray his lord. Not Norrell, the true lord, the one who shall have his loyalty unconditionally. He could not threaten it by accepting Strange’s offer, for he could not help himself around the magician. The world would be all lightnings and wilderness of pure magic. How he wished to no longer be tame, how he wished to let go and grab Strange’s coat and whisper yes. Oh, how he missed the tingle on his skin, oh, what he would not give to feel it again day after day, to share silence and conversation, and perhaps… perhaps something more. Later, when the winter of grief comes to pass. Their spring would be glorious.
It was a short moment, but Strange noticed the hesitation and the look in his eyes. Childermass barked out joyless laughter. “Ha, ha! Thank you sir. Thank you!” It was an honest gratitude. “But Mr. Norrell and I are not done with each other. Not yet. And, besides, I think I would be a very bad pupil — worse even than you.” He then agreed to join Strange if Norrell shall prevail. The promise was easy to give, since he knew that could not come to pass.
They shook hands and the touch shocked both of them, a charge moved through both men. Childermass knew then he has made the right decision, there was only one magician who should make him feel this way. Strange smiled and squeezed Childermass’s hand harder. After this he had could not linger and rode away hastily. He considered reading cards, yet there was no need. With unexpected certainty, he knew there will be a long time before their paths should cross again. He looked forward to it.