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It came as somewhat of a surprise to John Childermass, just as he was sat in the kitchen at Starecross Hall, with John Segundus diligently recording every one of his words with a slight frown and curled lip — “For posterity’s sake, you understand, Mr Childermass. I must make sure to note down everything that you remember of Jonathan Strange, since you did spend more time with him than I after… after Mrs Strange’s cruel disappearance from this world” — how much he disliked being interviewed as though he was some kind of curiosity. His disposition being of a frank and uncomplicated nature, Childermass said this in as many words, though the slight twitch in Segundus’ eyelid indicated that he did not appreciate being told off in such a manner.
“I am merely trying to piece together as many details as I can in order to present the most accurate portrayal of Jonathan Strange! I do not see why you must be so difficult about it, Childermass!” His voice risen to an unfortunately shrill pitch, his face red, Segundus looked away for a moment to compose himself. “I am not asking you for an intimate retelling of his every movement. Simply an insight into his frame of mind the night he took to … to having strong words with your former master. Strange was instrumental in the revival of English magic. I would see him remembered for his achievements, not the petty scandals that surround him, even now.”
Childermass took a deep breath. Segundus’ aim was noble, to be sure, but it caused him to remember events that he would have rather gladly forgotten. He did not allow his fingers to shake as he reached for the steaming cup of tea set before him, but set it down rather more firmly upon its saucer than perhaps was strictly necessary.
“Why did you go to him, Childermass?” Segundus asked, taking up his pen again with a faintly apologetic air, as if he had noticed Childermass’ distress. “That night in February, two years ago? What were the answers that you were seeking?”
What, indeed? Here Childermass paused a long moment, and the two men listened to the birdsong outside instead. Childermass did not mean to be difficult — he was actually more fond of Segundus than the other man realised — it was simply that he found it hard to give voice to the confused feelings that Jonathan Strange evoked in him.
When had he realised? Perhaps it was the first day he had met Mr and Mrs Strange. He had been quietly amused at Norrell’s blustering insistence that Mr Strange should make proper introductions and start as an apprentice — surely that was the whole point of inviting the man over — and anything that caused Henry Lascelles to look as though he had just swallowed a toad could hardly be deemed a bad idea.
Childermass had not, however, been prepared for the force of nature that was Jonathan Strange. Even when he was quietly nursing a cup of tea with a strained smile upon his face, one only had to glance at the wildness of his dark hair, untamed despite his wife’s best efforts, to sense his passion for magic. It trembled in the every word he spoke, straining against the restraint imposed by manners and convention. It seemed as though every fibre of his being was aching to uncover the mysteries of the arcane.
It seemed to Childermass that this man, more than his master, more than any of the yellow curtain charlatans he had the displeasure of dealing with, would finally end the drought of magic in England. That was, without saying, a highly scandalous thought. But it was the first flash of warning for Childermass that this man would be trouble. He had affected his usual nonchalance as Norrell had descended into near hysterics at Strange’s mirror-image publication, but could not help glancing at Strange for a moment longer than necessary, memorising the long, artful fingers, the bright eyes shining with triumph, the barely repressed smirk. Childermass found, in fact, that he had begun to stare and averted his gaze, but not before he caught Strange’s questioning look.
Dangerous. The man was a gentleman, with all the trappings of proper Christian civilisation, but Childermass could see even then that he would find the wildness of magic hard to resist, and give himself over to its mastery. A weaker man would have flushed as he felt the sharp jolt in his belly that indicated a lustful interest, but Childermass was much too practised to let himself show such a weakness. Instead he closed his eyes for a second and thought of the coolness of the rain falling down upon the cobblestones in the city of York, the smells of the city of London, the heat of overcrowded ballrooms filled with idle conversations about fashion. When he opened his eyes, Childermass found that Strange was staring at him with renewed curiosity, and was about to ask a question, though he was mercifully interrupted by Norrell, who insisted on conversing with him about his proposed apprenticeship.
Childermass knew in that moment that it would not do to think too much about Strange’s appetite for magic. Nor would it do to think about Strange in any other manner than as his master’s student. It was not as though Childermass was unfamiliar with the danger of taking up with men who were already married — wives, for one thing, were much cannier than most men liked to think, and Mrs. Strange was clearly not to be trifled with. Rather, it was the almost certain knowledge that allowing oneself to be drawn to Jonathan Strange would be to accept that one would never be able to occupy his thoughts as much as magic did. Childermass was not a jealous lover by any means, but there was something almost sacrilegious about distracting Strange from his study of magic.
That was not to say that Childermass did not find the thought of distracting Strange highly desirable. Indeed, he often thought about it at great length, staring at Strange when the two magicians were involved in long discussions about Stokesy’s faults, or upon the use of birdsong in guiding one’s footsteps through unchartered lands (Norrell thought this might have a military application, which was quickly disproven on the Peninsular when a scouting team was almost immediately spotted by the French, owing to the huge cloud of displaced, confused starlings hovering over their heads).
“You must find our discussions very tedious,” Strange said to him one day, while Norrell was looking for a lost volume on cartomancy. “I’ll wager you have worked out our problem with enchanting cannon the other day, and are scowling angrily in our direction because you cannot understand how slow we are.”
“I am not scowling, sir,” Childermass answered, quietly appalled that he had been noticed.
"I say that you were, sir. The very blackest of frowns, enough to scare a fellow half to death if he should see you lurking under some Gothic arch."
Childermass composed himself long enough to affect his usual unruffled manner. "I shall endeavour to remove myself from any such arches I encounter on my travels, Mr Strange. "
"Mr Strange! " Norrell’s voice was coloured with irritation and a subtle reprimand that Childermass should not forget his place. "I think I have something from Pale that might aid our work. "
At this, Strange had sketched a quick bow, and was gone to Norrell's side once more. Childermass let go of a breath he had not been aware of holding. He did not like the way Jonathan Strange made him so uncertain of himself, anymore than he could not help being drawn to the dangerous glint in Strange's eye that hinted at the wildness of his magic, so much more instinctual than Norrell's painfully precise discourses, and so much closer to the forgotten magic of the Raven King.
Perhaps Norrell sensed the source of Childermass' distraction as well, for that night he peered anxiously at Childermass over Lascelles' latest proofs for the Friends of English Magic.
"Are you troubled by Mr Strange's presence in the house as well?" he asked, for Lascelles had taken to complaining loudly and at length about Strange's being allowed in the library at the house in Hanover Square for such an extended period of time. "You do not think I am being over-generous with him, do you? "
There was another question hanging in the air, and the silence hung heavy between the two men in the study, so much smaller than the library at Hurtfew. It was broken only by the cracking of logs in the fireplace, until Childermass could see the tension in the set of his employer's jaw and the rigid square of his shoulders, and decided to take mercy on him.
"I am not about to leave you just because you have found the only other magician in all of England, sir. You may rest easy."
"Good," Norrell muttered, obviously reassured, and resumed his annotations. "Not that I would expect it of you, Childermass, I must say.”
Childermass, however, made certain not to think of the many ways he could best put himself at Jonathan Strange's service. They were the products of a mind dangerously excited by the proximity of a magician so much the contrary of Norrell's precise, particular approach. It would not do anyone the slightest bit of good for Childermass to keep imagining how he could help Jonathan Strange discover the wilder paths of magic, and it would not do to have his employer notice his distress. Norrell, after all, did have a prior claim to his loyalty, though it was being tested more strenuously in recent times.
No, it would not do at all to give in to the tempest that was Jonathan Strange, not least because the look in his eyes when he regarded Childermass made Childermass feel as though he was standing on the edge of a tall precipice, about to be blown off the edge into the welcoming wildness of pure magic, unlimited by any of the restraints imposed by Christian magicians.
***
“So you thought to try and effect a reconciliation between your master and Mr Strange?” Segundus asked, his sharp voice breaking through the fog of Childermass’ memories.
“What?” Childermass asked, more brusquely than he had intended. He ignored the wounded look Segundus shot his way and sat up straighter in his chair, reaching for the cup of tea again.
“The purpose of your visit, Mr Childermass,” Segundus repeated, as though he was talking to a particularly slow child. Which, given that the school at Starecross had been started up again with renewed vigour after Lady Pole’s departure, was probably the exact manner he used with his more difficult pupils. “We have been trying to get to the bottom of it for most of the afternoon. I fear if we wait any longer, the sun will have gone down entirely and I shall be forced to take my notes by candlelight.”
In spite of himself, Childermass allowed one corner of his mouth to lift into an wry grin. “Well, we shall try to avoid spoiling those precious eyes of yours, Mr Segundus.”
He recounted Norrell’s opposition to the publication of Strange’s book and his attempts to get it censored, citing Norrell’s opposition to any unqualified parties learning magic. That part Segundus was of course well familiar with, having been at the receiving end of Norrell’s wrath.
“I suppose I wanted to see for myself what Strange was about. After all, last we heard, he’d driven himself to near madness trying to revive Mrs Strange.” At Segundus’ sceptical look, Childermass threw up his hands in defeat. “Yes! And I did also go to see what I could take back for the master.”
It went without saying that Childermass would not have revealed the entirety of Strange’s work. Or that he had not gone expressly because of Norrell’s incessant sighs and veiled pleadings to find out the truth of Strange’s supposed treachery.
He had been concerned, of course. This was only natural given the calamity that had befallen Jonathan Strange. Childermass had also been curious — there had been whispers amongst his informants of Strange attempting darker, ancient magic to revive his wife (although no fairies were summoned — that would only come later). Had this dark fortune allowed Strange’s latent wildness to finally be revealed?
In truth the man that greeted him outside Strange’s house in Soho Square did not seem much different from the Jonathan Strange Childermass had known before his retreat to Shropshire. He was polite, even gracious, in commending Childermass’ skills of blending into the background. If one looked more closely, however, one could perceive the air of despondency that hung about him like an ill-fitting cloak. The redness ringing his eyes, and the too careful careless manner all spoke of a man barely keeping despair at bay.
“Come and see what you were sent to see,” Strange had offered, and his smile had something akin to that of a tiger in it. “I have nothing to hide.”
The etchings for Strange’s book were beautiful. Childermass did not expect work produced by Arabella Strange to be anything less than breathtaking, and they illuminated lands that were as enticingly out of reach to him as Strange, who seemed even more otherworldly, less concerned with the mundane world now that he had barely any ties to it.
They spoke of Strange’s time as Norrell’s pupil, and Childermass was bemused to hear the hurt in Strange’s voice to be described as a bad student. There was a natural affinity between the two magicians, more than Norrell would care to admit. It was hard, was it not, when there were only two of your kind left in the world, and you had quarrelled with each other? Childermass had hoped — half-heartedly, for he harboured no illusions as to the resoluteness of Jonathan Strange’s character — that his visit might go some way to effecting a resolution between Strange and Norrell, but the hurt in Strange’s eyes told him eloquently it was a wasted attempt.
(A selfish part of Childermass bemoaned the loss of Strange’s presence at the house at Hanover Square for entirely different reasons, but since the cause for the restoration of English magic was more important than the stirring of his baser desires, Childermass decided not to let himself dwell on those feelings more longer than a second or two.)
He was about to make a comment about how, dutiful student or not, Strange had prompted important developments in Norrell’s own thinking when Strange made the offer.
“Is it not time, Childermass, that you left Gilbert Norrell’s service and came to me?”
There was open invitation in those darkly amused eyes, Childermass was sure of it. For a moment, he let himself imagine what accepting Strange’s offer would be like. He thought of the discussions they would have about magic, the new theories they would explore. He thought of undressing Jonathan Strange inch by inch, running his tongue over every area of exposed skin, marking it with his teeth. He imagined running his fingers through that wild hair that even now resisted the attentions of proper grooming and holding on to it as he kissed Strange senseless and pushed him into a warm, welcoming bed.
Oh, but there was magic to be found in the dance between lovers. Earlier in his youth Childermass had indulged himself in this sweet discovery on quite a few occasions, but the burning lust Jonathan Strange evoked in him was overwhelming in its intensity. He wanted — how he yearned for everything that Jonathan Strange seemed to be holding out to him. He imagined all too vividly the aftermath of their lovemaking and had to pause for breath as his mind conjured up the image of a languid, naked Strange, wearing nothing and luring him back to bed with no more than the promise of physical ecstasy at his magic-wielding fingertips.
Yet it would not do. He knew that neither magician must be allowed to take the upper hand. Magic was not something for them to control, any more than they could codify all its laws and principles. Childermass felt the ache deep in his bones to accept Strange’s invitation and draw him close and protect him from all that the world and Norrell had cast upon him. Loyalty to Norrell held him back. There was still much to be done, and he would not have his master’s good sense completely stolen by Lascelles’ honeyed words.
“Thank you, sir. But Mr Norrell and I are not done with each other yet.”
Strange’s smile was rueful in the half-light. The shadows played with the circles around his eyes, and Childermass thought the other man looked regretful. So he made his offer, one which Segundus now scribbled down in his notebook, lips pursed thoughtfully.
“I daresay you are the only magician in England to claim such a thing!” Segundus exclaimed. “Taking up the cause for two rivals if either should fail. One might say you were extremely magnanimous, Mr Childermass.”
Childermass snorted. “Ay, well. Some of us must see the totality of English magic as it truly is, Mr Segundus, not dominated by one opinion the way some scholars should like.” He lifted a finger, to forestall Segundus’ protest. “In any case, you know how the rest of the story goes. We shook hands on it, I told Strange about Norrell’s efforts to censor the book…” He trailed off, still remembering the warm touch of Strange’s hand, the way those long fingers brushed against his.
Then, the explosion of anguish and fury, and Strange’s face openly showed the trials he had been through. Childermass remembered lunging for a body that was no longer there, which had been sucked into the mirror’s cold surface. He remembered cursing Strange’s bloody-minded impulsiveness in the cold hall of the house in Soho Square, half-amazed, half-worried to death at what action Strange might take, the thrill of seeing such magic done racing down his spine.
“Hmm.” Segundus muttered, finishing a sentence in his book before finally looking up at Childermass. “I think I have it now. You went to try and reconcile the two, didn’t you? Because you were concerned about Strange and his book, not because Norrell wanted you to go and spy on him?”
“The two are not mutually exclusive, Mr Segundus.”
“No.” This time Segundus looked thoughtful. “It seems that we magicians thrive in paradoxes, do we not? We seem very able to live with them, though they might end up tearing us apart.”
Childermass could find no proper retort to this, so he sipped his tea instead and smiled quietly, trying not to the think of the magician who both fired his lust and frightened and intrigued him with his potential. In a startling moment of clarity he realised the truth in what Segundus had just said. “I think you have hit upon it exactly, sir.”
“To Gilbert Norrell and Jonathan Strange, wherever they may be,” Segundus raised his cup, “and their followers all over England. May we never forget what true magic is.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Childermass said, and they knocked their cups together in mutual understanding. They finished their tea in a companionable silence, listening to the faraway calling of the ravens outside.
Perhaps, Childermass thought, it was not the worst way to end an interview.