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John Childermass did not enjoy the company of Dr Foxcastle.
This was, perhaps, unsurprising. Dr Foxcastle was a gentleman, and Childermass was not. They were men of opposing tastes and temperaments, with differing opinions on magic, politics, and nearly everything in-between, and neither was particularly willing to adjust their views to suit the other. Childermass had misliked Dr Foxcastle from the first moment they had met on the steps of the Minster, when the man, after wrinkling his nose in disdain at Childermass’s general appearance, had given him a look that implied that he didn’t believe that Mr Norrell could summon an ounce of magic if his life depended on it.
Then you are a fool, Childermass had thought as he presented the paper for him to sign, and you shall regret crossing paths with my master.
Ten years had passed since then, and as both Childermass and Dr Foxcastle had not much changed, so had their feelings for each other remained cool. The first time that Childermass entered the Starre Inn with Vinculus, Dr Foxcastle had seemed exceedingly put out and whispered – though in a manner that ensured everyone in the room could hear – that he wouldn’t have taken the trouble of walking all this way if he had known he was to be lectured by a servant. Childermass had considered several retorts, but in the end had spared his energy, and said nothing. He had dealt with many unpleasant men in his time, and Dr Foxcastle was far from the worst of them.
Thus, Childermass returned to the Starre Inn each month with Vinculus to give his speeches, listen to the responses, debate, and pretend not to hear any of the remarks that Dr Foxcastle made when he thought that Childermass was too far away to hear them. Dr Foxcastle, for his part, honed his disdain until it radiated from him like a stoked hearth and turned a remarkable shade of puce every time Childermass ventured within five feet of him.
Dr Foxcastle aside, Childermass enjoyed the Society meetings. There was a good fire on chill nights, and windows that opened on warm ones. The food was plentiful, the conversation stimulating, and magic was at the heart of everything, and this more than compensated for Dr Foxcastle and his choleric humor. Childermass’s life had not always been an easy one – even under Norrell, when his body had been fed and warmed and his mind well-occupied, there had been long periods of frustration and strife, tasks to perform that made him uneasy, or people he had been made to deal with who were dangerous or dislikable. Now, as his years marched rather closer to the wrong end of ‘middle’, he would take what comforts he could. And the foremost of the comforts that the Starre Inn offered was John Segundus.
It could not be said that Segundus was a comfortable-looking man. His build was pointy, his face narrow and his expression often nervous, and he had a habit when standing of clasping his elbows with each hand and pulling his arms close to his chest as if to ward off some unseen trouble. Nor was he a comfortable-sounding man, for though his voice was soft he had a habit of talking very fast and sometimes too loudly, and then lapsing into long silences as if to make up for this unfortunate outburst. But Childermass didn’t mind these things. It mattered little to him if Segundus talked too much, because he enjoyed listening to what he said. And if Segundus was then hushed for a time, Childermass was not the kind of person who felt compelled to fill silences with idle talk, and was quite content to merely stand near him, perhaps smoking his pipe, and get to know the things that made up John Segundus in his quietness – the way the grey hairs at his temple washed into the dark ones at his forehead, the way he pulled at his cuffs when he was thinking, or always took a deep breath when leaving a crowded room, a slow inhale as if at the first coming of spring.
Yes, Childermass found John Segundus a comfort indeed.
The fifth meeting of the newly reformed York Society of Magicians fell upon a dull June evening, chill for the time of year. Childermass, having stabled Brewer at the rear of the Starre Inn and bribed Vinculus with a tot of gin to come directly to the meeting, climbed the now-familiar staircase to the Long Room. He removed his coat, hung it on one of the pegs situated conveniently inside the door, and looked for John Segundus – only to realise that he wasn’t there.
Childermass frowned. Segundus was often one of the first to arrive at the meetings, and Childermass had made it his habit to appear somewhat earlier than his pride would usually permit, just for the pleasure of having his company whilst the room was still quiet.
Well. Segundus would be along soon enough.
Even as he thought this, footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him. Childermass turned – but it was only Dr Foxcastle, who puffed into the room with his usual air of a man greatly wronged. He removed his coat and hat, squinted at the row of pegs and, seeing that all the upper ones were full, seized Childermass’s coat, moved it to a lower hook, and placed his own over the top of it.
Childermass, observing this, merely rolled his eyes. Instead of beginning an argument, as some men might have, he took a turn around the room, as if he would find John Segundus hiding under a table or squashed into the narrow gap between the fireplace and the outer wall. There was no sign of him, and the thought occurred to Childermass that perhaps he was not coming at all. He could have some urgent business at Starecross, which he was working hard to turn into a school – Mrs Lennox might have come unexpectedly and insisted upon seeing the accounts, or whatever other things an enterprising woman would wish to discuss. Or it may be that Segundus was unwell, for even if he felt able to make the journey, he was too polite to attend a meeting where his sneezing or coughing could disrupt the other guests.
Perhaps, Childermass thought, with a flare of bitterness at the base of his tongue, Segundus was simply too busy. He was very nearly a schoolmaster in his own right and might feel that he had no need of the Society – of Childermass – any longer.
No. Childermass couldn’t conceive of any version of John Segundus, schoolmaster or not, who would turn down the chance to talk about magic. More likely he was just running late.
Childermass gave his head a shake, as if to tip the sour thoughts out of it, and occupied himself with peering out of the window, exchanging a brief conversation with Miss Redruth upon the shortcomings of Paris Ormskirk, and twice retrieving Vinculus from the staircase as he tried to steal away into the streets of York. The second time, Childermass was forced to conclude that Segundus was nowhere to be seen either downstairs or in the Long Room, and that he was about to attend a meeting that was all business, and very little pleasure. If Mr Honeyfoot had been there, Childermass would have asked after Segundus’s whereabouts, but as there was no more sign of Mr Honeyfoot than Segundus, he was unable to do so.
Despite this, the first hour went well. Childermass talked at length upon the symbols on Vinculus’s left ankle, which were proving to be a strange combination of spells and recipes, though whether recipes for magic or a rather odd supper he was still uncertain. This was followed by a discussion on the merits of the colour red as a prophylaxis, and what shades were the most effective in various magical circumstances – a topic that was, thankfully, both interesting and not too contentious, for passions at the Society could sometimes run a little high for Childermass’s tastes.
As the sun began to melt orange into the jagged York skyline, a short break was taken. Ale was brought up, alongside bread and a fresh-cooked chicken. Childermass helped himself to a flagon to soothe his dry throat, relieved the chicken of one of its legs and slipped into a dim corner to gnaw on it, for he was feeling rather hollow without his usual company, and hoped not to be drawn into conversation.
He was halfway through his meal when he realised that he was standing not two feet away from Dr Foxcastlle, who was speaking with great feeling to a dog-eyed, white-haired gentleman – a Mr Taylor, or perhaps Tyler – neither of whom appeared to have noticed Childermass at all. This was not as surprising as one might think, for the corner was dark and draughty, and therefore avoided by most of the guests, and Childermass had often found that when he wished not to be seen his magic did much of the work without his consciously asking.
‘…to be instructed by a man such as that!’ Dr Foxcastle was saying to the somewhat weary-looking Tyler or Taylor. ‘And at every meeting this year – if he didn’t have the King’s Book, I wouldn’t tolerate it for a moment. It is a very sad place this Society has come to, in my opinion, when we must let in women and servants and tolerate speeches from men who ought to remain silent.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘The only mercy is that horrible little man who follows him around isn’t here. If I were forced to listen to his piping tonight, I think I wouldn’t be able to hold my tongue. And this man fancies himself a schoolmaster – I ask you!’
Here, the tirade rested, for Dr Foxcastle, made thirsty in his excitement, paused to take a large gulp of ale. Childermass remained frozen in place, coming slowly to the conclusion that his face was hot and his heart drumming – that he was, in fact, exceedingly angry, an emotion that he hadn’t felt so strongly since the disappearance of Henry Lascelles some months before. Only, he was not angry for himself, but for John Segundus.
John Segundus, who had worked so hard for his school, and held no resentment to Childermass for being forced to shut it down some years before. John Segundus, who loved magic of all kinds, without Norrell’s jealousy or Strange’s carelessness, who listened avidly to what others had to say about it and who was brave enough to use his quiet voice to speak his mind in public, even when it frightened him. John Segundus, who smiled at Childermass every time he greeted him, and had once given him the present of a book he had found in Starecross’s old library – just because, he had said, I thought you would enjoy it.
Dr Foxcastle opened his mouth to begin speaking again. Quick as a shadow, Childermass slipped out of his corner and weaved quietly through the crowd towards the exit, thinking to take some fresh air outside the inn before he did something foolish. As he did so his eye fell on the row of pegs by the door – on his own coat, the hem now draping on the floor, and Dr Foxcastle’s interloping on the one above it.
He hesitated. It would be a childish thing to do – a sly, pickpocketing sort of trick that required no magic, only fast fingers and nerve.
Childermass had plenty of both.
Before he could convince himself otherwise, he slid the half-eaten chicken leg into one of Dr Foxcastle’s inside coat pockets, pushing it very deep. He withdrew his hand quickly and was in the process of absenting himself from the vicinity of the coat pegs when there was a clattering of feet on the stairs, and the soft whisper of a voice that he recognised.
‘…are so dreadfully late,’ the voice hissed. ‘I do hope – oh, thank goodness, they are still here.’
Red-cheeked and panting, Segundus reached the top of the steps, Mr Honeyfoot puffing close on his heels.
‘Mr Childermass!’ Segundus exclaimed as he set eyes on him. ‘We have had the most trying evening – there was a cow loose on the road, and our carriage could not get past, and then…’ Here, Segundus seemed to remember himself, lowering his voice. ‘But it is of no matter. I’m so pleased that we haven’t missed you!’
‘Why?’ Childermass asked. ‘Is there something you needed to tell me?’
This question seemed to confuse Segundus, for his forehead wrinkled. But before he could locate a reply, Childermass was pushed roughly aside.
‘If you would stop taking up space in front of the coats,’ Dr Foxcastle snapped. ‘I find I have a prior engagement.’
He gave Segundus a sour look as he said this, which caused Segundus to crumple and clasp his elbows, head bowed.
Any remorse that Childermass might have felt dissipated. He fixed a smile onto his face. ‘My apologies, sir. Allow me to help you.’
Dr Foxcastle blinked, but then seemed to decide that Childermass suited the role of footman very well, because he made no protest as Childermass fetched down his coat and helped him on with it.
‘My hat, if you will,’ he said.
Childermass retrieved it, handed it to him. Dr Foxcastle set it on his head, gave Childermass a look of gleeful dignity, and left without bidding any of them good evening.
‘Well,’ Mr Honeyfoot said as soon as Dr Foxcastle was down the stairs. ‘I needn’t think you should have been so apologetic, Mr Childermass. There was plenty of room for him to reach his coat, if he had only taken a pace or two to the left.’
‘Oh, don’t mind him.’ Childermass stepped aside, allowing Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot to hang their things on the peg now vacated by Dr Foxcastle’s. ‘He’ll have a pocketful of flies before long.’
Honeyfoot frowned. ‘A pocketful…you know, I don’t believe I’ve heard such an expression before. What does it mean?’
Childermass shrugged. ‘Only that those that deserve it get what’s coming to them.’
‘I see.’ Honeyfoot’s hands moved as if to reach for something to write with, but realising that there was nothing available, stilled again. ‘I suppose you learned it when you were in London?’
‘Yes.’ Childermass retrieved his pipe from his pocket, putting it between his teeth to hide his smirk. ‘I suppose I must.’
Honeyfoot, satisfied with this explanation, declared that he was quite frantic for something to drink and, having said so, went to retrieve a mug of ale. Segundus remained behind, seeming reluctant to enter the crowd just yet, though Childermass was glad to see that he had unclasped his arms and was standing more naturally, leaning towards Childermass as he surveyed the room.
‘So,’ Childermass said. ‘A cow on the road?’
‘Yes.’ Segundus sighed. ‘At the time it was very dramatic, though now we are finally here, it all seems a little silly. I’m very sorry that we missed your speech.’
‘I can repeat it sometime, if you like.’
Segundus brightened. ‘You could visit us at Starecross – it is coming along very well. I think it will make a fine school.’
‘With a fine schoolmaster.’
‘Don’t flatter me, Mr Childermass.’
‘It’s not flattery if it’s true.’ Childermass removed the pipe from his mouth and lit it with a soft word. There were plenty of candles around the room that he could have used, but he had already given into temptation once this evening – what was one more, if it would make Segundus smile?
Segundus did smile, though there was a glint behind it that told Childermass that he knew that the magic had been performed with that very purpose. ‘You will have to teach me that one day.’
‘You don’t smoke.’ Childermass cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to tell me when you arrived?’
‘What?’
‘You seemed eager to speak to me.’
‘Oh – nothing, honestly. I only thought that it would be a shame to come to this meeting and miss you.’
Childermass looked at Segundus. His face was clear and honest, and he was still smiling. If he was obscuring the truth, then he was a good actor, and Childermass knew that he was anything but.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Better late than not at all.’ He gestured with his pipe. ‘Are you ready?’
Segundus nodded. Together, they made their way to the centre of the room, where Mr Honeyfoot was nodding cordially with Henry Purfois. As they passed the table, Childermass took a piece of chicken with him – he had, after all, not finished the first, and the weather was due to get warm again tomorrow. It would be a shame to let it go off.