Chapter Text
January-February 1807
Childermass can feel change in the air.
The new year brings with it more than a change of the calendar. It brings a visit from the new magicians, which leaves Norrell upset for days before and after. He is strung as tight as a violin-wire, but when he tells the other magicians of his magic, he stands tall.
Or, well. As tall as he can, Childermass thinks with a smile.
After that, of course, there is a challenge.
Childermass thinks Norrell will refuse at first - he remembers the York Society's original invitation - but apparently Norrell's dignity is far too wounded
Childermass does not know if he has ever seen Norrell more tense. He does not know if Norrell has ever performed magic for any one but himself or Childermass. He stays up nights making notes and gathering ingredients, until Childermass has to tell him to go to bed.
"I need to finish this," he tells Childermass sleepily, and Childermass presses a kiss to his temple.
"Tomorrow, sir."
Tomorrow becomes two more late nights and days spent distractedly sipping tea and forgetting to eat. Childermass sometimes forgets between projects just how intensely Norrell can concentrate on one thing and how hard he can work when he is interested in something.
Hannah brings them both tea-trays laden with toast and cakes, leaving it pointedly where either of them can see it. Childermass is doing reasonably well with his eating issues at the moment; it is only that he, like Norrell, keeps forgetting. Still, he knows she worries.
The day draws nearer and then is there and then it is the appointed hour and he is in York, waiting.
Childermass does not, on the whole, feel sorry for the Society. They are tiresome men, without much real magic. There is one...John Segundus, that is his name. A small dark man. There is something there, Childermass thinks, and he is pleased the man does not sign the agreement. As for the others, there are a few who perhaps do not deserve to have their occupations taken away, but Childermass feels very little pity for any of them.
But he is glad he goes, because the magic in York Minster is perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He conceals his reaction by habit, but it is far grander than any thing he has ever witnessed Norrell do. He can feel it deep in his chest when it starts, a low humming that expands into the intense sensory deluge that is Norrell's magic. It is perhaps stronger than anything he has ever felt.
He goes back to Hurtfew that night - home he almost thinks - and Norrell is seated by the foyer with a book and a candle. He looks up when Childermass comes in and hangs his greatcoat on the hook by the door.
"How was it?" he asks, rising from his chair.
Childermass sweeps over and kisses him. It is not planned, but he cannot stop himself. He is still welling with the feeling of Norrell's magic and the excitement of having seen something so great.
Norrell's hands come up to his shoulders and clutch him; he seems a little unsteady, perhaps still affected by the power the spell required of him. Childermass steadies him, hands on his waist, though he still feels not a little wobbly himself.
"It was beautiful," he says against Norrell's mouth when they part an inch, "Beautiful."
Norrell sighs. "That was not the descriptor I expected."
"Why not?"
"I had thought 'astonishing' or, perhaps more practically, 'successful'. You are not usually so free with your compliments." Norrell kisses Childermass again, softly. "But I am glad you found it interesting."
"I certainly did," says Childermass dryly. "Besides, how else am I to feel? I don't suppose any thing so grand has been done since the days of the Raven King."
He realizes his mistake instantly and expects Norrell to cringe away, but he does not. He looks up, a look halfway between determined and thoughtful on his face, and says, "And now it will be done again."
"And you will be the one to do it."
Norrell leans in for a third kiss and Childermass meets him halfway, feeling swept away by the lingering giddiness. Magic is coming back. Magic is coming back. For all that Norrell had done, Childermass had not quite believed it could be managed, not in his heart. But now there is no doubt about it.
Norrell does not want to use the newspapers, which is predictable. Childermass talks him around, which is also predictable.
"Strike while the iron is hot," Childermass tells him when the account comes out. "Go to London, and go now."
In the months that follow, as they prepare, Childermass feels himself slowing down, taking in every little thing, knowing that it might be the last time he has it. On the nights where they sleep together, he takes to staying in Norrell's bed until it is time for both of them to rise, instead of sneaking back to his own room. There seems little point when everyone knows already, and besides that, he is continuously aware that this is the end of something, even as it is the beginning of something else.
Norrell seems to feel it too. When Childermass stays to nuzzle lazily at Norrell's neck until he wakes up with a sigh, he rolls over to press a sleepy kiss to his mouth instead of asking him what he is doing there.
This is perhaps the last time they will have together, and the air is heavy with that knowledge.
Everything will be different in a few months. Better or worse, Childermass has not yet decided. His cards are unhelpfully vague, although he had not expected much else.
He only hopes they can survive it intact.
March 1807
On the day they leave for London, Norrell is ill.
This is no surprise to himself. Unknowns have always upset him. Even more, changes in his routine throw him into a great fuss. So, in a way, he is expecting it; that does not make it any less unpleasant.
When Childermass comes in to help him dress, he is still lying in bed.
"Come on, sir," he says. "We need to get going. Long journey ahead of us."
"Mmm," says Norrell unhappily.
Childermass sits down on the side of the bed. He does not have the softness of an on-day, but he reaches out and touches Norrell's brow anyway, his hands careful. "No fever," he says. "I expect it is illness of your nerves."
"I know that," says Norrell, "But it does not make me feel better."
"No," says Childermass, "I don't suppose it does." He brushes his thumb against Norrell's forehead and then stands up. "You try and sit up. I will fetch you some tea and toast."
Norrell manages to keep both down and feels better. Childermass helps him dress - comfortable clothes, the softest ones he can find - and helps him out to the carriage.
For a long while, the journey is silent. They are each, Norrell thinks, doing their own calculating, deciding what changes this will bring, good and bad.
"The house is ready?" says Norrell, breaking the silence.
"Yes, it should be. It is in Hanover-square."
"That is respectable?"
A smile tugs at the corners of Childermass's mouth. "Yes."
"Good," says Norrell, and then silence falls again.
When they stop to stretch their legs, Childermass gets in on the same side as Norrell, which is odd. It becomes clear when he leans on Norrell's shoulder.
Childermass is too-tall and awkward against him, but Norrell does not want to move him. He feels warm and safe with him there, a soothing familiarity on a frightening new road.
"Are you quite comfortable?" he asks, acerbic to cover the fondness.
"Yes," says Childermass. "I am."
"I had thought this might be…" Norrell trails off. "I had the impression you were not interested in matters of this nature today."
"It's a no-kissing day," says Childermass, "But not the other stuff. I am tired. I was up all night packing. You are the most comfortable part of this coach, as difficult to believe as that may be."
Hovering unspoken between them are the words and I want to be close to you, while we still can.
"If you insist," says Norrell. "I shall not be responsible for it when you cannot sleep tonight because you have spent our journey napping."
Childermass laughs, and Norrell can almost feel the low rumble of it in his own chest.
"I doubt that'll be a problem," he says, and closes his eyes.
The carriage clatters on, bringing with it the usual backache and upset stomach. It is a four-day journey at least, and they take it slow; Norrell does not want to ride hard, though fortunately the weather obliges them by remaining dry for March.
They stop at inns and save money by sharing rooms, although Norrell can afford a separate one for himself. But the familiar sound of Childermass's breathing beside him is a comfort he does not want to sacrifice. And besides, who knows when they will next find themselves in this position.
It is odd; when they had first started sharing a bed, he had thought he would never quite grow used to it, the way it changed the pull of the bedsheets and the sound of the room. And now…
He banishes the thought. The Restoration of English Magic. A return to the principles from which they have been separated for such a long time. And, for that matter, recognition of his years of labor. That is worth the upset of his personal habits.
London is the place, and this is the time, he knows it. But that does not make it any easier.
They talk very little, mostly about business matters, on the journey. Occasionally Childermass leans against Norrell again, or Norrell lays his head on Childermass's lap to nap. Childermass always wakes him before they stop, even though Davey quite likely knows.
The last day, as they approach London, Childermass finally speaks of the matter that is on both of their minds.
"We will have to keep it a secret," he says.
Norrell does not ask what he means. "I know. No touching anywhere remotely public, and I suppose you will not be warming my bed very often any more."
This earns him a tiny smile. "No, I'm afraid you will have to be cold."
Norrell nods. "I suppose I shall have to add an extra blanket."
Childermass looks at him for a long while, not speaking. He says, "Beyond that, we'll have to be careful in our manner towards each other."
"Yes." Norrell realizes how informal they have grown, how odd it would look to anyone not used to it the way the Hurtfew servants are. The way the servants he will have to hire in London will not be. He shakes his head. "Secrecy, as you say," he says. "I know."
Childermass nods, and then they are silent.
Norrell hesitates. Childermass's hands are folded in his lap, and he is seated in front of Norrell, staring now outside the window, perhaps planning the proposed secrecy.
Norrell reaches out and takes one of his hands in his own.
Childermass looks up at him, his gaze steady and thoughtful.
"Have you an objection?" Norrell looks, not back at Childermass, but at the hand in his.
"No. Would it not be easier to begin as we mean to continue, though?"
"Just once more, Childermass."
Childermass's hand tightens on Norrell's, and that is how London finds them: hands entwined.
October 1807
London is, by and large, discouraging.
It is not, Childermass thinks, Norrell's fault exactly. He is doing his best. In fact Childermass is proud of him; he is spending a great deal of time out in the world, being known. That is not nothing, and it will be valuable. But he cannot seem to make any connexions with the people that he needs to, and for once Childermass does not yet know how to help him. The rejection by Sir Walter Pole is a blow, Childermass can see that; unfortunately, he cannot change it.
Then comes October. October...does change things.
Childermass does not know what it is that Norrell does that night at Sir Walter Pole's house, but he does know he has never seen him look quite so tired as he does when he returns.
Drawlight and Lascelles accompany him back to the library, where they sit up chatting about various matters. Drawlight plans for newspapers, announcements, accolades. Lascelles - whom Childermass is growing to dislike - merely makes arch comments.
Childermass has a sneaking suspicion they are going to stay overnight. Most likely to be in proximity to the fuss that is going to be made tomorrow, when the storm begins. He supposes someone has to deal with the public, but he has an instinctive revulsion for both of them that he cannot entirely shake.
But he had suggested they make use of them.
Norrell does not take long to retreat. "Help me get ready for bed, Childermass," he says wearily, bowing towards his guests.
"Just as you say, sir."
The walk to Norrell's room is silent. He is slumped over, feet dragging, his eyes hollow, as if he has seen things far beyond what he ever wished to.
Childermass supposes it was not so very shocking that bringing someone back to life should be distressing. That does not stop him worrying. Particularly because he has no way of fixing it. In Yorkshire, if Norrell had had an upset and seemed to desire soothing, Childermass would get him ready for bed and then quietly go fetch a few of his own things. He would undress, lay down, and wait for Norrell to be ready to sleep. If Norrell indicated a desire he would cuddle up close to his back; if not he would simply sleep on the other side of the bed, listening to the sound of Mr Norrell breathing until he himself fell asleep. Sometimes they both might be awake and then, rare but precious occasions, they might discuss magic.
But here the atmosphere is weighted with the knowledge that they are are not alone. Childermass cannot curl himself around Norrell, protecting and being protected at once. He cannot be there if Norrell wakes afraid. Not with the frenzy that would start tomorrow, and not with the guests. Servants might be discreet if paid; Norrell's fair-weather friends will not.
Childermass helps Norrell with his wig and the more difficult buttons, hands him his hot-water bottle, does not touch his skin. He tries to keep himself strictly professional, as much like a servant and as little like a lover as he can. He thinks perhaps that will be easier for both of them.
But when Norrell gets into bed and pulls up the covers, Childermass cannot resist leaning over and smoothing over him, not quite tucking him in. It is a touch-by-proxy, a way of saying I cannot, but I could if I would.
Norrell breaks the rules by reaching out and squeezing Childermass's hand. The gesture is abrupt, inelegant, graceless, and by this Childermass knows very well that it was not planned out. Norrell had simply wanted to feel Childermass's hand in his own.
His carefully-constructed composure fractures at the edges and he squeezes back.
"We agreed," he whispers, rubbing a thumb across the side of Norrell's hand. "They cannot know."
"I know," says Norrell, "I know. And at this moment the risk - "
"The cause of English magic, sir. Respectability."
"I have done a dreadfully unrespectable thing." Norrell squeezes Childermass's hand again, his mouth twisted into a fragile line. He could break at any minute, Childermass thinks, and his heart stops for a moment at the thought of what could have done this to him.
"Lady Pole?" he asks, keeping his voice low. "What happened?"
Norrell's eyes move away. "I do not know that speaking of it would help."
"You know I can't help you if you don't tell me what you need help with."
Norrell sighs. "You cannot help me in any case. What is done is done."
This does not seem the time to lecture Norrell about secrecy and its perils, here in his bedroom holding hands and knowing they must let go soon, knowing no one can know. All the same, it pains him a little not to have Norrell's trust.
But it is no matter. If it is done… He arranges the covers one last time, and then leans down to kiss Norrell's forehead. As he moves away Norrell's hand reaches out to follow him, just a little, and then settles on the blankets.
Childermass leans back against the door, watches him. He looks so small and tired and afraid, but if Childermass stays any longer, he will not leave tonight, and the consequences could be disastrous for both of them.
"Good night, sir," he says, and settles servant back on like a cloak. "Do you require anything else of me?"
Norrell closes his eyes for a moment. "No," he says. "Thank you, Childermass. You may go."
So Childermass does, back to his cold cheerless room. It feels very empty and bare. He could start a fire in the grate and he knows how to warm it with magic, but there seems to be so little point. He undresses, instead, and goes to bed.
The restoration of English magic, he tells himself. Everything you've been working so hard to achieve. Recognition for Norrell, whose talents have gone unacknowledged for far too long. A chance, too, for him to become something greater, although that seems less important these days. He thinks perhaps he cannot untangle himself from Norrell and magic, two things which are intimately intertwined these days anyway.
He tries not to think I want to go home, but the thought slips in treacherously anyway.