Work Text:
It would seem reasonable, would it not, to expect winters to be milder once you move from the North to the South. But both are Nature's domain, and she is free to decide otherwise whenever[1] it pleases her, and oh, did Mr Norrell have some things to say in this regard.
That year, most of them were little grumblings here and there along the lines of, "The tea has gone cold again, Lucy," and, "Hannah, why is the fire not going?", and "Childermass, write to Rockford's immediately and place an order for three, no, four more woollen blankets," and "How can I work on an ink warming spell if all my ink has thickened?"
More indignant bits were thought loudly yet left unsaid, for respectability was Mr Norrell's most important principle and the leitmotif of his life.
There was also a third category of such complaints, which, should Mr Norrell suddenly decide to voice them, would have to be put in the words he despised merely thinking about. The reason for one of them manifested itself on February the 3rd, when Childermass opened the door to Mr Norrell's study and, in a voice even rougher than usual[2], introduced a visitor with a very bland name and of just as bland profession.
"Your services are required by the Parliament, sir," said the man after a round of somewhat strained greetings. "If you'd be so kind, of course."
Mr Norrell, reminiscent of an onion both in bitterness and multitude of layers, was quite far from kind at that exact moment, but, as we well know, he practically had no choice.
"Of course," he echoed.
A long list was passed to him containing all the explanations he needed (in the Parliament's opinion, that is, which was always at least slightly different from reality). The further Mr Norrell went down the list, the longer his own face became with an emotion that didn't need a specific name – it would be sufficient to say it was unpleasant.
After he finished reading, he looked up at Childermass, who had been staring at the paper with the expression of both intense concentration and defocus[3], and cleared his throat to bring the attention back to his person from whatever fancy took over the man.
To Childermass's credit, he reacted immediately, and in a few efficient minutes, another, much shorter list was compiled: the materials, the this and that's necessary for the spell at all its stages and the estimated cost of everything[4]. The magician was promptly provided with a significant portion of the sum with the rest as a Royal IOU, and the emissary left.
"There's no need in huffing and puffing, sir," Childermass said in response to the extremely exasperated sound his master made as soon as the door closed. "Be glad it's not the elephant you are in charge of."
"What?!"
The next quarter of an hour Mr Norrell spent in horror, listening to all the accounts his man of business could (undoubtedly, with a rather impertinent sort of pleasure) provide on the first two days of this year's Thames frost fair[5]. But the image of people being too merry for their own good and the sheer thought of the noise they made by laughing[6], chewing and exercising were not the worst impression the tale made on the poor magician.
"A printing press?" Mr Norrell peeped at the mention of the device among the attractions of the fair.
"A dozen of them," Childermass nodded as if they were his own pride and joy. "Right there, on the ice. I can bring you a pamphlet or whatever they are making."
"No, thank you," Mr Norrell replied tightly with no intention of discovering anything more on the topic. "I must get to work."
This meant, obviously, that Childermass also had to get to work, since it was he who had to run around frozen London and obtain everything he himself wrote down in the budget, while Mr Norrell stayed in warmth – relative, surely, but warmth all the same – poring over his books and thinking. However, in this particular case, Childermass absolutely didn't mind not having to sit and think about magic, now that the magic in question was the creation of one and twenty ice fishes and compelling them to dance[7].
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1. This specific whenever was the year 1814.[back.]
2. By this point in time, every single servant of the Hanover-square residence (as well as some in Hurthew, unbeknownst to the others) had expressed their annoyance with the fact that their master didn't even once consider developing a cure for common cold. None were eager, however, to present this idea directly to Mr Norrell.[back.]
3. Yet another example of Mr Norrell being oblivious to his servant's stratagems. Although he did not have to worry either way, since the reading-through-paper spell (found among other Pale's spells) wasn't a major one, and Childermass didn't succeed in mastering it, it still proves that he should've paid more attention.[back.]
4. I am sure it goes without saying that the estimation was calculated on the basis of Childermass's always-up-to-date knowledge of current prices, accurate to a penny, and also included an astute allowance for potential extra charges the providers might demand due to the emergency, etc, as well as – on Childermass's own accord – an invisible fee that applied to all such assignments.[back.]
5. What exactly is a frost fair, you may ask? It's several days of pleasant chaos taking place on the surface of the Thames when it freezes over. As soon as the ice is thick enough to carry a crowd, a market – a fair – spawns, consisting of food stalls, all sorts of other little shops with paraphernalia of goods, puppet booths, magicians' tents, bowling lanes, skating rinks (obviously), as well as—[back.]
6. Apart from bewilderment, the story gave Mr Norrell an insight into why the pattern of people laughing outside had changed lately – and when he thought he could finally work in peace by the daylight!
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7. He was by far not the only person who found this project distasteful, but thankfully, the elephant (rightfully so) still outshone the fish dance in the memory of the general public, and the task ultimately had no effect on Mr Norrell's reputation.[back.]