Chapter Text
In the year 1817, one Thursday morning in March saw two men ensconced in a bed-chamber at the Old Starre Inn in York. Of the two men, one of them (thin and hawklike, with ragged hair and a dirty, grey shirt) was in bed and fast asleep. The other (dark of hair and eye and with something twisted in his face, though it was difficult to say precisely what) was sitting at a small desk beside the window and writing down a plan for what he meant to do next.
John Childermass (for that was the name of the man at the desk) had the previous night shown the wonder that was Vinculus (for that was the name of the man in the bed) to the newly re-founded York Society of Magicians. There had been, to put it mildly, uproar. And, surely, was this not to be expected? When the York Society had discovered that Vinculus' skin was covered in markings, and that these markings were purportedly the writings of John Uskglass, the Raven King, there was hardly a man between them who had known what to do with this astonishing information.
Some people might have found the chaos and the pushing and the shouting that had ensued to have been rather alarming. John Childermass, however, had merely smiled, as if this had been just the sort of reaction that he had hoped for.
And what had been Childermass' motive in revealing Vinculus' secret in this way? It had been clear from his actions that evening that he held most magicians in contempt, so why had he wished to gather them together? Well, when one finds oneself in possession of a complex and unknown text, written in a complex and unknown script, one soon discovers that deciphering said text on one's own is nigh on impossible. What better way to acquire assistance than to ask one of the oldest magical societies in England?
It must be said that no word of Uskglass' book had been translated on that first meeting of the newly re-founded York Society (why, it's surprising that anyone had been able to understand anything at all above the clamour of voices), but Childermass was not foolish enough to expect the translation to be quite so quick in forthcoming. What had happened, however, was that the world now knew about Childermass' quest (for if the York Society knew, then it would only be a matter of time before accounts were passed on to the rest of England, and indeed to the rest of the Empire). Admittedly, most magicians were so quarrelsome that expecting cooperation between them on any project was a rather tall order, but Childermass fancied that there were enough sensible minds out there to make it worthwhile stirring up the whole lot of them, chaff and all.
Upon the open page of Childermass' memorandum book, as he sat at the desk that morning, was a list of places (or perhaps a list of magical societies): "Ripon, Darlington, Durham, Newcastle".
Childermass sat back and tapped the end of his pen to his lips, then he leant forward again and added "Carlisle, Kendal, Lancaster".
As he was writing this last he experienced, suddenly, a curious sensation, almost as if someone had reached across and tugged sharply at one of the short hairs upon the back of his neck (though there was no-one around to do so, for Vinculus remained fast asleep). Childermass started in his chair and turned around where he sat. As he did so, something on the floor beside the bed happened to catch his eye: a glinting sort of something.
Frowning, Childermass got up from his desk and walked over. Yet when he reached the object he frowned still more, for there upon the floor, lying rather closer to Vinculus' discarded breeches than was pleasant, was, of all things, a golden locket.
Evidently, Vinculus had been picking people's pockets again.
Childermass sighed. How could the magicians of the land be expected to help Childermass with his work when Vinculus thought fit to steal from them? (Though Childermass had to admit that with so many people crowding and jostling around Vinculus at the previous night's meeting, and most of them rather rudely, it was easy to see where the temptation to pick a few pockets had come from.)
With another sigh, Childermass bent down and picked the locket up, thinking to return it to its owner with an apology (the sincerity of the apology no doubt depending upon the identity of the owner and Childermass' particular opinion of them). The locket, circular in shape, was slightly warm in his palm and had a pleasant weight to it, but beyond that it was rather plain: the surface contained no initials nor other marks to suggest who it might have belonged to, and neither did the chain. Thus, hoping to find some identifying portrait or writing inside the locket, Childermass opened it.
Of pictures and text within, there were none; all the locket held was a tightly-curled lock of hair, black for the most part, but mixed with a quantity of grey.
Yet what a funny thing! Despite the lack of initials or engravings, Childermass found that he knew the hair, and thus the locket's owner, on an instant: it was the hair of Mr Segundus (one of the members of the newly re-founded York Society of Magicians, and a man that Childermass had thought fit to keep an eye on over the past ten years or so). It could not have belonged to anyone else!
That Vinculus had apparently found it acceptable to pick the pockets of Mr Segundus left Childermass feeling rather more irritated than before. He cast a glare at Vinculus (who was still snoring upon the bed) and carried the locket over to the desk so that he might inspect it in the light of the window.
Of all the people to steal from! Not only was Mr Segundus hardly so rich as most of the other magicians present at the meeting, he was also one of the few who had shown Vinculus any sort of kindness. Why, as the York Society, almost as one, had surged forth and had begun poking and prodding and plucking at Vinculus' skin (something Childermass had been content to let them do, for he knew that Vinculus was quite able to hold his own amongst a crowd), Mr Segundus, along with his friend Mr Honeyfoot, had hung back. Indeed, Mr Segundus had soon turned fully away from Vinculus and had instead started asking after Childermass' health and wellbeing.
Childermass gave out a wry smile at the memory of how genuinely concerned Mr Segundus had seemed about the cut upon Childermass' cheek (which had been a huge gash when Mr Segundus had seen him last, but was now only a thin, silvery scar). Once satisfied that Childermass was well upon that account, Mr Segundus had then set to asking how Childermass was faring after the loss of Mr Norrell, if Childermass and Vinculus had a place to stay, if they had friends to help them, etc., etc., etc.
At the time, Childermass had found such interest in his own welfare to be rather disarming, though, looking back on it, he could see that Mr Segundus had only meant well. And, indeed, had any of the other members thought to treat Childermass as if he were his own person with his own needs that must be met, rather than merely as Mr Norrell's ex-servant? No; they had not.
Childermass had, however, soon steered Mr Segundus' conversation onto the more comfortable waters of Vinculus and the King's book. Set upon this topic, Mr Segundus had, naturally, enquired after the circumstances surrounding Childermass' discovery of Vinculus' writings and, upon having the tale recounted to him, Mr Segundus had then entered upon a number of theories and suggestions that were so interesting and so thought-provoking that Childermass had been surprised, once their conversation had subsided, to find that the hour had suddenly grown late and that the other members of the Society had already begun to leave for their homes. (For, of course, very few of the members of the Society had thought it worth their while to take their leave of Childermass, a mere servant, on their way out of the meeting; and this despite the fact that without Childermass there would not have been a meeting in the first place!)
Once the room had cleared a little, Mr Segundus had then, finally, made his way over to Vinculus and had politely enquired whether Vinculus might endure being perused by one more poor scholar? Vinculus, at that point on his sixth mug of gin and hot water, had been quite happy to be the centre of attention for a while longer, and thus Mr Segundus, and Mr Honeyfoot too, had set to inspecting the writing upon him, accompanied by many "sorry"s and "I do beg your pardon"s and "would you be so kind as to raise your?"s.
At the end of this inspection Mr Honeyfoot had been all animation but Mr Segundus had worn a quiet and thoughtful expression. Childermass had asked Mr Segundus how he had found the King's book, but Mr Segundus had merely said that he would need to think over it before he came to any conclusions; and then, thanking Childermass for the opportunity, and expressing a wish that they might be granted a similar opportunity in the future, if it was not too much trouble to Childermass to arrange such a thing, Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot had made their goodbyes and left.
Childermass had been rather quiet and thoughtful himself as he had watched them go, for, to own the truth, Childermass had found himself disappointed that he had not been able to hear Mr Segundus' opinions upon Vinculus immediately. This disappointment was surely no surprise; after all, was it not the case that, for all the fools there were to be found in the York Society, there were yet a few sensible minds amongst them whom Childermass had hoped would help him with what he was now beginning to consider "his great work"? And had not Mr Segundus' mind been the chief of those whose help Childermass had thought to seek?
Unfortunate, then, that the one magician Vinculus had chosen to steal from was Mr Segundus! (Quite surprising too, truth be told, for by the time Mr Segundus had got to him, Vinculus had had very little coordination of any sort remaining.) Childermass' only hope, it seems, was in trusting that Mr Segundus' good nature would prevent his growing too angry if his property was duly restored to him.
Childermass looked at the locket and its curl of hair some more, turning it this way and that. There was nothing inside the locket proclaiming the hair to be Mr Segundus' (and doubtless there were many other men present the previous night whose hair was black with a quantity of grey) but Childermass felt certain that Mr Segundus' it was, though where this certainty came from Childermass did not know.
A thought then crossed Childermass' mind, which caused him to frown rather deeply. If the hair inside the locket came from Mr Segundus' own head, then why did Mr Segundus carry the locket himself? (For who wishes to wear a keepsake of themselves?) Perhaps, then, the locket hadn't been in Mr Segundus' pocket at all, but had instead been given by Mr Segundus to one of the other members of the York Society (though Childermass found this thought rather distasteful). Or perhaps the locket had been intended to have been passed on to one of the member's daughters and had been lost before it could ever reach its intended recipient? Perhaps, indeed, the locket had been intended for one of Mr Honeyfoot's daughters? (Mr Honeyfoot had one unmarried daughter remaining, did he not?) Childermass discovered that he found this last option the most distasteful of all.
And yet... And yet, there was something about this locket that professed it to have been in the keeping of Mr Segundus and no-one else; it was his and his alone. God knows why anyone would wish to keep a lock of their own hair upon their person, but there was something about the feel of the locket, the weight of it, the gold metal, that made Childermass feel certain that this was the case. (Indeed, there was something about the way the locket felt in Childermass palm that spoke entirely of Segundus: a warm, pleasant feeling; a resonance that was as soft and worn and comfortable as an old shirt that had been heated before a fire.) The locket belonged to Mr Segundus, Childermass was certain of it, and though it felt good and right for Childermass to hold it, he knew that it needed to be returned to its rightful owner.
As Childermass was thus musing upon the locket and its owner, there came a knock upon the chamber door, which led to Vinculus' letting out an unintelligible groan and rolling over in the bed.
With a start, as if he had been found doing something he should not, Childermass slipped the locket into the pocket of his breeches. He then rose and opened the door.
On the other side stood a boy wearing a livery that Childermass recognised. "Beg pardon, sir," said the boy, "but Mr Honeyfoot wishes me to take you to his house in High-Petergate."
Childermass snorted. "If Mr Honeyfoot would like to spend more time with the King's book, then he can make an appointment to wait upon me at a more convenient time. I will not be at every magician's idle beck and call."
The boy in livery was frowning. "A book? Beg pardon again, sir, but Mr Honeyfoot said nothing about a book. It is Mr Honeyfoot's friend, sir: Mr Segundus. He has been taken ill and Mr Honeyfoot wishes for you to come and see him."
Childermass' stomach turned over. He looked at the boy. "Mr Segundus? Ill?"
The boy nodded. "Aye, sir."
"Is it dire?"
"The house is all in commotion, sir."
Cursing, Childermass told the boy to wait. He quickly returned his memorandum book to his coat pocket, pulled on his overcoat, took up his hat and followed the boy out into the corridor.
Outside on the street the sun was bright and the air was rather warm for the time of year. This did not help Childermass' mood. He put on his hat, tugged on his gloves and glowered at the people they passed. Everyone seemed to be quite happy going about their normal business, as if this were a fine day and nothing at all was the matter.
"I'm not a physician," said Childermass to the boy.
"Mr Honeyfoot was certain that I must fetch you," replied the boy, rather defensively. "Besides, a physician will be no use, for one has already been and gone."
"What is wrong with Mr Segundus, then?" asked Childermass. "What did the physician say?"
The boy shrugged.
It seems that the boy had been right when he had told Childermass that the Honeyfoots' household was all in commotion. Indeed, Mr Honeyfoot himself seemed so animated by emotion that he was out in the street, some seventy yards from his house, hatless and in his house shoes and banyan, waiting for Childermass to arrive.
"Oh, thank goodness you are here!" cried Mr Honeyfoot, rushing to Childermass as quick as he was able and falling into step beside him. "We do not at all know what to do! He grows worse and worse, even though Barnby has been and prescribed a powder, and Mrs Honeyfoot is certain we must get another opinion. Oh, and to see how feverish he looks! I would ask Mr Williams (he is the surgeon, you know) but he is out of town with his sister, and Anne thought to make up a draught, but there is no tamarind to be had anywhere, yet if we don't do anything I fear that..."
"Stop! Stop! Slow down!" interrupted Childermass, for he had neither the resolve nor the patience at that moment to put up with babbling. "What is it you are saying? Mr Segundus is ill in your house?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Mr Honeyfoot. "Yes! Oh, the poor man! He was in town for the meeting of the Society, and of course he stays with us whenever he..."
"What is wrong with him?" asked Childermass.
"We do not know!" replied Mr Honeyfoot, taking out a handkerchief and rubbing his forehead. "It appears to be some sort of fever. Barnby (he's our physician) says he has not seen the like. Why, and he has been barely conscious all morning, and his cheeks grow paler and paler, and his breathing has grown so thin! Oh, Mr Childermass, there must be something you can do!"
Childermass huffed. "So that is why you have called me: you think I might do some magic to help?" He gave Mr Honeyfoot a look that was rather accusatory. "Though I don't see why you do not try yourself. Are you a magician, Mr Honeyfoot, or not?"
Mr Honeyfoot flushed red. "I have tried all the healing spells that I know!" he protested. "But as you are familiar with Mr Norrell's library, I thought that you might... and Mr Segundus holds your knowledge in very high regard, you know, and... well, to tell the truth, he has said nothing in his fever save repeat you name."
Childermass stopped dead. "My name?"
Mr Honeyfoot had walked some paces before he realised that Childermass was no longer beside him. "Yes!" cried Mr Honeyfoot, returning to Childermass. "Yes! Yes! He has been calling for you. Now, please hurry, do." He then took hold of Childermass' arm and all but dragged him into the house.
It did indeed seem like a household that was in alarm. As they passed the morning room Childermass saw that breakfast stood half-eaten upon the table, with seemingly no attempt having been made by the servants to clear it up. One of the maids ran past them up the stairs carrying a basin of water, and the rest of the staff appeared to be milling around in various locations, speaking in low voices.
"Please. Make way! Make way!" said Mr Honeyfoot as he pushed through a crowd of three at the top of the staircase. "Do you not have things to do? Where is Anne? In the kitchen? Well, help her then. And ask Fletcher to air out the house. We need more air!"
Mr Honeyfoot led Childermass quickly through two small bed-chambers that did not seem to be in use and stopped outside what was presumably a third. Here Mr Honeyfoot's hurry seemed to leave him entirely. He turned and gave Childermass a grave look. "We must be quiet for his sake, if you please." Then Mr Honeyfoot opened the door.
The room within was a bed-chamber a little larger than the last they had passed through. A chill draught blew in from an open window. The maid that had passed them on the stairs was at the lit fireplace, passing her basin of water to a lady that Childermass knew to be Mrs Honeyfoot. An empty seat beside the bed, with some discarded needlework upon its arm, spoke of the watch Mrs Honeyfoot had been keeping.
And the bed itself? It was but a small thing, without curtains but dressed with pretty blue blankets. You could almost imagine it to be a comfortable place if it weren't for the fact that Mr Segundus, the bed's occupant, did not seem comfortable at all.
The collar of his nightshirt was tugged and rumpled, giving him the look of a person who had been dressed while unconscious; his cheeks were pale, blotched with pink; and his dark hair stuck to his forehead. Even though he appeared at that moment to be asleep, his face, on which Childermass was used to seeing a mild and rather thoughtful look, was at that moment scrunched as if he was experiencing some deal of pain. The rise and fall of his thin chest beneath the blankets was accompanied by a rasping breath.
Mrs Honeyfoot looked up from what she was doing. "Oh! Might this be Mr Childermass?" said she. "Thank goodness you are here!"
Childermass took off his hat and gloves and bowed. "Your husband expressed the same relief, madam, though I do not see what I can do." He looked to the bed and thought about how he'd seen many people, mostly children, wear that same expression with that same blotched complexion. They had rarely lasted for more than a few days.
It is funny, is it not? how the process of grieving can start before someone is even gone. Something in Childermass' throat hurt, and on an impulse he thrust a hand into his breeches pocket and curled his fingers around the warm weight of Segundus' locket there. It was quite probable that the lock of hair within that locket would soon be the only part of Mr Segundus left above ground.
"You do not see what you can do?" asked Mrs Honeyfoot as she dismissed the maid and sat back down in the chair beside the bed. "But I thought you were doing magic to help him already, Mr Childermass! Why, his breathing has become very much easier in the last few moments before you arrived."
"Easier?" asked Childermass in alarm. "Then it was worse than this?"
"Yes," said Mr Honeyfoot, nodding. "Now you see why the case has been so urgent."
There was a noise of shifting sheets as Mr Segundus twisted in the bed. He pressed his face into the pillow and mumbled something that sounded like "...dermass."
In that moment Childermass found both Mr and Mrs Honeyfoot looking at him.
Childermass instead looked to Mr Segundus. "What is wrong with him?" Childermass asked. "When did this start?" He remembered the quiet, thoughtful look upon Mr Segundus' face as he had left the Old Starre Inn the night before. "Was he ill last night?"
"Oh no," said Mr Honeyfoot. "At least I do not think so, for he seemed quite well at breakfast. He went out this morning to see to some business for his... ah." Mr Honeyfoot stopped short, and Childermass turned to see him flushing red and exchanging a look with his wife.
Childermass sighed. "For his school for magicians," he supplied, when it seemed clear that Mr Honeyfoot wasn't going to continue himself. "The one he means to open with Mrs Lennox at Starecross Hall."
Mr Honeyfoot flushed some more. "You know?" he asked. "That is... I had thought that after... Or rather, I did not know that Mr Segundus had mentioned it to..."
"I like to keep an eye upon matters," returned Childermass. He sighed again and gave Mr Honeyfoot what he hoped would be a reassuring smile (though it was probably little more than a baring of teeth). "You may rest assured, Mr Honeyfoot, that I do not mean to close down Mr Segundus' school a second time. I happen to think it a very good idea that he open one."
Mr Honeyfoot's eyes widened. "You do? But then why did you see fit to close it down the first time if you...?" He was stopped by an exclamation from his wife
"Oh!" Mrs Honeyfoot was leaning close to her patient, watching him with attention. "Oh!" she cried again. "His breathing sounds ever so much easier of a sudden! Do you not think so?"
All fell silent to listen, and it was true: Mr Segundus' breathing did not have any of the rasping quality to it any more. Indeed, when looking at him it almost seemed as if the movements of his chest were more even also.
"Thank the Lord!" cried Mr Honeyfoot. He made his way over to the bedside and, after some moments, knelt down (with difficulty) and took Mr Segundus' hand in his own.
Mr Segundus' face, which was perhaps now less blotched than it had been, scrunched up further. "...ildermass," he muttered.
"Where did he go this morning?" asked Childermass.
Mr Honeyfoot started at the question, as if he had already forgotten Childermass' presence. "Oh!," said he, turning to Childermass. "I do not know. He talked about purchasing some articles for the school (paper or some such) and said he would not be long. Then some half an hour later, Jane (that is our daughter, you know) and her husband came knocking upon the door. Mr Buckthorne (that is, Jane's husband) and a shopboy were carrying Mr Segundus between them, for he was in a swoon. Jane said they had seen him stumbling about at the crossroads between Stonegate and High-Petergate where he had then collapsed to the floor. So Mr Buckthorne had called up the shopboy and they had carried him here. He was evidently in a fever, but when Barnby, our physician, visited he said he did not at all know what was wrong with..."
At that moment there issued a long breath, almost like a sigh, from the bed, followed quickly by another.
Mr Honeyfoot neglected his narration in favour of turning his attention back to Mr Segundus, and they all of them watched, in quite some surprise, as Mr Segundus' eyelids flickered and then opened.
The joy upon the faces of Mr and Mrs Honeyfoot was instantaneous. Mr Honeyfoot clasped Mr Segundus' hand firmly with both of his own, and Mrs Honeyfoot clasped Mr Honeyfoot's shoulders in turn.
"Oh! My dear!" cried Mrs Honeyfoot, as she hugged her husband. "He is awake!"
If Mr Segundus heard this, he did not show it. Indeed, it seemed that he was taking some time to collect his thoughts. After several moments he looked down at the hands upon his own, then up to their owner. "Mr Honeyfoot," he said faintly.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mr Honeyfoot, patting Mr Segundus' hand some more. "Oh, yes! My dear sir! I am so glad! I am so very glad!
"Ah," said Mr Segundus. He looked to the face beaming at him over Mr Honeyfoot's shoulder, and returned its smile. "Mrs Honeyfoot." (He received another broad smile from that lady for his trouble.)
Finally, Mr Segundus rolled slowly onto his back (wincing as he did so) and frowned out at the room. This frown decreased when he laid eyes upon the final person present. "Mr Childermass."
Childermass nodded. He felt, looking at that small body in that small bed, as if he had just run thrice around the city. Indeed, beneath the beating of his heart, Childermass found himself filled with that same warm feeling that results from a spell of physical exercise. It was relief, that feeling, surely (though tainted with caution, for one moment of consciousness does not a recovery make), and yet the warm glow might not have been coming from within Childermass alone, for Childermass still had a hand in his breeches pocket, curled around the locket he had placed there, and the locket itself felt warm: so very warm and pleasant.
Before he knew what he was doing, Childermass found himself drawing the locket from his pocket. He stared down at it and then held it out. "Mr Segundus," said he, "is this yours?"
"Oh." Mr Segundus breathed out. "Thank goodness. You have it," said he with a smile. "It worked."