The Two of Coins

This card signifies that steady, profitable work is ahead. It is not a card of wild success, but one of fulfilment.

Steaming water rattles from the kettle's spout above coals that crack and glow. Clout wrapped around his hand, Childermass pours last kettle of water into the wooden bath. Indulgence is not a word the John readily applies to himself. After he got over the initial shock of earning a decent wage, he began to split the money evenly between Joan and a strong box hidden deep in the woods behind Hurtfew. He does not know what he is saving for yet, he has a roof over his head, clothes on his back and food provided. That is usually indulgence enough.

But this is auld year's night, the last day of the year, and Childermass' first time to himself since he became a man of business. The servants are all gone - home or to parties at neighbouring houses, welcoming the new year in. Norrell does not hold with such rituals, wastes of time that serve no purpose, and has gone to bed early.

Childermass stays alone and he allows himself the single luxury of a hot bath. As he pulls off his nightshirt and lays it on a chair, previous years' ends rise in his memory like steam. It took his three years to recover from the shame of being a servant, of having a better lifestyle than his family and find Black Joan. It took him six years for Norrell to trust him enough to find his own way to the library, to even handle books.

He has witnessed further magic and he is hooked like a worm. He has grown more used to it now, but still takes the precaution of leaning against things just in case the magic-rush spins him another merry, dizzy dance to the floor. Constantly fainting does not fit with his part. No, Childermass must be calm, constant and dependable. It is his only guarantee of learning more magic. That thought protects him from Norrell's strange moods and demands.

But the clock's hands are inching to midnight, Norrell is most likely asleep, and Childermass could be only person in the world. Cracking fire and shifting coals are the only noise. Water steams in the wooden tub, waiting for him, cooling. For once, he has nothing to think about and nothing to do.

His foot tingles in protest as it touches the water but he forces himself to plunge it in. The longer he waits to acclimatise, the shorter and colder is bath will be. He sinks into the bath, a groan barely escapes his lips, would only be heard to one at very intimate distance. No one would be welcomed that close, solitude is Childermass' haven. Wavering between servant and confidante, no one - not the other servants, and certainly not , seem to know how to treat him.

This night he does not need to think about appearances, does not need to plot or weigh his options.

He bends his knees fully, submerging his shoulder, neck, head into the bath. Water and the sound of his own rushing pulse fill his ears. Hair floats around him, weightlessly dancing like silk strands in a summer wind. John rolls his shoulders slowly, muscles crackling as the tension eases. Another groan, barely a breath, escapes as bubbles to the surface of the bath.

A bell.

Two rings, filter distorted and distant through the water. A second groan escapes, leaving little air in Childermass' lungs but he stays submerged.

The bell again. At least six rings this time.

Aching for breath, he brakes the surface with a gasp and glowers at the bell. Its the one for the bedroom, Norrell of course.

'No. You should be asleep and so should I. There's no reason to call me.' Childermass says grimly.

Bell begins to ring again, but he sinks back into bath with a roll of the eyes. Norrel is bound to give up soon. The divet probably has his nose buried in a book and has no idea what time it is. He will realise soon, surely, and stop.

And the bell does stop. He relaxes into the lukewarm water. Peace.

A sudden tightness seizes his muscles, as if he were ready to spring, fight or flee. But his heart does not race and no panic crosses Childermass' brow. Only confusion. With a yelp, he jerks to his feet, wobbling slightly at the sudden movement. He did not choose to do that. Confusion is replaced with annoyance. A rope twists in his stomach, snaking around his body, pulling at his limbs. He cannot see the rope, but he can feel it's pull, taut and urging.

Childermass feels the familiar world-twisting tingle of magic and growls, 'Norrell, you bas-'

The rope jerks, pulling him forward sharply, he barely manages to keep balance has he stumbles out of the bath tub. Another jerk and he is being pulled out of the kitchen. He twists, fighting the pull and for a second it gives. Enough time to grab the nightshirt he had set to warm by the fire before he is pulled again, into the dark corridors of Hurtfew Abbey.

His feet and fingers are stone, his teeth rattle like bare birch twigs and wet hair has seeped into his sodden shirt by the time Childermass reaches the master bedroom. At the door the invisible rope slackens and Norrell distracted voice calls, 'Come in, Childermass.'

He enters and sees Norrell in his high backed armchair, head buried in one of a multitude of books that strew the reading table in front of him. The chair is pulled close to the fire, but the grate lies dead, the coals grey and cold.

'I am close to something Childermass, very close and I cannot stop now. I am cold.'

This apparently is all the instruction he will get, so Childermass walks leadenly to the fireplace and grips the mantel piece as he kneels. The floor still tips slightly, even though the invisible rope has gone. He gathers a few pieces of discarded parchment, covered in Norrell's spidering hand and crossed out diagrams. He takes a little of his annoyance out on the papers as he crumples them into fire lighters. Next he arranges kindling into a small mountain, enclosing the paper and reaches for the tinderbox. It is not there.

Childermass curses internally. Of course it's not there - the maid keeps it with her and carries it between rooms as she lights the fire in the morning. It's all the way back downstairs at in the kitchen. A thought flickers in he brain and his eyes turn to the candlestick on the reading table. The thought dies as he sees the dead stub with a burnt out wick. The ambient light that allows Norrell to read apparently has no source. That explains his continued dizziness at least. He considers asking Norrell to light the fire, but dismisses the idea, such a menial task he would surely refuse.

Frustration burns in his gut and a hot itch makes its way down Childermass' icy fingers. He leans forward on his knees, hand reaching for the pile of kindling. John's eyes narrow as he feels for an old memory.

He is cold and wet, a dark wind full of thin rain wraps him in its cloak. And Joan is leaning over a pile of twigs and leaves, sheltering it. She snaps her fingers and flames push back the darkness. She leans back, cold and shaking.

Feeling the last remaining heat in the pit of his stomach, Childermass brings it all to his fingers.

Snap.

Fire billows in the kindling as grey smoke curls into the chimney. As the sticks catch, Childermass gingerly places two small logs on top to catch the flames. It is only then that John feels the aching chill that threatens to split his bones like ice in cracked stone. He slumps, shaking, into the mantelpiece and grins. Fire dances in his off white teeth.

Norrell swallows. Childermass can tell he's being watched but he does not look up. Norrell swallows again.

'Did you-?'

'Yes.'

'Ah. I see.'

'What say you, sir?'

'I-ah, I should say this rather changes things, Childermass.'

John lets his grin fade and pulls heat from the fire back into his body. He finds his feet and turns to Norrell.

'I am rather-' he struggles from the word '- used up, . Will there be anything more tonight?'

'Why, yes, certainly. I mean, that is to say no. No, nothing more tonight Childermass, you may go.'

John turns to leave, an edge of disappointment chilling his victory.

'But, ah, Childermass?' He turns back, face blank and hopeful. 'Tomorrow. There will be more tomorrow, I am sure.'

A corner of his mouth quirks for an instant and then returns to place. Childermass sketches a bow and leaves the room. A new fire has been lit, and he will not let it die