Evening in Hanover Square. Mr. Norrell was sitting in the library. A fire burned in the chimney. The chandeliers were lit up. Together with the flames' glow, they created a cosy atmosphere. Soft shadows danced over the green carpet and the covers of the books, Norrell had sorted into the shelves. The library was small. Too small for his liking, but it would have to do. Hanover Square simply was not the same as Hurtfew. Such a shame...

The curtains were drawn as to not let the night in. Norrell always was afraid of the dark. The dark reminded him of blackness and forbidden things. The night belonged to the Raven King and he deeply detested this legendary king. Ever since he had failed to summon him in his youth, he regarded all John Uskglass had done as blasphemy and disrespectable. Not the modern magic he desired to practice. It almost felt like a bitter irony that somewhere in his mind there still was some part of him that praised this king and was interested in him. Well, that part was gone. Being a part of the darkness, which had gotten flesh and blood in his loyal servant John Childermass.

Gilbert Norrell had nestled himself into the large, cosy leather armchairs. His small, round frame almost disappeared in it. A white, clean wig on his head and a comfortable, small brown jacket. He was holding one of the books in his hands. His fingers softly ran over the yellowish pages and his eyes slowly travelled over the inked letters. He had placed his reading glasses on his nose.

The book, Norrell was reading, was a book on tales. It was wrong to assume that he merely collected books on magic. He had a fierce passion for collecting reading material of all sorts. A volume on history, a book on arts and crafts, a fibula. Hurtfew Abbey was full of books. They laid in shelves, on the tables, in the widespreaded library. Sometimes they just piled up in a corner.

Norrell was waiting for Childermass to return. He had asked him to deliver a new version of Lascelles' manuscript to the bookseller. The last one had not made a few things as clear as Norrell had hoped it to do and thus he had insisted upon Lascelles to correct certain paragraphs. The new manuscript looked much better in his eyes.

Norrell was slowly turning another page of his book when the door opened. Shuffled steps could be heard and the door closed again. Childermass' raspy, hoarse voice filled the room, his Yorkshire accent sharp in his speech, making it a quiet, soft murmur: "I am sorry for taking longer then expected, Sir. Your manuscript is delivered now."

"Ah, that is very good, Childermass." Norrell looked up. His content face fell and the book dropped on the floor with a low thud, when the small man laid eyes on his man of business. Childermass was a tall, horrendous, yet oddly romantic looking figure, dressed in black clothing. His skin was pale, but the brown eyes, deep in their caves gave him a dark tone. His long, ragged, black brown hair hang in strands around his face. He wore a cylinder and a pair of gloves.

Right now however half of his clothing was stained with blood. It splattered across his gloves, his arms, partly his chest, even his face. The red juice had dried down and Norrell could clearly tell that this was not Childermass' blood. This only meant one thing: His darkness had murdered yet again.

"Oh, heavens!", Norrell called and his hands covered his mouth. His eyes were wide in shock. The appearance of his faithful servant, covered in blood, always scared the small magician. It brought vivid memories back, memories, where the two had still been one person. Memories, where Childermass had used Norrell's body for his deeds and desires, and taunted him with the threat that more people were to die, if he did not give in. Blood, he so desperately wished to cleanse himself off. Memories, he wished to forget.

"Childermass, for goodness' sake!" Norrell froze out of his shock and hurried over to the Yorkshireman. "You told me, you would no longer do this! How could you kill somebody?" He did not even ask who the victim had been this time. He would learn it soon enough. Childermass usually told him. And if he did not, the morning newspaper would tell him everything he needed to know.

Childermass slowly placed his cylinder on the table. The dark man began to peel his hands out of those blood-coated gloves. His skin was white like marble. Unstained. Untainted from his sin. He always wore gloves when he killed. Hiding his deadly marks in the skin of the deer or the cow. He was always hiding his true intentions like he hid his body in the shadows. Norrell's darkness and shadows. These two things seemed to go together.

Carelessly Childermass dropped his gory gloves into his cylinder. He addressed Norrell: "It was an accident. He ran, I were after him. He tried to steal the manuscript. I could not let him get away with something so important to your cause. His death was right and justified." The last glove dropped in the cylinder and the Yorkshireman crossed his arms. The way he had spoken made it sound so harmless, alright and fine. As if it was just another aspect of his duty as Mr. Norrell's man of business. He could make everything sound like it was alright.

It should have made Norrell a lot more cautious then he actually were. Childermass and his willingness to murder should terrify him, scare the life out of him. But the small magician could not help it. Underneath his fear he found Childermass' bloody deeds almost endearing. Knowing that his servant would do anything for his cause and murder would be no problem. Was that the darkness talking? They were still connected after all. Or was it the fact that Childermass had promised him, he would never ever lay a hand on Norrell? Which was one of the reasons, he tolerated these dark and uncanny actions.

Norrell tried to read Childermass' face, however the Yorkshireman remained calm and cool. His look was stoic. If he was hiding a lie, then Norrell could not discover it. He was awful at reading people. Gilbert moistened his lips. He knew that the magical connection still spun itself between him and his man of business. Darkness cast out or not, it still felt the desire to come back, to be close and to reconnect.

This weird, magical connection allowed both Norrell and Childermass to find each other at any given time. They could send feelings over this bond, a wordless communication, and they could not lie on it. However they were not capable of reading each other's mind. Though Norrell did not mind that. He did not want to let him find out what he thought. He did not want Childermass to know that he had made a terrible mistake... If Childermass knew anything about Lady Pole or that fairy and what Norrell's role had been in Emma's decent into madness, he would hate him for that. And Norrell could not bring himself to face such hatred. If Childermass was just a servant, he maybe could. But Childermass was not. And this made things so complicated.

Norrell carefully used the connection, trying to feel Childermass' side of things. It was not that he did not trusted the dark Yorkshireman. However when he talked about murder, Norrell could not help but wonder if there was more to it. If Childermass really was telling him everything. But Childermass' side of the connection was clouded in shadows. He always was better at masking his thoughts then Norrell.

Norrell replied: "Accident or not, we are not in Yorkshire anymore. You could have got caught. The parliament is only a few streets away from Hanover Square. What will they think if they find out that my man of business has been involved in a murder? You could get hanged for that, Childermass! Hanged!" He wrung his hands. "And I do not want this to happen to you."

"Sir, I did not get caught", responded Childermass, "Nobody saw me. And the boy was damaging your cause. I had to eliminate him, before he could do you harm. Besides you know me. I always make sure, my deaths are fast and as painless as possible. And as invisible as the darkness." He crossed his arms behind his back and softly bopped his head, knowing Norrell's rant was not done.

Gilbert closed his eyes and put his fingers on the back of his nose. Exhaling with a deep sigh, he responded: "It is not just that. No matter how you claim your killing to be, Childermass, it is not respectable. I do not want people to fear me, because there are whispers behind my back on how my man of business silences those that dare to oppose me."

Childermass' feet crunched over the carpet. He tilted his head. The dried blood was clearly seen in the candles' flames, a dark patch on pale skin. "Can't you see what a gift silence can bring?", responded the dark Yorkshireman, "Sir, I am not trying to be evil or something. I merely try to give you the best outcome for your cause. How can you make magic respectable if you are not respected? How can you drive the image of the street magician out of their heads when everybody laughs wherever you turn?"

Norrell stared up at Childermass. His servant rasped: "We are not in Yorkshire anymore. You have to set priorities and use any odds in your favour. And if you cannot see these odds, Mr. Norrell, then allow me to stack the odds for you." Norrell's lids quivered. Bringing magic back and making it respectable was his greatest wish. However he knew, he needed Childermass for that. It had been his own darkness that had urged him to try this major task. "Go to London. Go now." It was Childermass, who had made sure that Norrell was not the first magical hermit after three hundred years.

"You are right, Childermass", replied Gilbert and crossed his arms, "We are not in Yorkshire anymore. However this also means you must change your attitude and the way you handle things. I know your kills died down over the years. I realized this. You are not as bloodthirsty and mad as you were twenty-five years ago."

The memory made Norrell quiver. Just one mistake. He had played with the thought of making magic respectable, before Childermass had come along. However he had believed if he were to make magic respectable, he had to become a better person himself. He had wanted to be as pure as gold. If he were honest, he still wanted to be. However this desire had caused a horrible turn of events. First his darkness getting a sentiment inside his body. And then his accidental creation of Childermass. It had been such a great mistake: It had casted out Norrell's darkness, but in exchange it had given him a loyal man, greater then he could have hoped for. It had given him his best and most devoted friend...his only friend, if he were to be honest.

"Childermass", Norrell gestured with his hands to underline his request, "I do not ask for much. Just please...lay of the kills, while we are in London. They do not know you in the way, people know you in Yorkshire. And if you get found out, it could ruin me and you." He shook his head with an unpleasant sigh. "Just threaten people, but don't kill them anymore. I know, you are good at both things."

Childermass smiled one of those wry, lopsided smiles, where he squinted his eyes a tad bit. "Of course, Mr. Norrell." He slowly placed his hand on Norrell's shoulder. Usually the small magician would shy away from all touch, since it made him uncomfortable and he tended to grow stiff, but never Childermass'. Norrell actually liked it when Childermass touched him. His voice, his presence, even his smell... It all had a soothing and calming effect on Norrell. He could calm him better then his own library could. And that was saying something, since Norrell almost lived in Hurtfew's library.

"If it makes you feel better, I shall stop my kills for now, Sir." Childermass slowly pulled Norrell into a gentle hug. The small magician felt his darkness place his head upon his wig. He always found it comfortable when they cuddled in this manner. Separated, but still both parts felt a close connection to each other. Was it natural? Maybe.

"Yes, it does", responded Norrell and hugged Childermass' midriff, nuzzling into him. "And please, John Childermass, wash this blood of your clothing and face! It makes me ill." He heard the other one's raspy, hearty and full laugh, a loud sound for someone with such a quiet voice. Yes, Childermass had been a mistake. But he had been the only mistake, Norrell ever made, that had turned into a blessing.