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Strange followed him through the dank corridors of the gaol as meekly as a little child or a scolded puppy. It was this more than any thing that Grant did not like. He had always known Strange to be outspoken, and indeed often vigorous in complaint. The blank, empty quietness that was upon him now was most unsettling.
At Grant’s instruction the guard had opened the cell grudgingly but without argument. Grant's innate authority and the power of Wellington's name had been enough, and although he did not think that any body would question his permission to remove Strange from the premises, he was keen to leave as quickly as possible. He kept up a good pace, with Strange behind him, until the huge heavy street-door slammed behind them and they were once again free.
Grant turned to Strange almost without thinking. He wanted to smile at him, laugh in relief, as at every other moment they had scrambled together from the jaws of some terrible danger. What was Newgate in comparison to cannon-shot at two paces? But Strange was so still, so pale and expressionless, that Grant only swallowed and said nothing. It was as if all the life had drained out of Strange, quite literally, and it made Grant think uneasily of corpses on the battlefield, Strange's dead Neapolitans, and his wife beneath the ground.
"Come," said Grant, and he was surprized at how gentle his voice sounded, how carefully he was able to speak. "We must get you home."
Strange drew in a long breath. He tipped his head backwards, gazing at the black carpet of the sky above them. "Must we?"
"What?" said Grant, only a little more sharply. "Would you rather stay here?"
Strange shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know if I care."
Grant had not been to Soho-square since Strange's return to London; indeed as far as he knew the house was closed to visitors. But he had a sudden vision now of how it must look, dust-sheeted and thick with silence, with probably only a room or two open for Strange's use. Every thing about it must speak of the absence of Arabella Strange, in a way that would be apparent even to Grant, who had visited only a handful of times. Frankly he was surprized that Strange could bear to be in the house at all.
"Very well," Grant said. "You shall come back with me."
For the first time that evening, Strange regarded Grant with a flicker of the clarity and focus that was more usual in him. He looked as though he might be considering either arguing the point or saying thank-you. In the end he did neither, and only nodded his head.
In the cab Strange stared silently out of the window. Grant glanced at him from time to time, but his face remained turned away. While Grant did not like Strange in this empty, biddable state, it was preferable to the alternative he had glimpsed through the bars of the cell. The wild look in Strange's eye when he had talked about fairies and madness had been the part of the whole affair that Grant had liked least of all.
Grant lodged in an upper-storey apartment on Dryden-street, which was often noisy from the crowds around Covent-garden, but otherwise a neat little place that met his needs to a perfectly acceptable standard. A maid belonging to the landlady cleaned every afternoon, but at this time of night there would be no body about the place who might meet them. Grant was well aware that Strange was now really quite famous, and did not fancy having to introduce him to his landlady and attempt to explain how he had come to be in this numbed, bedraggled state.
When they were inside Grant deposited Strange in the sitting-room and pulled a bottle of whisky from the cupboard. He poured them both two fingers, then a little more, and pressed a glass into Strange's hand. After giving him a reassuring clap on the shoulder, he went briefly into his bedroom. Every thing was in order, and Strange could sleep here very comfortably. Meanwhile, the sopha in the sitting-room would provide Grant with a most agreeable makeshift bed.
Grant removed his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. His eyes flicked around the bedroom, not entirely sure what he was looking for, and saw every thing exactly as it always was. His reflection in the mirror over the shaving-table was pale and concerned. He grimaced at it, and then smiled; immediately he looked more normal; this, he thought, would be far more helpful to Strange.
On a sudden impulse he lifted the mirror from the wall and placed it inside the wardrobe, at the very back, its glass turned away. He could not very well hide all of the mirrors in the apartment, but there was no need for one to be in Strange’s line of sight from the bed: he might well deem it a more convenient exit than the front door. Then, after a moment’s pause, Grant took up the pistol-cases he kept on the table by the window and placed these inside the wardrobe too. He turned the key in the wardrobe’s lock, slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat, and then went back to join Strange in the sitting-room.
Strange was on the sopha, staring glassily at either at the faded, curled design of the wallpaper or at nothing at all. He raised his face towards Grant when he came in, but very slowly, as if he were enormously drunk, although Grant knew that he was not. In fact he had barely sipped at his drink. Grant picked up his own glass from the low table and sat down opposite him in the armchair.
"So," he said, and on purpose he tried to speak sharply, uncompromisingly: to shock Strange into behaving rationally. "What did you do?"
"What do you mean?”
“It is said that you broke into Mr Norrell’s house. Is that true?”
"Oh!" said Strange. "That. Yes, I suppose I did, in a manner of speaking.”
“And did you do any thing that might stand against you now? It is no matter – Wellington will see to it, I am sure, as long as we know what it is that Norrell might claim. Did you threaten him, for example?”
Strange shook his head.
“But you did enough damage to warrant arrest.”
“It was a misunderstanding. Quite overblown. I would have removed myself from the cell in no time at all, I assure you." Then, perhaps realizing that this was a little ungrateful, Strange added, "But it was very kind of you to assist me."
"It was nothing. But I would still know why you did this.”
“For my wife,” said Strange. “Why else?”, and in a short, abrupt motion, tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed about half of the contents.
Grant had drawn in a breath to ask his next question, to press Strange for more details, but some thing about the sight of Strange's face after he had drunk gave him pause. There was again that slight edge of mania in his eyes, and his jaw clenched and unclenched by turn. This was, Grant decided, not at all the time to bully Strange into talking to him, although that might well be necessary tomorrow. But tonight, by God, Strange deserved friendship, comfort and rest, none of which Grant imagined had been visited upon him in some time.
"I see," said Grant. "Well, you are right: it seems that you are far more highly regarded these days that Mr Norrell, and I do not doubt that the misunderstanding would have been rectified and you would have been released before long. But I am glad that you do not have to spend an uncomfortable night in gaol, and instead I would very much like you to avail yourself of the bed in the next room. Or, if you prefer not to sleep, we can remain here; and if you prefer not to talk further, we can have a hand of baccarat, or as many hands as you like. I am quite at your disposal."
Strange had looked down into his glass as Grant spoke, but now he looked up again, and much to Grant's surprize, he smiled. It was not the desperate, manic expression he had worn in the cell, and neither was it the easy, charming smile that was customary from him, but some thing much smaller and more resigned. Grant thought he remembered it from a time or two in Spain, although he could not recall exactly the circumstances; but certainly he felt he recognized it. It made him feel a sort of clutching sadness in his breast, as if some body were squeezing unpleasantly at a vital organ inside him.
"Grant," Strange said, and he sounded a little more like himself, although his voice was still thick with some thing. Then all of a sudden he put his glass down on the table in front of him and dropt his head into his hands, covering his face. He began to shake a little, with dry, silent convulsions that were not like watching some one crying, but more like watching the last few tremors of the body before death.
Grant could not at first think what to do. He had never seen Strange in quite a state as this, not even in the Peninsula, not even in Belgium: there, like a soldier, Strange had learnt to bury his unhappinesses and to address the primary objective of prolonging one's life. Had Grant seen Strange behave in this way during the war he would have told him quite firmly to stop, in order to prevent the destruction of his nerves. But here he did not feel that such a response would be appropriate.
After a moment he came to sit next to Strange on the sopha and placed a hand against his back. He kept it there as whatever was wracking Strange's body took its course, and eventually subsided to a few twitches. Then Strange took his hands away from his face and sat up straight. His eyes were dry but his chest was heaving as if he had been sobbing, or as if his body thought he had been sobbing but his soul had nothing left to give.
"I am sorry about Mrs Strange," said Grant, which seemed so ineffectual as to be almost insulting. But he did not know what else to say. "I am so sorry."
His hand was still resting against Strange's back, and for a moment he felt an urge to gather him into his arms and hold him close. But this had never been the tenor of their friendship, and while he felt on some level that it was what Strange needed, he did not wish to confuse or disquiet him. Yet there were no words he could employ and no actions he could take to alleviate Strange's pain. It seemed the only recourse was to be a physical presence, to be a statement of the fact that there was some body who cared extremely about Strange's wellbeing and would do what ever they could to ensure it. And so after a moment Grant pulled Strange sideways to lean against him, placing an arm around his shoulders. He hoped that the tightness of his grip was reassuring, and not like the desperation of one holding another back from the edge of a precipice.
Grant expected that Strange would either pull away or remain a motionless weight at his side. But Strange not only allowed Grant to hold him but turned and grasped at the front of his shirt, his head falling against Grant's chest. Surprized, unthinking, Grant wrapped both arms around him and held him fast where he was, Strange heaving deep, shaky breaths as he clung to Grant very tightly.
Then in a surge of movement Strange brought his face extremely close to Grant's, his breath uneven and hot against his jaw. Grant had only a second or two to look him in the eye before Strange pressed a sudden kiss against his mouth. This was so shocking that Grant simply did not react, or at least he did not until Strange brought his hands up to the sides of his face, and Grant felt the quick, shaking pressure of his fingers against his skin. There was a swell of panic in Grant’s chest and he pulled away, although Strange kept his hand still against his cheek.
"No," said Grant. "No. By God, don’t.”
"Why?" Strange said. His eyes had glinted with mania before he kissed him, but now, again, he looked pale and rather lost. "Do you mind so very much?"
"That is not at all the issue. I do not think you want this." There was a silence that Grant did not know what to do with, and so he said, "I tell you, you do not."
"I do." Strange was hoarse, hollow with misery. "It is all I ask."
And while Grant knew that this was not a right thing to do, he did not think that he could deny Strange any thing; Strange lonely and wretched, his eyes dark and pleading. Surely it was a kindness to Strange to provide him with any form of comfort, any sort of diversion from the blackness of his mind. Whether it was a kindness to Grant also was neither here nor there.
"Please," Strange said. Grant could feel the word very softly against his skin. Strange ran his thumb against the edge of Grant's jaw, then his hand down Grant's arm, coming to rest on his leg. He gripped so hard at his thigh that it was almost painful, but Grant felt a deep, harsh wanting twist through his body. It was altogether too much to bear.
Strange said, "I simply wish to – well. It is quite intolerable, you know. I cannot sleep for thinking about her, and there must be some way to – some thing, some one else – do you see?” He took a breath. “If circumstances were different, I know you would have this. Please. Have it now."
It must be magic that told Strange this. Grant had never betrayed himself, of this is was quite sure. In fact if any thing his conduct towards Strange had been all the more brusque for it. Moreover, Strange had been so wrapped up in his magic since the time that Grant first met him that surely he would not have had the chance to notice the small tensions and strains of Grant’s behaviour around him. But now there seemed no point in denying any thing.
"All right," Grant said, gently, knowing as he did so that he ought not to, that if he were a better man he would not. "All right."
He curled a finger underneath Strange's chin, tipping his face upwards, and kissed him. When he closed his eyes he could almost smell gun-smoke, dirt and blood. He brushed Strange's hair back from his face, tangled and unkempt, and kissed him again as Strange pulled at his neck-cloth to bring him closer.
Even then Grant could have put a stop to it, but he did no such thing. Instead he took Strange to his bed and undressed him carefully, Strange's fingers digging into his flesh as he held on to him all the while. It was very unlike any imagining that Grant had ever permitted himself, all of which had been quite realistic in their expectation of some thing quick and rather businesslike. He had never considered that they might have the time or space for Strange to lay out long and pale beneath him and insist on kissing him so desperately that Grant could barely begin to do any thing else. Eventually Grant lined up their bodies so that when they moved it was against one another, so that he could reach down to stroke Strange with one hand until he was quite hard, his own prick nudging against Strange's thigh in small, hopeful twitches.
Strange had his head thrown back against the pillow, his eyes closed, his throat working as he drew in a quick breath at Grant's touch. It was shockingly arousing, awfully so, the sight of Strange submitting his body like this. But Grant could not help but feel that it was unsatisfactory. If this was indeed to be a kindness to Strange, it must be some thing he did and not some thing that was only done to him. Grant wished most of all to banish that image of Strange blank-eyed and devoid of feeling outside the gaol earlier that evening, wanting nothing, doing nothing.
So Grant stopt touching him and sat up. As he expected Strange made a noise of complaint, opening his eyes, and the expression of irritation that passed across his face was so familiar that Grant smiled in recognition. But it must have looked as though he smiled because he wished to tease him, and Strange with a huff of annoyance sat up too.
"Would you make me work for this, sir?" he asked.
"Oh! Indeed. I am not so easily won," said Grant.
At this Strange laughed aloud, and although it was short and sharp it was a sound that made Grant feel better. Then with a very surprizing energy Strange grasped at his wrists and pushed him sideways, so that they rolled over. He held Grant's arms against the bed quite firmly and leant down to kiss him, hard and demanding. The movement was so smooth and well-executed that Grant could not help think of Strange and his wife in bed together; after a moment, he pushed it to one side; but it would not do for Strange to think of the same thing.
Grant thrust his hips upward so that Strange felt his prick against his belly, and in answer Strange reached down to take it in his hand. Without pause he began to bring Grant off as briskly as if they were in danger of some discovery. “Oh, hell,” said Grant, and attempted to manoeuvre into a less prostrated position. But Strange had one of his wrists pinned still to the bed by his side, and by straddling his legs made it quite difficult for Grant to move at all.
This sort of approach might be necessary were they in a tent somewhere – in one of Grant’s fevered, guilty, imaginary assignations, perhaps – with a few minutes only to conclude matters. But in the relative safety of his own rooms it seemed a waste for Grant to come off so very soon. Nonetheless he could not quite bring himself to ask Strange to stop. As difficult decisions went, he had faced very many worse. But then Strange slowed his hand and Grant took the opportunity to gather his wits and force himself upright, his strength outmatching Strange’s.
He leaned forward and pressed a wet sort of kiss to Strange’s shoulder, to his collarbone, and heard Strange moan softly above him. By God, but he would hear that again: it made him feel almost inhuman with desire. So Grant moved open-mouthed across Strange’s chest and stomach, pushing him back down onto the bed as he went, and then took his prick into his mouth. He was satisfied with a sharp gasping sound from Strange. For a little time he persevered with this, Strange groaning quietly and making a loose fist of his hand in Grant’s hair. But before long Grant realized he had caused Strange to become quite still again while he simply did some thing to him. Despite their intimacy Grant had the sudden notion that he had left Strange rather alone. He was determined instead that they should be able to see one another better. And indeed Strange did not complain when Grant stopt what he was doing and moved up to kiss him again.
There had been some remnant of sport in Strange before, but now he was only desperate. His hands at Grant’s face held him firmly in place as they kissed, and when Grant covered Strange’s whole body with his own, they moved against each other a good deal more frantically than when they had begun. In the end Grant rolled them over once more so that Strange bore down upon him, and let him thrust in between his legs until he finished, shuddering, his face pressed hard against Grant’s neck and shoulder and his fingers digging into Grant’s forearms.
Once he was done Strange again was very still, though his breathing was loud and ragged. Grant, still underneath him, wrapped his arms around his back and held him tightly, and unable to stop himself, jerked his hips upwards against the hot, heavy weight of his body, and finished too.
After this both of them lay where they were for a time. Grant was suffused both with the leaden drowsiness that followed his climax and a cold feeling not unlike shame, although that was not complex enough a word to describe it. Very slowly Strange was releasing his grip on his arms, and Grant too loosened his hold until Strange rolled away to one side.
If Grant did not feel entirely right in himself, then God only knew how it was for Strange. When Grant turned to look at him, Strange had once again covered his face with both his hands, his slow breathing muffled against his own palms. It made Grant feel a little sick. Instinctively he reached forward; then stilled his hand; and then, after some consideration, completed the motion and put his hand gently against Strange’s shoulder. Strange did not respond to the touch, but neither did he recoil from it.
“Merlin,” Grant said, very quietly.
At this, Strange at last uncovered his face. Grant had feared that he might again be empty, blank, retreating from what he could not bring himself to think about. But Strange looked at Grant with an expression of quite unmitigated misery.
Grant did not know whether he should be relieved by this. He could not bear to meet his eye for as long as he ought, and so after a moment, he said, “I will fetch you a drink.” He got out of the bed and retrieved his shirt from the floor.
In the sitting-room Grant refilled both of their glasses, which were still on the table. Then he sat rather heavily for a moment in the armchair and drank his own glass down. He regretted now having left the bedroom: he felt he had retreated a great distance without meaning to, and it felt some how difficult to go back inside. But he picked up Strange’s whisky and did so.
Strange was sitting up in the bed when he returned, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms and forehead resting upon them, entirely curled in on himself. But at the sound of Grant opening and closing the bedroom door he looked up. There was again some thing familiar in his expression, an echo of the gladness and relief on his face at the sight of Grant appearing at a tent-flap or by a fireside: just the man I hoped to see.
“There,” said Grant, and handed him his drink.
Strange swallowed it immediately and without speaking. For a moment he stared into the empty space where the liquid had been. Then, quite abruptly, he said: “I cannot stay here.”
“Surely,” said Grant, “you will not return to Soho-square? This room is still yours alone, I promise you; we need not both sleep in here; I can of course – “
“No,” Strange interrupted him, “No, that is not what I meant. I meant that I cannot stay in England.”
Grant stared at him. “Tonight?” he said. “It is near one o’clock in the morning. I do not think you can do any thing about that until tomorrow at least.”
“Why not? I can travel any where in the blink of an eye if I so desire it.”
“If you do not get lost.”
“Well. I can travel at a much faster pace than by traditional means, at any rate. No, I cannot remain in England, that much is clear, and why lose any more time about it?”
“Wait,” said Grant, hoping that he did not sound too desperate. He thought about counselling Strange to remain in the country, but then why ought he to do that? Strange was quite right that England was turning against him, and he was perfectly entitled to decide to waste no more time upon it. Where Grant would most like him to be was not at all a factor for consideration. Nevertheless, Grant was worried still about Strange’s sudden interest in lunacy, in summoning a fairy, in immersing himself further still in the kinds of magic that had begun to shred his nerves in the Peninsula and in Belgium. But now, with Strange unslept and undone, not three hours out of prison, did not seem the time to excite him with the matter again. Instead it must be put off a little.
Grant said, “Wait until the morning. You have not yet explained to me what happened between you and Norrell and you have not yet made any preparations for your journey – yes, I know it will be upon the King’s Roads, but nonetheless there are preparations, I am sure – and all of this you can do tomorrow. If you still wish to leave, I will assist you in any way I can; and when you are gone you may write to me with any thing else that I can do. For now I implore you to sleep.”
Strange looked all of a sudden defeated: his shoulders sagged and the glint of fervour in his eyes died away. He regarded Grant for a moment or two. “Yes,” he said, at last. “I suppose that is a good idea. You are quite right.” He rubbed at his eyes with both of his hands and then seemed to regard the room anew, apparently struck by where he was. He said, “It is tremendously kind of you to have me here. I do not know why you are so kind to me.”
There was a small silence, and then Grant cleared his throat. “I would understand it perfectly if you would like to sleep here alone,” he said.
At this Strange’s face fell. “No,” he said, and his voice was almost as raw as it had been earlier, when he had begged Grant for what he had given him. “God, no. Please stay here.”
As before there was no question of denying any thing to Strange that Grant also wanted. So he climbed back into the bed, and once they lay down together their closeness felt natural once more. Strange moved towards him without question. Grant lay behind him and threw his arm across his chest, and on Strange’s bare shoulder he dropt a kiss so very light that he might have missed it, had Grant not pressed his forehead there a moment later. He was struck all over again by feeling Strange’s skin against his own – the smell of it, simply the idea of it – and for a moment he held him so tightly that he wondered if Strange would be hurt. But then he relaxed, and felt Strange relax into him, fitting snugly into the hollow made by Grant’s body and holding Grant’s arm firmly in place.
For some time Grant lay with his eyes open, feeling Strange’s steady breathing and the gradual slowing of his heartbeat, and the extraordinary presence of him. Grant considered how often he had longed for just this. Well, he thought, with no small measure of self-disgust, now you have it.
*
Grant was a necessarily light sleeper, being trained not only to rest under the most inconvenient of circumstances, but also to wake at the slightest irregularity. Any movement from Strange ought to disturb Grant immediately; otherwise he might have taken a watch on him.
When he did wake it was not because Strange was stirring, but to the sound of St Paul’s in Covent-garden striking eight o’clock. He was surprized to have slept so long, but he could still feel the warmth of Strange in his arms and the faint brush of his hair against his face. For a moment Grant lay quite still, simply breathing him in. Then he opened his eyes.
At once the spell broke. Apart from himself the bed was entirely devoid of persons, and Grant experienced the very troubling sensation of the dissolution of the phantom weight that had replaced Strange. It was a singularly clever piece of magic, and Grant might one day be impressed by it, but in that moment he felt only a sudden, constricting dismay.
He knew very well that Strange was no longer there, but nevertheless he rose at once and looked from room to room. He was inclined both to hurry and to the opposite, some part of him wishing to delay the definite discovery that Strange had left for good.
It was very soon that he made it. In the mirror above the mantle in the sitting-room there was a folded paper tucked into the corner of the frame. Grant unfolded it and read:
I am bound for Venice – indeed if all has gone to plan I am there. My apologies are innumerable. I thank you enormously for your kindness which as ever is entirely undeserved. – S
Grant sat down upon the sopha and read the note in a mechanical way two or three times more. Venice perhaps was the right decision for Strange: even without taking into account the accusations being made against him, it ought to do him infinite good to spend time out of London and Grant could not imagine he would wish to return to Shropshire. He supposed that Venice was about as unlike either of those places as could be found in the civilized world. Strange might find the change of scenery calming, or at least a distraction. Maybe a removal from England and the unfair treatment it wrought upon him would quell Strange’s wild ideas about madness and fairies.
Grant found he was in no way surprized or affronted. It was a great shame that he would presumably not see Strange again for some months at least and he had come to rely on the occasional but regular opportunity of his company. And somewhere at the core of him was an ache of sadness that any comfort he could offer Strange was not enough to keep him for as long as one night.
But this was not some thing to be dwelt upon. He went instead to the desk in the corner of the sitting-room, where paper was already set out, matching the note he held in his hand. He sat before it, picked up a pen, dipped it in the ink-well which Strange had left uncapped, and began on a fresh sheet of paper:
My dear Merlin –