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When Autor steps through the door today, his clothes remain the same: white pants, oversized gray sweater, and glasses. What changes are the ears. Not his, necessarily--those still remain human--but he sprouts fuzzy, gray, and pointed kitten ears on top of his head with a soft, "Oh!" The tail is also new, and telegraphs his body language as the tip curves upward in agitation.

"Really?" he calls up to the ceiling. "Come on!"

Experimentally, he brushes his fingers against one of his fuzzy new appendages--and tears his hand away, blushing. They point in different directions, moving independently of one another to show his ambivalence with the costume.

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"As do I." Norrell won't, in the end, but by then Childermass will have done all he can. "Though I expect no gratitude. Gentlemen save that for one another."

"You have such a low opinion of yourself, Childermass," Autor says helplessly, his ears flattening. "Why?"

He laughs, sudden and surprised.

"Never been accused of that before. I know my own worth - and I know the one my betters would place on me, too."

Autor folds his arms. "Well, as long as you know it," he says. "You can take care of yourself, no doubt."

"I had - four masters before Mr Norrell", he says, the pause being to remember. "And not one of them kept me on more than a week. Seems well-born gentlemen don't take to a servant who is clever and knows it, and will not trouble to hide it. Crewing ships suited me no better. I have found my feet with him."

"Fair enough," Autor says, settling back. His ears seem to settle, too, assuming a relaxed position, pointing up. "I'm glad you work well with him. I hope he appreciates you while he has you."

Childermass glances at the ears, visibly relaxing himself.

"Whether he admits it or not, he could not do without me now."

Autor barks out a laugh. "Well, then! He'd better not lose you, he'll be in such a state," he says. "You sound like you have an even footing with him. That's good."

He nods.

"The pay is excellent, he hardly seems to notice the other servants, and I have a free hand with the household. Meaning I may, perhaps, have taken on other perfectly good workers who would not meet standards elsewhere."

Autor grins at that, his ears twitching. "That's fantastic," he says, applauding the man. "What he doesn't notice won't hurt him, right? I'm glad you're pulling for your fellow worker."

Childermass nods firmly.

"They do their jobs, every last one, and do them well. But some lacked references, or had been in one kind of trouble or another... I believe in second chances."

"Excellent," Autor says cheerfully, his tail pointing straight up. "Well, as long as they do their jobs, Mr. Norrell can't complain. Who cares where they've come from as long as they're doing well in the present? I applaud you for helping other people when you can."

"Precisely. I am not running the household as a charity, but I will help those down on their luck if they will put in their own part."

"Good," Autor says, nodding firmly, his ears pressing forward and slightly to the side. "I suspect you're a marvelous judge of character."

That gets a crooked smile.

"I pride myself on it."

"Just so," Autor says, mirroring that smile. "You seem to know yourself very well, Childermass. Congratulations; it's a feat most don't seem to accomplish."

"I have had reason to learn exactly what I can and cannot do, and who I am." He nods. "And the first thing my mother taught me was never to be ashamed."

"A good lesson, to be sure," Autor says, inclining his head. "She must have been a great teacher, for you learned it well."

"She was." A fleeting fond smile. "Of a great many things."

Autor nods. He has a soft spot in his heart for his own mother, so he knows how Childermass feels. "Do you visit her grave often?"

Edited 2015-11-01 06:44 (UTC)

"Every week, at least when I am not away on business. She had enough squirrelled away for rainy days to get her a grave of her own."

"That's good at least," Autor says, inclining his head. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm glad you have a grave to visit. When did she die?"

"I was twelve", he says simply. "Consumption."

"Oh, my," Autor says, his ears lowering. "That's rather young. You are a devoted son to visit every week since then."

"She was a devoted mother. Taught me well, the least I can do is remember her."

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herr_bookman - 2015-11-01 22:52 (UTC) - Expand

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manofbusiness - 2015-11-01 22:55 (UTC) - Expand

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