Segundus thought a great deal about summoning Miss Absalom. He thought about it for the next four or five days— although he did not think about it so much as this might suggest, since he was in bed with Childermass for much of those days. Not purely engaged in carnal acts, though it was thoroughly delightful to learn from Childermass's body what pleased him. He thought that Childermass did not know a great deal about what pleased him. Childermass was different from Miss Absalom, as a lover, in most respects: quieter, less forward, somehow reticent in his motions. He was slow and careful and very intent, and looked at Segundus all the time with steady dark eyes, his gaze so heated that Segundus began to fear he might melt.

But just as often they were tangled in the bed linens, half-drowsing, talking about some crux in a line of a lost book of magic until one or both of them fell asleep; or lazing on the rug in the library, scouring magical journals for silence spells. (They had tried three so far on the recalcitrant birds, but none had appeared to have an effect.) Or— to much noise of complaining— Segundus dragged Childermass out to the garden, where he rudely declined to speak to the plants and instead stretched out in the sun, smoking his pipe, failing to look even a little unhappy with his situation.

Butterflies were much taken with him, for some reason, and determinedly followed him about in pale yellow clouds, attempting to land in his hair or on his sleeves. A number of snails investigated him with slow suspicion, and the water spirit burbled happily, and the roses posed a number of complicated questions about him to Segundus, which he was not sure he fully understood. Plants had quite a different way of seeing the world, flowers especially, and they seemed to have a great many vague thoughts about roots and blossoms.

"He is not going to put down roots," Segundus told them. "He is not a tree."

He had a clear sense the roses were miffed at him for this answer. He sighed. What extraordinary maintenance roses required! How woundable they were! (The eyebright and marjoram, from either side of the bushes, agreed.)

Meanwhile: "Have we any more of that Madeira cake?" Childermass enquired, wafting away a flurried snowstorm of butterfly wings.

"We?" Segundus repeated. "I do not see what you have done to be hungry!"

Indeed, Childermass was the picture of idleness, with the cuffs of his sleeves rolled to his elbows, shading the sun from his eyes with one hand. At Segundus's words he acquired a lazy, vulpine look and said, "I can change that."

He made to pull Segundus down to him, but Segundus said, exasperated, "Not in the garden!"

So they relocated to the parlour instead, where it was cooler and shady, and where Childermass pushed Segundus gently against one floral wall before simply standing and staring hungrily at him.

Segundus said, his breath coming short, "Is this your idea of labour? I confess it seems sedentary to me, sir."

"Does it," Childermass said.

He drew closer. Still they were not touching. Segundus could feel the heat of him inches away, smell the hint of the sun, the garden's greenness. But Childermass only looked at him with those dark, dark eyes. It was a look that felt like being slowly drunk in.

When at last he touched Segundus, the touch was equally slow: a single hand laid against one side of his face, thumb stroking softly against his chin. Segundus pushed into it, wanting more. But:

"No," Childermass said. "Like this."

He slipped a hand into Segundus's breeches. At the first touch of fingers against his prick, Segundus gasped; he had been hard already. He leaned forwards, but Childermass held him back with the hand gripping his face and watched him intently— watched as Segundus breathed faster, as he flushed, as he twitched. Childermass stroked him unhurriedly. He paused at one point and withdrew his hand— Segundus made a complaining noise— and pressed it to Segundus's mouth. Segundus, after a brief hesitation, met his eyes and then licked the broad palm of it. They did not look away from one another. Segundus let his tongue slide between the fingers, mark out the little lines and dips where proximal phalanges became middle, became distal— he had an anatomical education— Childermass had beautiful hands— and then took the tip of a finger in his mouth, sucking hard.

Childermass took his hand away again, and returned it to its work. His own face was very flushed now. But he moved as carefully as he had before, coaxing Segundus towards louder sounds of pleasure, causing him to drop his head against the wall and clench his fists.

"Oh!" Segundus said, feeling the tension overtake him. His legs were trembling. "I, I, I cannot—" He expelled a huge gasp of breath. He could not focus, through the pleasure, on staying upright. He thought his legs would collapse like pliable reeds.

Still Childermass watched him with that same intensity of focus. It was that— the weight of the desire in his gaze— that made Segundus feel so hot and lightheaded. He pushed forwards into Childermass's hand, making choked noises with every slide against his palm. Childermass closed his hand more tightly, moistening his lips with his tongue. It was that, for some reason, that little motion, the flicker of tongue and the suggestion of hunger in it, that caused Segundus to spasm his hips and arch his back and climax. He spent himself into Childermass's hand.

He did collapse then, or rather slid down the wall, aware that his face must be blotchy with heat and his clothes were a mess. Childermass supported him, joining him on the carpet.

"You have done more for my appetite than your own!" Segundus accused, when at last he had got his breath back.

"Well," Childermass said, looking rather self-satisfied, "I should imagine you know how to remedy that."

And, indeed, Segundus did.

Afterwards— when he had finished using his much-praised mouth to drive Childermass out of nonchalance, and when they had stripped off their much-dirtied clothes, on which Segundus had insisted, and were eating cake and cheese and apples in bed, Segundus said, "I had thought of summoning Miss Absalom, using Mr Strange's spell."

Childermass looked at him very calmly, taking a bite of cheese.

"You do not," Segundus said, "that is— it would not upset you?"

Childermass gazed at an apple thoughtfully. "I should like to resolve the bird problem," he said. "Before I resort to baking them into a pie."

"You cannot cook. Or if you can, you have never revealed it."

"Why should I discourage you from feeding me?" Childermass said archly. Then he continued: "No, it does not upset me. I should be most interested to speak with her. Though I imagine that speaking is not what you had in mind."

Segundus blushed. "That is not it at all!" he protested. "I enjoy Miss Absalom's company! She is a very delightful woman!"

"I'm sure she is," Childermass said, his eyebrows raised. He looked rather amused. "Truly, I do not mind it. She and I have complementary interests, I believe."

"Do you," Segundus said, a little warily.

"Mm." Childermass seemed pleased to be mysterious.

"Well," Segundus said, "I suppose we might just summon her to ask about the birds, and see where other things go from there."

So when they had dressed and put the bed in order, they employed Mr Strange's summoning spell— falling asleep curled comfortably around each other in the afternoon sunlight.

Segundus opened his eyes to find himself back in the garden. He was not, as he usually found himself when he dreamt of the garden, digging a hole. He was pruning an extraordinarily beautiful rosebush, clipping the little dead leaves off of it. It bore a number of remarkable flowers: some some crimson and some an ivory cream colour, others just barely blushed red. He felt extremely proud at the idea that he had grown such a rosebush, though he supposed that the rosebush itself really ought to be awarded the merit.

"You did a bit of work," Miss Absalom said.

Segundus turned to see her smiling at him. She was in a leaf-green dress, one that gave her eyes a very vivid emerald sparkle.

"Hello!" he said to her. "You did come when I called you."

She looked amused. "That is how the spell works, after all."

"You have not been put out of temper, I mean to say. I was not sure if you would be."

"Not at all! Being dead," she said, "is not like you suppose. I can guarantee it. One never runs short of time to do things, and one may quite often be in two places at the same time. The rules are very different. If I did not like you, I should find you a tiresome nuisance, I suppose. But in fact I like you."

"I am glad," Segundus said, a little shyly. Then he looked around. "But where is Childermass? We had intended to ask you a magical question— I do not know where he could have got to—"

The shutters of the kitchen window creaked open, and Childermass leant himself out of them. He was contemplatively eating a small iced cake with a bright pink spun sugar rose on it.

"You have just eaten!" Segundus said in exasperation.

"Your cakes do not have decorations," Childermass noted by way of explanation.

"Then you will not require me to bake you any more."

"I did not say that."

Miss Absalom had pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle her laughter. "Perhaps I ought to change the subject," she said. "What was your question?"

"Oh! We desire to silence a number of birds. They appear to harbour a vendetta. I cannot think why."

She frowned. "Have you asked them?"

"They are very angry," Segundus said doubtfully. "I do not think they would respond."

"One ought always to try that first. If they do not, I can think of a number of solutions. But come here, I have not even kissed you yet!"

He did, and she did: a sweet sharp peck accompanied by a very pleasant embrace. Segundus stroked a hand down the low silk back of her dress. She was so beautiful, he thought, like the summer to Childermass's winter, bright and dazzling where he was darkly joyous. He had not known how he would feel upon seeing her again, and he was surprised at how happy he found himself.

Miss Absalom said over he his shoulder, "And you, John Childermass? How is your reading going?"

Childermass said a little sulkily, "A man may have a holiday, may he not?"

She laughed. "Do not be concerned; I will keep your secret. So long as you do not vex me too much. You ought not to, anyway; after all, you are living in my house now."

Childermass looked subtly alarmed. "You are misinformed," he said. "I am merely staying for the summer."

"Are you," Miss Absalom said. But she did not comment any further on the matter.

"You do not mind?" Segundus asked. His life seemed to be full of these sorts of negotiations lately, trying to settle every person and object in their right place. It was all very complicated. But he felt somehow there was a pattern, if he could only work it out day by day. There was some way to get the little threads to weave together, so that the picture they formed was clear and complete, though he had the faintest sense that he would not quite ever see that picture— that he would go one forever grasping at it, seeing only the smallest, nearest pieces.

"Of course not!" Miss Absalom assured him. "It is your house as well. And we shall get along together."

"And you will still visit me? Because," he said, a little abashed by his honesty, "I would be very sorry to not see you anymore. You have brought me so much delight, and you have taught me so much, and—I should miss you if you were gone."

She looked at him with a great deal of fondness, and a tenderness he had not quite seen before— a very serious form of tenderness. "Dearest John," she said, "shall I ever make you believe in the joy that you bring to other people?"

"You may try," Childermass interjected. "He is very resistant to it."

"Well," Miss Absalom said, "it is real, and I prefer to keep it. Whether or not you choose to bring him—" she gestured towards Childermass with a queenly dismissiveness, but also a hint of laughter— "is your prerogative. I suppose I can tolerate him."

"He is very bad-tempered," Segundus confided. "And he drinks the good wine. But he has his redeeming qualities."

Childermass rolled his eyes, but he was smiling crookedly.

Miss Absalom gazed affectionately at Segundus and kissed him on the cheek. "Go and settle with your birds," she told him. "All is well. I shall visit you when you have more time to sleep, and then—" her eyes flickered along the length of his body, sending a faint erotic jolt through him— "you may settle with me. At length."

Segundus felt his face burning. "I look forward to it," he said.

"Leave a bit of him for me," Childermass commented dryly.

Miss Absalom shot a naughty, flirtatious look at him. "Jealous, darling? Would you like your own arrangement?"

"No, he is mine!" Segundus objected. Then he flinched, realizing the unjustness of this. "That is—"

"You heard the man," Childermass said. He seemed unruffled. In fact, there was perhaps a flash of pleasure when he looked at Segundus, a hint of satisfaction. His eyes lingered. He said, "On that note, if you'll excuse us—"

Miss Absalom flapped her hands. "Oh, go along, if you're not going to let me watch. Go on! Off with you!"

So Childermass made a gesture with his hand, and all at once the dream began sinking around them, in the curious way that magical dreams did. Segundus was aware of a strong sense of Childermass's magic— dark, autumnal, and firelit, like sparks in the blue dusk— and then he was stirring, blinking, waking up in the bed.

He rolled over to find Childermass watching him with sleepy eyes. Childermass laid a heavy hand at the side of his head, and leaned in and kissed him very seriously and slowly. Segundus brought his arms up to pull Childermass towards him, and they lay there warmly tangled in each other's limbs, kissing to no particular purpose as twilight crept slowly across Yorkshire outside the window, and the chorus of outraged birds started up again.