Walter was standing at his study window when the knock came, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed blindly out into the early afternoon. His thoughts did not match the view. Where the sky outside was clear and bright, his mind was more clouded and overcast than he ever remembered previously. Even when Emma had been dying, his thoughts had not been so dark, although in truth he had barely known her then. There had been no question of fault, however. There had been no blame, no action to be taken. Now ... Now there was.

"... Your pardon, sir," Stephen said quietly, from the doorway behind him. "Mr Norrell's man is here to see you, about her ladyship? Mr Childermass, sir."

His familiar face was tired and gravely sympathetic, when Walter turned to face him. Of course, Stephen had taken her ladyship's situation as badly as anyone. There had always been a certain gentility in Stephen. It was a comfort, even if it was not always appropriate.

"... Childermass?" Walter managed eventually. The name startled him, for a variety of reasons, but one in particular. He had thought ... "Wasn't he the one who was ... That her ladyship ...?"

"Yes sir," Stephen said, almost gently. "I believe he was."

Walter blinked at him. "But," he said, a little foolishly. "But it was only a week ago. Is he ... That is to say, should he be ... Well. Should he be here, in his condition?" He was rather pleased to say that he had relatively little experience of people being ... being shot in his vicinity, but he thought it should take rather longer to recover from than a mere few days. Surely the man should still be abed?

Walter would certainly prefer that he were, he admitted to himself, and not entirely for altruistic reasons either. This conversation was going to be difficult enough without it being ... well. Without having to face the man himself. Childermass was a mildly daunting prospect at the best of times, which this most certainly was not. Unworthy a thought as it was, was it too much to ask to be spared him now?

Stephen only shook his head carefully, however. "I cannot say, sir," he said softly. "I can only tell you that he is here. Shall I show him up? To the drawing room, perhaps?"

Walter shook his head. He was ... he couldn't think. Not at all. But he had to.

"No," he said at last. "Or, that is. Not the drawing room, Stephen. Show him here, if you wouldn't mind. And ... I don't know. Tea? Something? What does one offer a man one's wife has shot?"

The question was slightly hysterical, perhaps. Walter struggled to master himself. He couldn't afford to be so scattered. Emma's fate rested in his hands right now, his and those of the man Stephen would shortly be showing into the room. The man she had shot, and who represented the man she had been trying to shoot. He had to have his wits about him. If he was to be any good to her at all, he must gather his wits and his nerves post haste.

Stephen helped. Even just looking at Stephen helped. If anyone could summon strength and calm in a crisis, it was and always had been Stephen. Even just his presence was enough to calm shot nerves.

"I will have tea sent up, sir," the man said, with calm reassurance. "Perhaps you might offer him a chair? It would be irregular, but Hanover Square is a long way to come with a wound. I think perhaps he might be grateful for the consideration."

Walter blinked. "Of course," he said distantly, before shaking himself a little bit. "Thank you, Stephen. I'll, ah. I shall be sure to do that. Please ... Please show him up, would you?"

Stephen bowed out, leaving Walter to return briefly to the window and try to gather himself somewhat more convincingly for the conversation ahead. He felt his hands knot somewhat helplessly into fists. Responsibility. It had always been something he felt very keenly. With a father and a grandfather like his, one could scarcely help it. That had never made it any easier, however. There were times and situations where responsibility was not at all enjoyable.

"My lord?" a voice that was not Stephen's asked softly from the doorway, a little rasped and ragged around the edges. Walter turned, and looked at the man his wife had injured. He felt his breath hitch a little at the sight of him. Childermass looked back at him calmly enough, with that slightly imbalanced mixture of deference and confidence that was familiar from time spent at Hanover Square. He looked almost exactly as he should, in fact, were it not for the pallor and the way he was trying to lean very surreptitiously on the doorknob. For all his attempts to look otherwise, here was very clearly a man who had been badly wounded.

"Oh god," Walter said, without entirely meaning to. He moved a step towards the man, raising a hand as if to do ... something, and Childermass blinked at him a little bit. "Are you ... Should you be about, man? Are you all right? Come sit down!"

Childermass blinked again, very slowly. "I'm fine, sir," he said, with what looked like mild bemusement. "I ... Thank you for your consideration, my lord. I am well enough. Though, if you'll forgive it of me, I would not say no to a chair." He grimaced faintly, as if he wished he did not have to admit this. "I would not normally impose, sir, it is only ..."

"Yes, of course," said Walter, as much to keep the man from saying it as anything else. He held out an arm, though Childermass ignored it, and gestured quickly to one of a set of armchairs. "Please, sit down. Stephen is sending up some tea. Are you really sure you should be up, Mr Childermass? I had not thought ... That is, you are not who I expected to see."

A rather impenetrable expression came across Childermass' face at that, one that Walter could not read at all. He shook his head as he sat down, and Walter could not help but notice faint lines of pain easing on his face as he did so. He moved somewhat awkwardly to his own chair, and let himself drop rather heavily into it. If Childermass begrudged him the lack of composure, he did not show it.

"My master thinks that this matter should be dealt with as quickly as possible," Childermass said at last, once he had recovered himself slightly. He looked across at Walter, his gaze open and frank, if a little cautious. "Not only for his own good, sir, but for that of everyone concerned. It is not a matter in which he has much experience, however. As his man of business, I had hoped that you might be willing to discuss the matter with me instead. I understand there are ... many arrangements to be made, for her ladyship's sake?"

Walter pressed his lips together. For her ladyship's sake. Arrangements. God. He did not voice the first few thoughts that came to mind, however. They were unworthy, and undeserved. The situation was patently no more of Childermass' making than his.

"Yes," he said at least, perhaps a little repressively. "My wife has ... I am aware of the great injury she has done Mr Norrell and yourself, sir. I am grateful that ... that Mr Norrell at least has not asked for more stringent measures to be taken. I know it would be within his rights."

He did not say 'and yours'. Such a right would be difficult for a man of Childermass' position to demand, though whether that should or should not be the case was a different question. Walter could not help but be aware, however, that should Childermass wish to demand it, to exact some more severe form of justice for his injury, Mr Norrell had put him in quite a good position to do so. By placing the matter in his servant's hands, Mr Norrell had given the man a very good opportunity to exact his vengeance, if he so wished.

Walter was not entirely sure what he would do, if that turned out to be the case. Fight it, his instinct said, yet seeing the man, the pain he was in, a part of him could not help but wonder if he would be wholly right to do so. It was ... God. It was impossible. The whole situation. Yet he could not allow her to be harmed. He simply could not.

Childermass did not give any immediate indication of a burning desire for vengeance, at least. He shrugged in the face of Walter's concern, a little uneasily, and offered a reasonable attempt at diplomacy instead.

"I'm sure Mr Norrell is conscious of her ladyship's ... fragile condition," the man said carefully. "I do not pretend to know all of the circumstances, sir, yet I understand that her ladyship has been ... troubled? For some time. I'm sure my master does not begrudge a more discreet handling of the situation, not when her ladyship was not in her right mind when she ... acted as she did."

It was a carefully qualified speech. Walter, with some experience of such things, could see how very careful the man was being to frame things correctly, to not cause offence. He wondered to what extent he might believe him. Somehow, he didn't think Mr Norrell overly cared about Emma's 'fragile condition'. That did not necessarily matter. Mr Norrell, at least, could usually be relied upon to choose the most discreet handling of anything. Childermass, on the other hand, was a much more uncertain prospect. Walter could not tell what he thought at all, save that there had been no overt scepticism towards his wife's madness, or the effect it may have had on her actions. Was that enough cause for hope that he might not bear her ill will? Walter could not be sure.

Stephen chose that moment to appear with a tea service, which granted him some small reprieve to think. It didn't quite grant Childermass the same, he saw, with what might have been amusement under better circumstances. The man accepted the cup Stephen offered him with an expression that was half affronted chagrin and half gratitude, taking it in his right hand to spare the wounded one tucked against his side, and Walter had a moment to consider that perhaps the man might be just as uneasy with the circumstances of their conversation as Walter himself. For different reasons, perhaps, but it might be that Walter was not the only one fumbling here. That was, at least, a somewhat heartening thought.

"Either way," he said quietly, once Stephen had swept calmly back out of the room once more, "I am grateful for Mr Norrell's forbearance. I understand that it may not be a sentiment you can share, Mr Childermass, and under the circumstances I cannot say I blame you, but I ... I cannot help but be concerned for my wife. I'm sorry for it, but I cannot."

Childermass set his cup back down. More to disguise the tremor in his hand than to make any sort of a point, Walter thought. His expression was not cold, when he looked up. It was carefully noncommittal, as befitted his purpose and his station, but there did not seem to be malice disguised beneath it. That might be only blind optimism on Walter's part, of course, but he did sense any ill intent beneath the man's facade.

"I do not think you can be blamed for that, sir," Childermass said softly, and Walter honestly could not sense a lie from it. He had some experience of liars. He was a politician, for god's sake! He did not sense any here. "Forgive me. I know this is a difficult position for any man to find himself in. I had hoped that we might come to arrangement which ... which satisfies everyone, my lord. I'm sure no one has any wish to see her ladyship harmed. Perhaps, between us, we might come to an agreement that is as much to her benefit as anyone's?"

Walter blinked. He looked away, pressing his lips tightly together. "I am no longer sure that is possible," he said after a moment, and did not think he had quite succeeded in disguising the grief of it. He had been so delighted when Norrell had saved Emma. So hopeful and so awed. And now ... now he wasn't sure there was any saving her. Death may have been waylaid, but madness had gleefully taken its place, and now she had all but killed someone in its throes. Walter didn't know any longer how much hope there might be for Emma. With the best will in the world, he wasn't sure that anyone could help her.

And that was, of course, when those in command of her fate had the best will. Which might no longer be the case.

He looked back at Childermass. The man's face was drawn, and very pale. He quite probably should not have left his bed yet. Under less fraught circumstances, Walter might have entertained uncharitable thoughts towards Norrell for making him. Certainly it was nothing he would ever have demanded of Stephen. Yet Childermass seemed unmoved. He was uneasy, yet Walter did not think he doubted his purpose in coming here, nor the necessity of it. Childermass had the look of a man determined to do his duty.

It only remained to be seen, then, what the man thought that duty entailed. Walter did not care to prevaricate any further. He rather thought the time for it had passed.

"... What do you think I should do, Mr Childermass?" he asked quietly, and not without some genuine appeal in it. Childermass often gave sound advice. When he had not been injured, when he did not have just cause for anger, Childermass could often be relied upon to be reasonable. "You are the one she has injured. What do you think should be done with my wife?"

Childermass blinked warily at him. He did not answer immediately, and when he did his tone was still cautious. "I understand," he said carefully, "that the option of placing her ladyship in a madhouse was raised? That was what my master informed me, at any rate. I believe that he and Mr Lascelles at least briefly discussed the matter with you?"

Walter closed his eyes. He bowed his head, a surge of emotion running through him, and Childermass had the courtesy to remain silent through it. Walter had not the presence of mind to be grateful. An asylum. It had made sense when Mr Lascelles had said it. It had seemed a mercy, when Emma might have killed someone in her madness. Walter had thought about it since then, however. He had given it a great deal of thought indeed, and he had found that ... that he did not like the thought at all.

He had heard rumours. There had been scandal growing around Bethlem for years, to the point that people in certain quarters were making motions in Parliament to have something done about it. Walter knew what happened to people in such places. It hadn't ... God forgive him, it hadn't meant all that much to him previously, but the thought of Emma in such a place, the thought of those things being done to her ...

He stood up. Childermass stiffened a little, watching him warily, but Walter could not muster the composure to speak to him just yet. He shook his head, a half gesture of apology, and turned to move back to the window. To stand there, his hands laced behind his back in an effort to quell the shaking of them. He needed a moment. He could not speak just yet.

And Childermass, to his credit, did not seem to begrudge him it.