#godbless me if I can update two fics by next week

[princesssszzzz]

I hate how people only bring up or care about Rhaena when it suits them, it’s super disingenuous and annoying

I love your fics too I hope you update soon

Thank you!! I’m updating the mermaid AU first I’m just busy with life stuff running errands, unpacking, interviewing, and what not. I wish I could update more 😭😭 I barely have time for tumblr but hopefully next week life will be less hectic and I can update everything

It is annoying as hell too!! People claiming to like her need to keep her name out of their mouths they really try to reduce her it’s irritating

[samayla]

An Utterly Impractical Magician

Chapter 7

A Jane Eyre/Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fusion fic.

Also on AO3

Summary: When John Reed burnt Thomas Godbless’ book of magic to spite his cousin, he had no idea how drastically he would alter both her fate and that of English magic.

@majorxbuddyxboy @shygaladriel @bookhobbit @wolfinthethorns @kaethe-nicole @warsawmouse@cassandravision@mythopoeticreality@jmlascar@seriouslythoughguys @isawatreetoday@rude-are-food @the-stars-above28@the-candor-shadowhunter

Let me know if any of you would like to be added/removed in the tags list.

Three chapters in two days, guys! I have a ton of notes on the next couple, but you may need to pester me for updates, as I have no idea how long these will take... For now, enjoy!

7

Highly Irregular

Lowood School, July 1805

The headmaster blinked his beady eyes. “You must understand, Mr Childermass, that what you have suggested… Well, it is highly irregular, sir.” He blinked again and busied himself with his tea.

Childermass, lounging in an extraordinarily uncomfortable chair on the far side of Brocklehurst’s desk, shrugged. He’d finished his tea in two swallows, and he was now at leisure to watch the supposedly domineering headmaster shrink slowly in upon himself, his composure and self-possession collapsing like a cheap candle.

“This is a highly irregular situation,” he answered, when the silence had acquired precisely the right amount of tension. Brocklehurst had heard back from the aunt. Childermass had learned that much from his cards after he left the chapel. The aunt, he was sure, would be happy enough to be rid of the girl. It was Brocklehurst now who was dragging his feet, and Childermass was fast running out of patience.

“True enough,” Brocklehurst allowed at once, as though he could not stand to face another such silence, but then he hedged. “True enough. However, I think it bears careful consideration—”

“I was given to understand that you wished to be rid of the girl,” Childermass said plainly. “I do not see how you can expect to accomplish it with any greater convenience. The girl is clearly at the mercy of some form of magic, and my master is the foremost scholar of magic of the age. If her aunt is amenable—”

“Magic,” Brocklehurst spat, as though the word left a foul taste in his mouth. His ego inflated once more, this time in indignation, and Childermass was reminded strongly of a tom-turkey — drooping nose, puffed chest, and all. “Is that what you’re here for, sir? To validate a low superstition? Or to laugh at my institution’s expense?”

Childermass did not move as the man ranted, did not so much as blink when he stood to to tower over him. The light from the window cast the smaller man’s shadow large over Childermass and the bookshelf behind him.

“Magic, sir, is the refuge of a feeble mind. It is the domain of charlatans and cheats and yellow-curtain vagabonds who prey upon the most ragged, degenerate of souls to feed their own sense of self-importance. Magic is the last resort of godless men.”

“Is it now?” Childermass still had not moved, but he had allowed Brocklehurst’s shadow to eat away at the edges of his coat and hair during his little tirade. He was not impressed in the slightest by the man’s attempts to bully him, though he could now see how it was among the staff and students here. But shadows were Childermass’ old friends, and he was of a mind to show the man what they could really do. “And that ‘low superstition’ would be why you’ve locked the girl away in your chapel for the past week? Such a reaction looks suspiciously like belief to my eyes.”

Brocklehurst looked ready to burst. “She is there to pray for the salvation of her everlasting soul, sir! These low superstitions have raised her to notoriety among her peers. She has become the most brazen of liars, an attention-seeking little fiend who will stop at nothing to undermine my authority and torment my staff. I will not tolerate this disruption any longer.”

Childermass allowed the shadows to eat away his dark vest and coat, everything but his face, half-shrouded by his hair. A mere parlor trick, but enough to set the other man decidedly off balance and bring his tirade to an end.

“No matter what happens,” Brocklehurst said after he had collected himself somewhat and returned to his seat, “I will not have it said that I did anything less than my utmost to protect this child’s soul.”

Childermass allowed the shadows to melt away, sending them skittering under the table, just to amuse himself. Brocklehurst stiffened most satisfyingly. “Permit me to take charge of her,” Childermass said soothingly, as though his request were the most reasonable idea in the world. “I know you have had a reply from Mrs Reed. As the girl’s guardian, her decision will absolve you of any responsibility.”

Brocklehurst sniffed and sipped his tea. “Mrs Reed is a timid, weak-willed creature.”

She’d said yes, then. And Brocklehurst didn’t like it. Childermass gathered the shadows around himself once more. They filled out his lean frame and crawled over his hair, dripped from his fingers, and seeped into everything on his side of the office. “Nonetheless, she is her guardian.”

Brocklehurst shuddered and refused to look at him. He slapped a sheaf of papers onto the desk between them. “I assume you have the authority to sign for your master?”

Childermass collected the shadows and with a wicked little smirk, he tucked them effortlessly into his coat. Brocklehurst could do without them for a day or two, he decided.