Perhaps the only man to be guaranteed an unterrupted audience with Gilbert Norrell is Childermass. For Childermass has been the other man's shadow since long before he had guards to speak of, and no doubt he will be there long after their need has passed. He has been busy himself, of late, working on getting ears and eyes where previously he had none. Out in the streets of the city beyond. The areas in particular that Mr Norrell might not have approved of setting foot. And while nothing has yet come to fruition, it will in time. Childermass knows what he is doing. Childermass is not a man to fail a job.

He does not need to announce himself to enter the room. He does not need to follow the usual protocol of being escorted in by the guards. Childermass more often than not escorts Norrell himself into the chamber. The guards understand that once Childermass returns from an errand, they are to be awarded privacy for their conversation. And so they are.

Childermass crosses the room and sinks into a chair positioned across the desk, resisting the urge to sit back and put his feet up although it would be nice to relax for a moment. Norrell, no doubt, would not be as pleased by it. Settling for turning the chair sideways so that he may lean sideways against the front of the desk instead.

"Have you finished your letters?" he asks. The latest flurry of them, at least.