It would tire my reader’s patience to rehearse the many winding arguments by which the gentlemen of the York society came to sign Mr Norrell’s agreement. Many did so out of vanity; they had publicly declared that they did not believe Norrell could do magic, they had publicly challenged Norrell to perform some – under such circumstances as these it would have looked peculiarly foolish to change their minds – or so they thought.

Mr Honeyfoot, on the other hand, signed precisely because he believed in Norrell’s magic. Mr Honeyfoot hoped that Mr Norrell would gain public recognition by this demonstration of his powers and go on to employ his magic for the good of the nation.

Some of the gentlemen were provoked to sign by the suggestion (originating with Norrell and somehow conveyed by Robinson) that they would not shew themselves true magicians unless they did so.

So one by one and there and then, the magicians of York signed the document that Mr Robinson had brought. The last magician was Mr Segundus.

“I will not sign,” he said. “For magic is my life and though Mr Norrell is quite right to say I am a poor scholar, what shall I do when it is taken from me?”

A silence.

“Oh!” said Mr Robinson. “Well, that is … Are you quite sure, sir, that you should not like to sign the document? You see how all your friends have done it? You will be quite alone.”

“I am quite sure,” said Mr Segundus, “thank you.”

“Oh!” said Mr Robinson. “Well, in that case I must confess that I do not know quite how to proceed. My principal gave me no instruction what to do if only some of the gentlemen signed. I shall consult with my principal in the morning.”

Dr Foxcastle was heard to remark to Mr Hart or Hunt that once again it was the newcomer who brought a world of trouble upon everyone’s heads.

But two days later Mr Robinson waited upon Dr Foxcastle with a message to say that on this particular occasion Mr Norrell would be happy to overlook Mr Segundus’s refusal to sign; he would consider that his contract was with all the members of the York society except for Mr Segundus.

The night before Mr Norrell was due to perform the magic, snow fell on York and in the morning the dirt and mud of the city had disappeared, all replaced by flawless white. The sounds of hooves and footsteps were muffled, and the very voices of York’s citizens were altered by a white silence that swallowed up every sound. Mr Norrell had named a very early hour in the day. In their separate homes the York magicians breakfasted alone. They watched in silence as a servant poured their coffee, broke their warm white-bread rolls, fetched the butter. The wife, the sister, the daughter, the daughter-in-law, or the niece who usually performed these little offices was still in bed; and the pleasant female domestic chat, which the gentlemen of the York society affected to despise so much, and which was in truth the sweet and mild refrain in the music of their ordinary lives, was absent. And the breakfast rooms where these gentlemen sat were changed from what they had been yesterday. The winter gloom was quite gone and in its place was a fearful light – the winter sun reflected many times over by the snowy earth. There was a dazzle of light upon the white linen tablecloth. The rosebuds that patterned the daughter’s pretty coffee-cups seemed almost to dance in it. Sunbeams were struck from the niece’s silver coffee-pot, and the daughter-in-law’s smiling china shepherdesses were all become shining angels. It was as if the table were laid with fairy silver and crystal.