For the next fortnight Strange summoned up visions of places where the Duke thought the French might appear. The Duke provided him with two things to help him: a large map and a young officer called William Hadley-Bright.

Hadley-Bright was one of those happy men for whom Fortune reserves her choicest gifts. Everything came easily to him. He was the adored only child of a rich widow. He had wanted a military career; his friends had got him a commission in a fashionable regiment. He had wanted excitement and adventure; the Duke of Wellington had chosen him to be one of his aides-de-camp. Then, just as he had decided that the one thing he loved more than soldiering was English magic, the Duke had appointed him to assist the sublime and mysterious Jonathan Strange. But only persons of a particularly sour disposition could resent Hadley-Bright’s success; everyone else was disarmed by his cheerfulness and good nature.

Day after day Strange and Hadley-Bright examined ancient fortified cities in the west of Belgium; they peered at dull village streets; they watched vast, empty vistas of fields beneath even vaster prospects of watercolour clouds. But the French did not appear.

On a hot, sticky day in the middle of June they were seated at this interminable task. It was about three o’clock. The waiter had neglected to remove some dirty coffee-cups and a fly buzzed around them. From the open window came the mingled odours of horse-sweat, peaches and sour milk. Hadley-Bright, perched on a dining-chair, was demonstrating to perfection one of the most important skills of a soldier – that of falling asleep under any circumstances and at any time.

Strange glanced at his map and chose a spot at random. In the water of his silver dish a quiet crossroads appeared; nearby was a farm and two or three houses. He watched for a moment. Nothing happened. His eyes closed and he was on the point of dozing off when some soldiers dragged a gun into position beneath some elm-trees. They had a rather businesslike air. He kicked Hadley-Bright to wake him up. “Who are those fellows?” he asked.

Hadley-Bright blinked at the silver dish.

The soldiers at the crossroads wore green coats with red facings. There suddenly seemed to be a great many of them.

“Nassauers,” said Hadley-Bright, naming some of Wellington’s German troops. “The Prince of Orange’s boys. Nothing to worry about. What are you looking at?”

“A crossroads twenty miles south of the city. A place called Quatre Bras.”

“Oh! There is no need to spend time on that!” declared Hadley-Bright with a yawn. “That is on the road to Charleroi. The Prussian Army is at the other end of it – or so I am told. I wonder if those fellows are supposed to be there?” He began to leaf through some papers describing the disposition of the various Allied armies. “No, I really don’t think …”

“And what is that?” interrupted Strange, pointing at a soldier in a blue coat who had appeared suddenly over the opposite rise with his musket at the ready.