It grew dark. Stephen halted the horse, got down from the box and lit the three ancient lanterns that hung about the cart. He was about to get back upon the box when a ragged, unkempt-looking person climbed suddenly out of the back and jumped down upon the icy ground to stand in front of him.

The unkempt person regarded Stephen by the lanterns’ light. “Are we there yet?” he asked in a hoarse tone.

“Are we where?” asked Stephen.

The man considered this for a moment and then decided to rephrase his original question. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Nowhere. Between somewhere called Ulleskelf and another place called Thorpe Willoughby, I believe.”

Though the man had asked for this information he did not seem much interested in it when it was given to him. His dirty shirt was open to the waist and Stephen could see that the carrier’s description of him had been of a most misleading nature. He was not blue in the same way that Stephen was black. He was a thin, disreputable hawk of a man, whose skin in its natural state ought to have been the same colour as every other Englishman’s, but it was covered in a strange patterning of blue lines, flourishes, dots and circles.

“Do you know John Childermass, the magician’s servant?” he asked.

Stephen was startled – as any body would be who was asked the same question twice in two days by complete strangers. “I know him by sight. I have never spoken to him.”

The man grinned and winked. “He has been looking for me for eight years. Never found me yet. I have been to look at his master’s house in Yorkshire. It stands in a great park. I should have liked to steal something. When I was at his house in London I ate some pies.”

It was a little disconcerting to find oneself in the company of a self-confessed thief, yet Stephen could not help but feel some sort of fellowship with someone who wished to rob the magician. After all, if it had not been for Mr Norrell Lady Pole and he would never have fallen under an enchantment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two crown coins. “Here!” he said.

“And what is that for?” asked the man suspiciously (but he took the coins anyway).

“I am sorry for you.”

“Why?”

“Because, if what I am told is true, you have no home.”

The man grinned again and scratched his dirty cheek. “And if what I am told is true, you have no name!”

“What?”

“I have a name. It is Vinculus.” He grabbed Stephen’s hand. “Why do you try to pull away from me?”

“I do not,” said Stephen.

“Yes, you did. Just then.”

Stephen hesitated. “Your skin is marked and discoloured. I thought perhaps the marks meant you had a disease of some sort.”

“That is not what my skin means,” said Vinculus.

“Means?” said Stephen. “That is an odd word to use. Yet it is true – skin can mean a great deal. Mine means that any man may strike me in a public place and never fear the consequences. It means that my friends do not always like to be seen with me in the street. It means that no matter how many books I read, or languages I master, I will never be any thing but a curiosity – like a talking pig or a mathematical horse.”