“You are offended.”

“Not in the least. Now I believe we are closer to that good understanding which you require for friendship. Will you shake hands with me?”

“With the greatest goodwill,” she said.

“Flora? Mr Strange?” cried Dr Greysteel, striding up to them. “What is this?”

Miss Greysteel was a little confused. It was of the greatest importance to her that her aunt and father should have a good opinion of Mr Strange. She did not want them to know that she herself had suspected him of wrongdoing. She feigned not to have heard her father’s question and began to speak energetically of some paintings in the Scuola di Giorgio degli Schiavoni that she had a great desire to see. “It is really no distance. We could go now. You will come with us, I hope?” she said to Strange.

Strange smiled ruefully at her. “I have work to do.”

“Your book?” asked Dr Greysteel.

“Not today. I am working to uncover the magic which will bring forth a fairy-spirit to be my assistant. I have lost count of how many times I have tried – and how many ways. And never, of course, with the least success. But such is the predicament of the modern magician! Spells which were once taken for granted by every minor sorcerer in England are now so elusive that we despair of ever getting them back. Martin Pale had twenty-eight fairy servants. I would count myself fortunate to have one.”

“Fairies!” exclaimed Aunt Greysteel. “But by all accounts they are very mischievous creatures! Are you quite certain, Mr Strange, that you really wish to burden yourself with such a troublesome companion?”

“My dear aunt!” said Miss Greysteel. “Mr Strange knows what he is doing.”

But Aunt Greysteel was concerned and to illustrate her point she began to speak of a river that flowed through the village in Derbyshire where she and Dr Greysteel had grown up. It had been enchanted by fairies long ago and as a consequence had shrunk from a noble torrent to a gentle brook and, though this had happened centuries and centuries ago, the local population still remembered and resented it. They still talked of the workshops they might have set up and the industries they might have founded if only the river had been strong enough to supply the power.³

Strange listened politely and when she had finished he said, “Oh, to be sure! Fairies are naturally full of wickedness and exceedingly difficult to control. Were I successful, I should certainly have to take care whom my fairy – or fairies – associated with.” He cast a glance at Miss Greysteel. “Nevertheless their power and knowledge are such that a magician cannot lightly dispense with their help – not unless he is Gilbert Norrell. Every fairy that ever drew breath has more magic in his head, hands and heart than could be contained in the greatest library of magical books that ever existed.”⁴

“Has he indeed?” said Aunt Greysteel. “Well, that is remarkable.”