Childermass did not hear what was said, but he naturally supposed that Mr Norrell must be inquiring about his health, so he began to say that he hoped he would be better in a day or two.

Mr Norrell interrupted him and said again more sharply, “Why were you performing Belasis’s Scopus?”

“What?” asked Childermass.

“Lucas said that you were doing magic,” said Mr Norrell. “I made him describe it to me. Naturally I recognized Belasis’s Scopus.”1 His face grew sharp and suspicious. “Why were you performing it? And – which is even more to the point – where in the world did you learn such a thing? How can I do my work when I am constantly betrayed in this manner? It is astonishing to me that I have achieved any thing at all, when I am surrounded by servants who learn spells behind my back and pupils who set themselves to undo my every accomplishment!”

Childermass gave him a look of mild exasperation. “You taught it to me yourself.”

“I?” cried Mr Norrell, his voice several pitches higher than usual.

“It was before you came to London, in the days when you kept to your library at Hurtfew, when I used to go about the country for you buying up valuable books. You taught me the spell in case I should ever meet with any one who claimed to be a practical magician. You were afraid that there might be another magician who could …”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr Norrell, impatiently. “I remember now. But that does not explain why you were performing it in the square yesterday morning.”

“Because there was magic everywhere.”

“Lucas did not notice any thing.”

“It is not part of Lucas’s duties to know when there is magic going on. That falls to me. It was the strangest thing I ever knew. I kept thinking that I was somewhere else entirely. I believe that for a while I was in real danger. I do not understand very well where the place was. It had some curious features – which I will describe to you in a moment – but it was certainly not England. I think it was Faerie. What sort of magic produces such an effect? And where was it coming from? Can it be that that woman was a magician?”

“Which woman?”

“The woman who shot me.”

Mr Norrell made a small sound of irritation. “That bullet affected you more than I supposed,” he said contemptuously. “If she had been a great magician, do you really suppose that you could have thwarted her so easily? There was no magician in the square. Certainly not that woman.”

“Why? Who was she?”

Mr Norrell was silent a moment. Then he said, “Sir Walter Pole’s wife. The woman I brought back from the dead.”