It was a weary journey for Stephen. The sad exile of Lady Pole and the loss of Firenze depressed his spirits. He was glad to be relieved of the carrier’s conversation for a while.

Once he heard a sort of muttering, suggesting that the blue man was waking up. At first he could not tell what the blue man was saying and then he heard very clearly, “The nameless slave shall be king in a strange country.”

That made him shiver; it reminded him so forcibly of the gentleman’s promise to make him King of England.

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.”