Childermass shrugged.

“I do not know what Strange might be capable of by now,” said Mr Norrell. “But I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of the King’s Roads.”

“I thought the King’s Roads led to Faerie,” said Lascelles.

“Yes, they do. But not only Faerie. The King’s Roads lead everywhere. Heaven. Hell. The Houses of Parliament … They were built by magic. Every mirror, every puddle, every shadow in England is a gate to those roads. I cannot set a lock upon all of them. No body could. It would be a monstrous task! If Strange comes by the King’s Roads then I know nothing to prevent him.”

“But …” began Lascelles.

“I cannot prevent him!” cried Mr Norrell, wringing his hands. “Do not ask me! But …” He made a great effort to calm himself. “… I can be ready to receive him. The Greatest Magician of the Age. Well, soon we shall see, shall we not?”

“If he comes to England,” said Lascelles, “where will he go first?”

“Hurtfew Abbey,” said Childermass. “Where else?”

Mr Norrell and Lascelles were both about to answer him, but at that moment Lucas entered the room with a silver tray upon which lay a letter. He offered it to Lascelles. Lascelles broke the seal and read it rapidly.

“Drawlight is back,” he said. “Wait for me here. I will return within a day.”

62
I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood

Early February 1817

First light in early February: a crossroads in the middle of a wood. The space between the trees was misty and indistinct; the darkness of the trees seeped into it. Neither of the two roads was of any importance. They were rutted and ill-maintained; one was scarcely more than a cart-track. It was an out-of-the-way place, marked on no map. It did not even have a name.

Drawlight was waiting at the crossroads. There was no horse standing nearby, no groom with a trap or cart, nothing to explain how he had come there. Yet clearly he had been standing at the crossroads for some time; his coat-sleeves were white with frost. A faint click behind him made him spin round. But there was nothing: only the same stretch of silent trees.

“No, no,” he muttered to himself. “It was nothing. A dry leaf fell – that is all.” There was a sharp snap, as ice cracked wood or stone. He stared again, with eyes addled by fear. “It was only a dry leaf,” he murmured.

There was a new sound. For a moment he was all in a panic, uncertain where it was coming from; until he recognized it for what it was: horses’ hooves. He peered up the road. A dim, grey smudge in the mist shewed where a horse and rider were approaching.

“He is here at last. He is here,” muttered Drawlight and hastened forward. “Where have you been?” he cried. “I have been waiting here for hours.”