“But why do we wait at all?” asked Childermass. “What good do you suppose he will be when Strange comes?”

“I place great reliance on Mr Lascelles. You know I do. He is my only adviser now.”

“You still have me,” said Childermass.

Mr Norrell blinked his small eyes rapidly. They seemed to be half a sentence away from, but you are only a servant. Mr Norrell said nothing.

Childermass seemed to understand him anyway. He made a small sound of disgust and walked off.

At six o’clock in the evening the library door was thrown open and Lascelles walked in. He looked as he had never looked before: his hair was dishevelled, his neckcloth was stained with dust and sweat, and there were mud-splashes on his greatcoat and boots.

“We were right, Mr Norrell!” he cried. “Strange is coming!”

“When?” said Mr Norrell, turning pale.

“I do not know. He has not been so kind as to furnish us with those details, but we should leave for Hurtfew Abbey as soon as possible!”

“We can go immediately. All is in readiness. So you actually saw Drawlight? Is he here?” Mr Norrell leant sideways to see if he could catch a glimpse of Drawlight behind Lascelles.

“No, I did not see him. I waited for him, but he never came. But do not fear, sir!” (Mr Norrell was on the point of interrupting.) “He has sent a letter. We have all the intelligence we need.”

“A letter! May I see it?”

“Of course! But there will be time enough for that on the journey. We must be off. You need not delay on my account. My wants are few and what I do not have, I can very easily do without.” (This was perhaps a little surprizing. Lascelles’s wants had never been few before. They had been numerous and complicated.) “Come, come, Mr Norrell. Rouse yourself. Strange is coming!” He strode out of the room again. Mr Norrell heard later from Lucas that he had not even asked for water to wash or for any thing to drink. He had simply gone to the carriage, thrown himself into a corner and waited.

By eight o’clock they were on their way to Yorkshire. Mr Norrell and Lascelles were inside the carriage; Lucas and Davey were upon the box; Childermass was on horseback. At the Islington tollgate Lucas paid the keeper. There was a smell of snow in the air.

Mr Norrell gazed idly at a shop window ablaze with lamplight. It was a superior sort of shop with an uncluttered interior and elegant modern chairs for the customers to sit upon; in fact it was so very refined an establishment that it was by no means clear what it sold. A heap of brightly coloured somethings lay tossed upon a chair, but whether they were shawls or materials for gowns or something else entirely, Mr Norrell could not tell. There were three women in the shop. One was a customer – a smart, stylish person in a spencer like a Hussar’s uniform, complete with fur trim and frogging. On her head was a little Russian fur cap; she kept touching the back of it as if she feared it would fall off. The shopkeeper was more discreetly dressed in a plain dark gown, and there was besides a little assistant who looked on respectfully and bobbed a nervous little curtsey whenever any one chanced to look at her. The customer and the shopkeeper were not engaged in business; they were talking together with a great deal of animation and laughter. It was a scene as far removed from Mr Norrell’s usual interests as it was possible to be, yet it went to his heart in a way he could not understand. He thought fleetingly of Mrs Strange and Lady Pole. Then something flew between him and the cheerful scene – something like a piece of the darkness made solid. He thought that it was a raven.