“I shall look in a moment,” Strange assured him.

“Your own labyrinth was quite remarkable,” said Mr Norrell. “I have been half the night trying to escape it.”

“Oh, I did what I usually do in such circumstances,” said Strange, carelessly. “I copied you and added some refinements. How long has it been?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How long have I been in the Darkness?”

“Since the beginning of December.”

“And what month is it now?”

“February.”

“Three months!” exclaimed Strange. “Three months! I thought it had been years!”

Mr Norrell had imagined this conversation many times. Each time he had pictured Strange angry and vengeful, and himself putting forth powerful arguments of self-justification. Now that they had finally met, Strange’s unconcern was utterly bewildering. The distant pains Mr Norrell had long felt in his small, shrivelled soul awakened. They grew claws and rent at him. His hands began to shake.

“I have been your enemy!” he burst out. “I destroyed your book – all except my own copy! I have slandered your name and plotted against you! Lascelles and Drawlight have told everyone that you murdered your wife! I have let them believe it!”

“Yes,” said Strange.

“But these are terrible crimes! Why are you not angry?”

Strange seemed to concede that this was a reasonable question. He thought for a moment. “I suppose it is because I have been many things since last we met. I have been trees and rivers and hills and stones. I have spoken to stars and earth and wind. One cannot be the conduit through which all English magic flows and still be oneself. I would have been angry, you say?”

Mr Norrell nodded.

Strange smiled his old, ironic smile. “Then be comforted! I dare say I shall be so again. In time.”

“And you have done all this just to thwart me?” asked Mr Norrell.

“To thwart you?” said Strange, in astonishment. “No! I have done this to save my wife!”

There was a short silence during which time Mr Norrell found it impossible to meet Strange’s eye. “What do you want from me?” he asked in a low voice.

“Only what I have always wanted – your help.”

“To break the enchantments?”

“Yes.”

Mr Norrell considered this for a moment. “The hundredth anniversary of an enchantment is often most auspicious,” he said. “There are several rites and procedures …”

“Thank you,” said Strange, with more than a tinge of his old sarcastic manner, “but I believe I was hoping for something a little more immediate in its effect.”

“The death of the enchanter puts an end to all such contracts and enchantments, but …”

“Ah, yes! Quite!” interrupted Strange, eagerly. “The death of the enchanter! I thought of it often in Venice. With all of English magic at my disposal there were so many ways I could have killed him. Sent him hurtling down from great heights. Burned him with bolts of lightning. Raised up mountains and crushed him beneath them. Had it been my freedom at stake, I would have certainly attempted it. But it was not my freedom – it was Arabella’s – and if I had tried and failed – if I had been killed – then her fate would have been sealed forever. So I set to thinking some more. And I thought how there was one man in all the world – in all the worlds that ever were – who would know how to defeat my enemy. One man who could advise me what I ought to do. I realized the time had come to speak to him.”