Death upon death, horror upon horror; and there was nothing Stephen could do to prevent any of it.

At Starecross Hall Lady Pole was seated at a desk in her sitting-room, writing furiously. The desk was scattered with sheets of paper, all covered with handwriting.

There was a knock and Mr Segundus entered the room. “I beg your pardon!” he said. “Might I inquire? Do you write to Sir Walter?”

She shook her head. “These letters are to Lord Liverpool and the editor of The Times!”

“Indeed?” said Mr Segundus. “Well, I have, in fact, just finished a letter of my own – to Sir Walter – but nothing, I am sure, will delight him so much as a line or two in your ladyship’s own hand, assuring him that you are well and disenchanted.”

“But your own letter will do that. I am sorry, Mr Segundus, but while my dear Mrs Strange and poor Stephen remain in the power of that wicked spirit, I can spare no thought for any thing else! You must send these letters off straight away! And when they are done I shall write to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Prince Regent!”

“You do not think perhaps that Sir Walter is the proper person to apply to such exalted gentlemen? Surely …?”

“No, indeed!” she cried, all indignation. “I have no notion of asking people to perform services for me which I can do perfectly well for myself. I do not intend to go, in the space of one hour, from the helplessness of enchantment to another sort of helplessness! Besides, Sir Walter will not be able to explain half so well as me the true hideousness of Mr Norrell’s crimes!”

Just then another person entered the room – Mr Segundus’s manservant, Charles, who came to say that something very odd was happening in the village. The tall black man – the person who had originally brought her ladyship to Starecross – had appeared with a silver diadem upon his head, and with him was a gentleman with thistle-down hair, wearing a bright green coat.

“Stephen! Stephen and the enchanter!” cried Lady Pole. “Quickly, Mr Segundus! Summon up all your powers! We depend upon you to defeat him! You must free Stephen as you freed me!”

“Defeat a fairy!” exclaimed Mr Segundus in horror. “Oh, but no! I could not. It would take a far greater magician …”

“Nonsense!” she cried, with shining eyes. “Remember what Childermass told you. Your years of study have prepared you! You have simply to try!”

“But I do not know …” he began, helplessly.

But it did not much matter what he knew. The moment she finished speaking she ran from the room – and, since he considered himself bound to protect her, he was obliged to run after her.

At Hurtfew the two magicians had found The Language of Birds – it lay open on the table at the page where the fairy spell was printed. But the problem of finding a name for John Uskglass remained. Norrell sat crouched over the silver dish of water doing location spells. They had already run through all the titles and names they could think of, and the location spell did not recognize a single one. The water in the silver dish remained dark and featureless.