Childermass got no further. Everyone began speaking at once. The former members of the York Society were dismayed to find that they had left their comfortable firesides to come here and be lectured by a servant. But while these gentlemen were unburdening themselves of their indignation, most of the newcomers were affected quite differently. They were all either Strangites or Norrellites; but not one of them had ever laid eyes on his hero and to be seated in such proximity to a person who had actually known and spoken to him wound them up to an unprecedented pitch of excitement.

Childermass was not in the least discomfited by the uproar. He simply waited until it was quiet enough for him to speak and then he said, “I have come to tell you that the agreement with Gilbert Norrell is void. Null and void, gentlemen. You are magicians once more, if you wish to be.”

One of the new magicians shouted out to know if Strange were coming. Another wished to know if Norrell were coming.

“No, gentlemen,” said Childermass. “They are not. You must make do with me. I do not think Strange and Norrell will be seen again in England. At least not in this generation.”

“Why?” asked Mr Segundus. “Where have they gone?”

Childermass smiled. “Wherever magicians used to go. Behind the sky. On the other side of the rain.”

One of the Norrellites remarked that Jonathan Strange was wise to remove himself from England. Otherwise he would have certainly been hanged.

The excitable young man with the light-coloured hair retorted spitefully that the whole pack of Norrellites would soon find themselves at a grave disadvantage. Surely the first principle of Norrellite magic was that everything must be based upon books? And how were they going to do that when the books had all disappeared with Hurtfew Abbey?⁵

“You do not need the library at Hurtfew, gentlemen,” said Childermass. “Nor yet the library in Hanover-square. I have brought you something much better. A book Norrell long desired, but never saw. A book Strange did not even know existed. I have brought you John Uskglass’s book.”

More shouting. More uproar. In the midst of all of which Miss Redruth appeared to be making a speech in defence of John Uskglass, whom she insisted upon calling his Grace, the King, as if he were at any moment about to enter Newcastle and resume the government of Northern England.

“Wait!” cried Dr Foxcastle, his loud, important voice gradually overpowering first those nearest him, and then the rest of the assembly. “I see no book in this rogue’s hands! Where is it? This is a trick, gentlemen! He wants our money, I’ll be bound. Well, sir?” (This to Childermass.) “What do you say? Bring out your book – if indeed it exists!”

“On the contrary, sir,” said Childermass, with his long, dark, one-sided grin. “I want nothing of yours. Vinculus! Stand up!”

In the house in Padua the first concern of the Greysteels and their servants was to make Mrs Strange as comfortable as they could; and each had his or her own way of doing it. Dr Greysteel’s comfort chiefly took a philosophical form. He searched his memory for examples from history of people – particularly ladies – who had triumphed over adverse circumstances, often with the help of their friends. Minichello and Frank, the two manservants, ran to open doors for her – often whether she wanted to go through them or not. Bonifazia, the maid, preferred to treat a year’s sojourn in Faerie as if it had been rather a severe sort of cold and brought her strengthening cordials throughout the day. Aunt Greysteel sent all over the town for the best wines and the rarest delicacies; and she purchased the softest, down-filled cushions and pillows, as if she hoped that by laying her head on them Arabella might be induced to forget all that had happened to her. But of all the various sorts of consolation that were offered her, that which seemed to suit Arabella best was Flora’s company and Flora’s conversation.