There was a rustling sound. To Lascelles’s surprize he saw that a small shoot was poking out of Drawlight’s right eye (the left one had been destroyed by the pistol blast). Strands of ivy were winding themselves about his neck and chest. A holly shoot had pierced his hand; a young birch had shot up through his foot; a hawthorn had sprung up through his belly. He looked as if he been crucified upon the wood itself. But the trees did not stop there; they kept growing. A tangle of bronze and scarlet stems blotted out his ruined face, and his limbs and body decayed as plants and other living things took strength from them. Within a short space of time nothing of Christopher Drawlight remained. The trees, the stones and the earth had taken him inside themselves, but in their shape it was possible still to discern something of the man he had once been.

“That briar was his arm, I think,” mused Lascelles. “That stone … his heart perhaps? It is small enough and hard enough.” He laughed. “That is the ridiculous thing about Strange’s magic,” he said to no one at all. “Sooner or later it all works against him.” He mounted on his horse and rode back towards the road.

63
The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache

Mid February 1817

More than twenty-eight hours had passed since Lascelles had left Hanover-square and Mr Norrell was half frantic. He had promised Lascelles they would wait for him, but now he feared they would arrive at Hurtfew Abbey to find Strange in possession of the library.

No one in the house at Hanover-square was permitted to go to bed that night and by morning everyone was tired and wretched.

“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!”