“What?” cried Lascelles. “A man offers to fight you and you run away. Have you no honour at all? No shame? A sickly face, dead eyes, an unknown person at the window!” He gave a snort of derision. “These are nothing but excuses for your cowardice!”

Childermass flinched as if he had been struck and seemed about to return a sharp answer, but he was interrupted by Mr Norrell. “Upon the contrary! Childermass did well to leave as soon as he could. There is always more magic in such a place than appears at first sight. Some fairies delight in combat and death. I do not know why. They are prepared to go to great lengths to secure such pleasures for themselves.”

“Please, Mr Lascelles,” said Childermass, “if the place has a strong appeal for you, then go! Do not stay upon our account.”

Lascelles looked thoughtfully at the field and the gap in the hedge. But he did not move.

“You do not like the ravens perhaps?” said Childermass in a quietly mocking tone.

“No one likes them!” declared Mr Norrell. “Why are they here? What do they mean?”

Childermass shrugged. “Some people think that they are part of the Darkness that envelops Strange, and which, for some reason, he has made incarnate and sent back to England. Other people think that they portend the return of John Uskglass.”

“John Uskglass. Of course,” said Lascelles. “The first and last resort of vulgar minds. Whenever any thing happens, it must be because of John Uskglass! I think, Mr Norrell, it is time for another article in The Friends reviling that gentleman. What shall we say? That he was unChristian? UnEnglish? Demonic? Somewhere I believe I have a list of the Saints and Archbishops who denounced him. I could easily work that up.”

Mr Norrell looked uncomfortable. He glanced nervously at the Tuxford postillion.

“If I were you, Mr Lascelles,” said Childermass, softly, “I would speak more guardedly. You are in the north now. In John Uskglass’s own country. Our towns and cities and abbeys were built by him. Our laws were made by him. He is in our minds and hearts and speech. Were it summer you would see a carpet of tiny flowers beneath every hedgerow, of a bluish-white colour. We call them John’s Farthings. When the weather is contrary and we have warm weather in winter or it rains in summer the country people say that John Uskglass is in love again and neglects his business.1 And when we are sure of something we say it is as safe as a pebble in John Uskglass’s pocket.”