He spoke with such calm that Mr Norrell – who was rather expecting to be blasted with a bolt of magic at any moment – looked round to see if someone else was in the room. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“John Uskglass,” said Strange, still not troubling to turn around. “He could not prevent fairies stealing away Christian men and women. Why should I suppose that I might be capable of something he was not?” He read a little further. “I like your labyrinth,” he said conversationally. “Did you use Hickman?”

“What? No. De Chepe.”

“De Chepe! Really?” For the first time Strange looked directly at his master. “I had always supposed him to be a very minor scholar without an original thought in his head.”

“He was never much to the taste of people who like the showier sorts of magic,” said Mr Norrell, nervously, uncertain of how long this civil mood of Strange’s might last. “He was interested in labyrinths, magical pathways, spells which may be effected by following certain steps and turns – things of that sort. There is a long description of his magic in Belasis’s Instructions …” He paused. “… which you have never seen. The only copy is here. It is on the third shelf by the window.” He pointed and discovered that the shelf had been emptied. “Or it might be on the floor,” he offered. “In that pile.”

“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?”