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.

“What of his fairy name?” said Strange.

“That is lost,” replied Norrell.

“Did we try the King of the North yet?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Strange thought for a moment and then said, “What was that curious appellation you mentioned before? Something you said he called himself? The nameless something?”

“The nameless slave?”

“Yes. Try that.”

Norrell looked very doubtful. But he cast the spell for the nameless slave. Instantly a speck of bluish light appeared. He proceeded and the nameless slave proved to be in Yorkshire – in very much the same place where John Uskglass had appeared before.

“There!” exclaimed Strange, triumphantly. “All our anxiety was quite needless. He is still here.”

“But I do not think that is the same person,” interrupted Norrell. “It looks different somehow.”

“Mr Norrell, do not be fanciful, I beg you! Who else could it be? How many nameless slaves can there possibly be in Yorkshire?”

This was so very reasonable a question that Mr Norrell offered no further objections.

“And now for the magic itself,” said Strange. He picked up the book and began to recite the spell. He addressed the trees of England; the hills of England; the sunlight, water, birds, earth and stones. He addressed them all, one after the other, and exhorted them to place themselves in the hands of the nameless slave.

Stephen and the gentleman came to the packhorse bridge that led into Starecross.

The village was quiet; there was hardly any one to be seen. In a doorway a girl in a print-gown and woollen shawl was tipping milk from wooden pails into cheese-vats. A man in gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat came down a lane at the side of the house; a dog trotted at his side. When the man and the dog rounded the corner, the girl and the man greeted each other smilingly and the dog barked his pleasure. It was the sort of simple, domestic scene that would ordinarily have delighted Stephen, but in his present mood he could only feel a chill; if the man had reached out and struck the girl – or strangled her – he would have felt no surprize.

The gentleman was already on the packhorse bridge. Stephen followed him and …