Go through Fire and Water to serve you - Do anything even at personal cost and inconvenience. The reference is to the ancient ordeals by fire and water. - E. Cobham Brewer (1810-1897). Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 1898.
Strange had, by that day, calculated that it took about six hours to burn one of the beeswax candles completely, and so it was by this method that they kept track of the time in the Darkness. It was an inexact method to be sure, one that required the two of them to sleep in shifts so that someone would always be awake to tend the candle left burning, and both of them had failed in their duty at least once already, nodding off to the sound of the other’s soft sleeping breath and waking to a candle snuffed out by its own melted essence. But whether or not it matched the time in the World they’d left behind, it helped them nonetheless to preserve some sense of order and routine and, less pleasantly, to count how long they had been exiled from the light. It was, by this crude accounting, about three o’clock in the afternoon when Norrell looked up from his book and spoke.
“We were in Padua, Mr. Strange!” He beamed across to where the younger magician sat in an armchair by the hearth, Eighteen Wonders to be found in the House of Albion1 upon his lap. “It is quite an accomplishment! I think we have reason to feel proud of our success.”
Strange smiled. It was not his usual boisterous grin or that sideways ironical quirk of the lips that he made sometimes when amused, but it was something, a beginning. He had been abnormally quiet for the two days since they had used the basin of water - and every ounce of their combined strength - to steer the darkness to Italy and communicate with Strange’s wife. Norrell had remained near enough to Strange to support the spell as long as possible, but he had made every effort not to eavesdrop upon the couple’s conversation and, indeed, he had very little idea of what had been said. The painful nature of it, however, was all too obvious in the way Strange had subsequently behaved: speaking in a few short, mumbled words if he spoke at all; turning the pages of books that his gaze barely touched, his concentration lost to distant vistas Norrell could not see. So for Strange’s sake Norrell had pretended to be oblivious of how the encounter had depressed his spirits, taking upon himself the mantle of insensitivity to try and rouse Strange from his melancholy, dwelling upon how pleased Strange should be by the very accomplishment of the act. Finally, that afternoon, Norrell had reason to hope that it was working.
“You are right, sir. I believe we should be pleased. Now that we are more certain of what to do I think we may expect our next attempt to be even more successful.”
Norrell looked down at the pen in his hand. It needed mending. All of his pens needed mending, a task he had always disliked, finding it tedious and time-consuming when a book waited to be read and notes waited to be taken. He had not had to mend his own pens in such a very long time. He ran the tip of a finger along the nib, counting up the years, and the thought took all of his feigned bluster away from him like an errant wind. For some time he could not attempt merriment again.
Then, twisting the pen in his fingers, Norrell looked back at Strange. “I wonder, Mr. Strange -- I wonder if it might be possible for us to make that second attempt this afternoon? If you feel strong enough, of course. There is -- there is someone I should very much like to communicate with, if I may.”
He was gripping the pen so tightly, he realized, that he risked snapping it, and so he placed it down beside his stack of foolscap and simply stared at it, remembering suddenly that it had come to him in autumn, from Scarborough, in a black box lined with tissue paper, set upon his desk atop a pile of dusty volumes purchased from the estate of an elderly shipwright. You’re in need of a new pen, sir, he’d said in that matter-of-fact, rough Yorkshire growl. There was enough left over after the books to get it, and I thought it would suit. And it had. Norrell shifted uncomfortably in his chair, anticipating the question that Strange would surely ask, dreading that in the necessity of answering it something might be wrung from him, something he was not yet ready to surrender.
But Strange had risen silently from his chair and had come to the desk, opening Pevensey to the correct page and nodding. He laid the open book beside the basin and went to fetch Doncaster from its shelf. “We will concentrate our efforts on York, I should think.”
Norrell looked up at Strange in surprise, but Strange was concentrating on the book as he brought it to the desk and did not meet Norrell’s gaze. “Yes.”
The relevant texts were soon laid out, open to the different spells they had used to achieve their journey to Padua and Strange’s appearance before Arabella. In truth, neither of them understood exactly how the spells combined to produce the desired effect: whether the Darkness were physically relocated or whether some astral copy of themselves was simply transported to the location they focused upon. Nonetheless it worked, and that - for the time being - was all that mattered. As Strange arranged the books, Norrell poured fresh water into the basin, splashing a bit more than usual upon its rim and the surrounding surface of the desk. His hand seemed to have developed an inconvenient tremor.
“As soon as we have recited the spells and come to York I will step out into the hall, as you did for me,” Strange told him. “I will do my best to sustain the spell as long as possible, so take as much time as you need.”
“Thank you, Mr. Strange.” Norrell found himself obliged to swallow down a knot of discomfort and he took a sip of water, his mouth suddenly gone dry. He tried not to look at Strange, but he was aware that the younger man was watching him.
“Mr. Norrell?”
“Yes?”
“Would you --" Now it was Strange who hesitated, wrestling with some uncertainty. “Would you ask him to look after my wife for me?”
Norrell met his gaze and slowly nodded. “I will, Mr. Strange. Most gladly.”
Strange smiled, a tight smile that seemed to take an inordinate amount of strength to fashion. “To York, then, sir?” he asked.
FILL: 'Through Fire and Water' - 1/3
Go through Fire and Water to serve you - Do anything even at personal cost and inconvenience. The reference is to the ancient ordeals by fire and water. - E. Cobham Brewer (1810-1897). Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 1898.
Strange had, by that day, calculated that it took about six hours to burn one of the beeswax candles completely, and so it was by this method that they kept track of the time in the Darkness. It was an inexact method to be sure, one that required the two of them to sleep in shifts so that someone would always be awake to tend the candle left burning, and both of them had failed in their duty at least once already, nodding off to the sound of the other’s soft sleeping breath and waking to a candle snuffed out by its own melted essence. But whether or not it matched the time in the World they’d left behind, it helped them nonetheless to preserve some sense of order and routine and, less pleasantly, to count how long they had been exiled from the light. It was, by this crude accounting, about three o’clock in the afternoon when Norrell looked up from his book and spoke.
“We were in Padua, Mr. Strange!” He beamed across to where the younger magician sat in an armchair by the hearth, Eighteen Wonders to be found in the House of Albion1 upon his lap. “It is quite an accomplishment! I think we have reason to feel proud of our success.”
Strange smiled. It was not his usual boisterous grin or that sideways ironical quirk of the lips that he made sometimes when amused, but it was something, a beginning. He had been abnormally quiet for the two days since they had used the basin of water - and every ounce of their combined strength - to steer the darkness to Italy and communicate with Strange’s wife. Norrell had remained near enough to Strange to support the spell as long as possible, but he had made every effort not to eavesdrop upon the couple’s conversation and, indeed, he had very little idea of what had been said. The painful nature of it, however, was all too obvious in the way Strange had subsequently behaved: speaking in a few short, mumbled words if he spoke at all; turning the pages of books that his gaze barely touched, his concentration lost to distant vistas Norrell could not see. So for Strange’s sake Norrell had pretended to be oblivious of how the encounter had depressed his spirits, taking upon himself the mantle of insensitivity to try and rouse Strange from his melancholy, dwelling upon how pleased Strange should be by the very accomplishment of the act. Finally, that afternoon, Norrell had reason to hope that it was working.
“You are right, sir. I believe we should be pleased. Now that we are more certain of what to do I think we may expect our next attempt to be even more successful.”
Norrell looked down at the pen in his hand. It needed mending. All of his pens needed mending, a task he had always disliked, finding it tedious and time-consuming when a book waited to be read and notes waited to be taken. He had not had to mend his own pens in such a very long time. He ran the tip of a finger along the nib, counting up the years, and the thought took all of his feigned bluster away from him like an errant wind. For some time he could not attempt merriment again.
Then, twisting the pen in his fingers, Norrell looked back at Strange. “I wonder, Mr. Strange -- I wonder if it might be possible for us to make that second attempt this afternoon? If you feel strong enough, of course. There is -- there is someone I should very much like to communicate with, if I may.”
He was gripping the pen so tightly, he realized, that he risked snapping it, and so he placed it down beside his stack of foolscap and simply stared at it, remembering suddenly that it had come to him in autumn, from Scarborough, in a black box lined with tissue paper, set upon his desk atop a pile of dusty volumes purchased from the estate of an elderly shipwright. You’re in need of a new pen, sir, he’d said in that matter-of-fact, rough Yorkshire growl. There was enough left over after the books to get it, and I thought it would suit. And it had. Norrell shifted uncomfortably in his chair, anticipating the question that Strange would surely ask, dreading that in the necessity of answering it something might be wrung from him, something he was not yet ready to surrender.
But Strange had risen silently from his chair and had come to the desk, opening Pevensey to the correct page and nodding. He laid the open book beside the basin and went to fetch Doncaster from its shelf. “We will concentrate our efforts on York, I should think.”
Norrell looked up at Strange in surprise, but Strange was concentrating on the book as he brought it to the desk and did not meet Norrell’s gaze. “Yes.”
The relevant texts were soon laid out, open to the different spells they had used to achieve their journey to Padua and Strange’s appearance before Arabella. In truth, neither of them understood exactly how the spells combined to produce the desired effect: whether the Darkness were physically relocated or whether some astral copy of themselves was simply transported to the location they focused upon. Nonetheless it worked, and that - for the time being - was all that mattered. As Strange arranged the books, Norrell poured fresh water into the basin, splashing a bit more than usual upon its rim and the surrounding surface of the desk. His hand seemed to have developed an inconvenient tremor.
“As soon as we have recited the spells and come to York I will step out into the hall, as you did for me,” Strange told him. “I will do my best to sustain the spell as long as possible, so take as much time as you need.”
“Thank you, Mr. Strange.” Norrell found himself obliged to swallow down a knot of discomfort and he took a sip of water, his mouth suddenly gone dry. He tried not to look at Strange, but he was aware that the younger man was watching him.
“Mr. Norrell?”
“Yes?”
“Would you --" Now it was Strange who hesitated, wrestling with some uncertainty. “Would you ask him to look after my wife for me?”
Norrell met his gaze and slowly nodded. “I will, Mr. Strange. Most gladly.”
Strange smiled, a tight smile that seemed to take an inordinate amount of strength to fashion. “To York, then, sir?” he asked.
Norrell took a deep, steadying breath. “To York.”
1By Francis Pevensey