So life continued in that fashion. They were happy, of course they were, they still had each other and that was more than either of them had expected from life. And yet, there was this sadness that Arabella sensed in her husband, that he seemed unable to shake, no matter how much he threw himself back into his old life.

They attended parties with all sorts of important and interesting people and would have the most wonderful time, but, inevitably, one of them would eventually mention Mr Norrell. Jonathan would spin one tale or another, they were still in correspondence, he sees him frequently and even, once, with an airy little laugh, “we spent what felt like a hundred years together, we had become rather sick of the sight of one another!”

But this would make Jonathan sad for the rest of the night and he would brood well into the morning as well.

Arabella was becoming more and more frustrated at him and she frequently brought up the subject of Norrell visiting them here in Shropshire. This would lead to an argument and end in Jonathan scuttling away and hiding until he was certain she would not mention it again.

He had entirely forgotten that Arabella was not so easily deterred.

“I don’t understand why you are being so daft about this,” she said, infuriated after another similar argument.

“I am not being daft!” replied Jonathan, highly offended that she (or anyone) would think him daft. “You are merely being quarrelsome, as usual.”


Jonathan once again became much sought after by various politicians, eager for him to advise them on this matter or that. It seemed that, despite there being a wealth of people now practising magic, Jonathan was still considered a sort of elder statesman amongst magicians. This seemed to improve Jonathan’s mood, being useful again, employed and able to throw himself back into the magic that he so loved. He would awake in the morning with a new sense of purpose before heading off to an important meeting, or answering an urgent letter. In the end they even made the decision to return to London, so he could be closer to the corridors of power.

It pleased Arabella greatly, to see her husband back to his old self, running himself ragged and enjoying every moment of it.

It wasn’t until the evenings that something changed in Jonathan. Much had been written on the subject of magic during his four years away, and he was keen to catch up on all of it, but he seemed completely unable to focus on any book that he picked up. When Arabella looked up at him from her own reading, instead of seeing him engrossed in his, she would see him staring out the window at the darkness outside.

“Would you like me to draw the curtains,” she had said one night, thinking that maybe it disturbed him.

“No, do not,” he replied, “I find something rather soothing about it.” He went on to explain that in Faerie it was always dark, that it had taken him some time to get used to the sun again. “I love to feel the sun on my face once more,” he continued, “but at night I feel rather comforted by the darkness.”

Arabella said that she understood, that Jonathan had explained it perfectly.

“Tell me what is wrong,” she said after a few minutes of looking at him, watching him stare out the window as though he had lost something out there. “Please, I can’t bear it any longer. You might not want to admit it, but you are very sad, and I do not want you to be sad.”

She felt like crying for him. Indeed, she may have done.

“I would explain it if I could, but believe me when I say I can’t.” It was honest at least. “There are very good reasons that Norrell and I made the decision that we did. The last thing I would want is to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? Why would you hurt me?” Arabella wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. Something niggled at her from the back of her mind; a growing awareness that she felt at the base of her skull. It felt like the answer was there but she could not quite reach it. She had felt this before, this sensation of almost knowing something, like something you see in a dream that you can’t quite recall when waking.

Jonathan looked at her pleadingly. “Please, Bell, ask no more.”

And after that she didn’t mention it again.


One day, after Jonathan had kissed her goodbye and headed to Westminster, Arabella got it into her head to read the book that Jonathan had been struggling with. She had not taken the great interest in magic before Jonathan’s disappearance, merely kept up with the ideas her husband had like any good wife should. Time spent alone or in the company of her friends, she had discovered her own fascination with magic increased. Maybe she had found Flora’s enthusiasm infectious, but she had read much upon the subject and found herself quite engrossed. She thought she may even be able to practice a little, with Jonathan’s help.

He had left the book on his desk in the study, which was littered with unanswered letters, half answered letters, answers that he had not posted, notes that he had torn up in frustration. He really was the most untidy man.

The book was underneath a letter from the Prime Minister. It looked rather odd; distorted in some way. She picked it up and only noticed the paper stuffed inside when it fell out and slid onto the desk, scattering amongst the others. Thinking they must be notes on the book, she started to collect them all up again to put them back. She stopped when she spied Mr Norrell’s name, written in Jonathan’s erratic scrawl.

She knew that she shouldn’t look. Really, she shouldn’t. They were private, hidden even. Still it seemed entirely reasonable that she should read the notes. Maybe they could tell her what he had been unable to.

And she was so very right.

They were not notes, however. They were unsent letters; undated and with no address, so they were clearly never meant to be sent. She read and reread over and over again until she was giddy.

My Dear Norrell,

I know we said that it would be best not to contact each other, but I can’t help but regret those words with each passing day. How I wish I could go back and unsay them. I have a feeling that you are of the same mind.

Life now is exactly what I wished, better even, for I find that I love Arabella as much as I ever did, if not more. Perhaps I love her more for having missed her so dearly. I am happy. For the most part.

I find that I miss you more than I can tolerate. It makes perfect sense after all those years spent together and everything that we have been to each other that I am finding it difficult to move on with my life, to try and live as I had before.

I love you. And I don’t know how to live with the prospect of never seeing you again. There, I have admitted it. I hope that I can get some peace from having finally expressing my feelings.

I would ask you to write back, but I know I will never post this letter.

All my love,

Jonathan.


My Dear Norrell,

Weeks have gone by since our return and I hope you are well. I am still wonderfully happy at home with my wife, even though I still miss you and long to have you with me once more. I feel so conflicted, to be at once so happy and yet so miserable. It seems rather selfish that I should want everything, when I already have what many people do not.

I feel horribly guilty about feeling this way. That I have such a happy life and such love and yet I long for more. I know it would hurt Arabella terribly if she found out that I am also in love with another, and that their absence makes me so unhappy. I feel as though a part of me is missing and I do not have anyone to confide in.

I think I am writing this as a way to say all the things I cannot say to you or my wife. It must be, for I am never going to send it.

All my love,

Jonathan.


My Dear Norrell,

So many things have happened in the past two months. I have been much in demand, quite like old times and I find that it is good to be practicing magic again, to be useful once more. It is also good to see that even after all that has happened, my opinion is still well regarded. I am glad to be busy.

I find the nights intolerable. Do you feel the same? The darkness reminds me so much of you now, of our time together. Time spent by candlelight, together. I miss your closeness, the scent of you, the feel of you in my arms. It feels scandalous to write it, and that is not even the most scandalous part! I still feel so unfaithful, thinking of our time together when I am sat with my wife. I do not regret anything we did, I had thought I would never see Arabella again, and my love for you is something I shall never regret.

And a very selfish part of me is hoping that you are thinking about me too, although I cannot stand the thought of you being lonely. I suppose I shall never know how you feel.

All my love,

Jonathan.

There were a dozen more, all expressing the same thoughts. Some were rather funny, like Jonathan catching up with an old friend, but most of them were decidedly romantic in nature, verging on risqué in some respects. Certainly nothing she could have imagined Jonathan writing to his old tutor.

It started to get dark, but Arabella read, even though it strained her eyes. There was a strange sensation in her stomach, something that resembled pain but wasn’t nearly as keen. Something like sympathy maybe, that dull throb you feel when someone tells you a sad story. She had known this all along. That feeling in the back of her mind that had for some time lurked just out of her grasp, this was it. Jonathan’s sadness, the thing he couldn’t tell her about, the thing he thought would hurt her. This was it and deep down, she had always known it.

When she looked up from the letters she saw Jonathan standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway.

“Oh, Jonathan.”