The whole trouble was Mr Strange trying Ormskirk again. He would certainly not have condoned it, pointing out that Ormskirk was erratic at the best of times, and this Faerie prison was certainly not the best of times. But he had to admit that the unpromising Ormskirk was one of the few authors whose work had been left in sufficient quantities.
It was a few weeks since the somewhat apocalyptic events which had bereaved Mr Norrell of his books and Mr Strange of his wife. The chaos of ravens had left rocking, windblown heaps of feathers and pages around the library.
He, of course, was most unhappy. Mr Strange had managed to attain contact, of a sort, with his wife, but had merely set her free with the most tender nobility imaginable, so that she should be happy. He himself could never imagine letting go of his home and library, or of whatever fragment he retained of Mr Strange's esteem, even though he realised it was the right thing to do. It simply wouldn't be fair for Mr Strange to get what he wanted, but not him.
In the first week both felt relief and joy; in Mr Strange's case, presumably, that such a gregarious person as himself was not reduced to utter solitude; in his own, a bittersweet awareness that at least he had not ruined it all for ungrudging friendship, if nothing more. He loved the friendship, he did, the warmth and ungrudging kindness unspoilt by the difference in station that had made Childermass impatient with his minor crotchets and troubles.
After that, embarrassment slowly crept in. Mainly on Mr Norrell's own part, particularly the part which had been merrily misinterpreting such careless phrases as "Oh, I imagine we should both rub along together tolerably well," from Mr Strange.
Mr Strange seemed to be trying to work out why his conversation was suddenly reducing an eminently-respectable middle-aged magician to squeaks and blushes. Luckily this was not successful.
The night (if it was night) Mr Strange interrupted Mr Norrell's post-prandial doze over the ten pages of the Sutton-Grove remaining to him, with a terse, "Sir? Sir, you must see this!", Mr Norrell sighed, "Oh, very well."
Changing places? Discovering the right place? Well, it was indicative of something. He felt a small, grudging ache in his heart at the thought of going home. He would lose what he had of Jonathan, and he had never entirely possessed Childermass, particularly the way he had occasionally dreamed of both of them. Especially now, in the added intimacy of Mr Strange and himself being not only the only magicians but the only human men for uncountable miles (saving only the Nameless King, whose beauty was undeniable but whose concerns were far more involved with Faerie than humanity).
It took them a few weeks to gather the paraphernalia for the spell. It would have been much quicker anywhere in Christendom. Here it was necessary to check for inimical possibilities or disasters (where any bird, any fox, any tree might be a hidden Faerie, or answer to one).
Mr Strange did the standing about singing to trees, because in some way Mr Norrell did not entirely comprehend, his experiences in the war had often involved woodland. Mr Strange had laughed and said, "It's a good job they've forgiven me for some of the tricks I played on them on the Peninsula."
"Mr Strange, those are not the same trees!"
"Not in our terms, perhaps, but I saw enough of the unexplained over there to realise that forest can speak to forest about dangers. They live long enough to carry a grudge, but they can be surprisingly forgiving." He made a long and fairly elegant leg, with every sign of deference, to a rowan (one of the few trees loyal to humans more than to Faerie).
Mr Norrell himself came up with an epitome of home. One part was a cover from one of the ruined books (a duplicated copy of Martin Pale, which mutely reproached him for how many books he had destroyed over the years to keep them from undesirables), and there was an old wig that he remembered settling on him more cosily than his own hair. He did feel (still) so exposed without going from daily wig to evening nightcap, though.
Mr Strange's choice was one of his better colourful waistcoats and a piece of mirror-frame. Mr Norrell found the latter dubious, but Mr Strange said, "For quite a while mirrors were my way to step between worlds. It exposed me to dangers, but we need something to symbolise that step."
Sniffing crossly (the way he did when he didn't want to admit Mr Strange had a point), Mr Norrell had to admit they needed something of the sort. He liked being implicitly included in the "we".
Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 1/9
The whole trouble was Mr Strange trying Ormskirk again. He would certainly not have condoned it, pointing out that Ormskirk was erratic at the best of times, and this Faerie prison was certainly not the best of times. But he had to admit that the unpromising Ormskirk was one of the few authors whose work had been left in sufficient quantities.
It was a few weeks since the somewhat apocalyptic events which had bereaved Mr Norrell of his books and Mr Strange of his wife. The chaos of ravens had left rocking, windblown heaps of feathers and pages around the library.
He, of course, was most unhappy. Mr Strange had managed to attain contact, of a sort, with his wife, but had merely set her free with the most tender nobility imaginable, so that she should be happy. He himself could never imagine letting go of his home and library, or of whatever fragment he retained of Mr Strange's esteem, even though he realised it was the right thing to do. It simply wouldn't be fair for Mr Strange to get what he wanted, but not him.
In the first week both felt relief and joy; in Mr Strange's case, presumably, that such a gregarious person as himself was not reduced to utter solitude; in his own, a bittersweet awareness that at least he had not ruined it all for ungrudging friendship, if nothing more. He loved the friendship, he did, the warmth and ungrudging kindness unspoilt by the difference in station that had made Childermass impatient with his minor crotchets and troubles.
After that, embarrassment slowly crept in. Mainly on Mr Norrell's own part, particularly the part which had been merrily misinterpreting such careless phrases as "Oh, I imagine we should both rub along together tolerably well," from Mr Strange.
Mr Strange seemed to be trying to work out why his conversation was suddenly reducing an eminently-respectable middle-aged magician to squeaks and blushes. Luckily this was not successful.
The night (if it was night) Mr Strange interrupted Mr Norrell's post-prandial doze over the ten pages of the Sutton-Grove remaining to him, with a terse, "Sir? Sir, you must see this!", Mr Norrell sighed, "Oh, very well."
Changing places? Discovering the right place? Well, it was indicative of something. He felt a small, grudging ache in his heart at the thought of going home. He would lose what he had of Jonathan, and he had never entirely possessed Childermass, particularly the way he had occasionally dreamed of both of them. Especially now, in the added intimacy of Mr Strange and himself being not only the only magicians but the only human men for uncountable miles (saving only the Nameless King, whose beauty was undeniable but whose concerns were far more involved with Faerie than humanity).
It took them a few weeks to gather the paraphernalia for the spell. It would have been much quicker anywhere in Christendom. Here it was necessary to check for inimical possibilities or disasters (where any bird, any fox, any tree might be a hidden Faerie, or answer to one).
Mr Strange did the standing about singing to trees, because in some way Mr Norrell did not entirely comprehend, his experiences in the war had often involved woodland. Mr Strange had laughed and said, "It's a good job they've forgiven me for some of the tricks I played on them on the Peninsula."
"Mr Strange, those are not the same trees!"
"Not in our terms, perhaps, but I saw enough of the unexplained over there to realise that forest can speak to forest about dangers. They live long enough to carry a grudge, but they can be surprisingly forgiving." He made a long and fairly elegant leg, with every sign of deference, to a rowan (one of the few trees loyal to humans more than to Faerie).
Mr Norrell himself came up with an epitome of home. One part was a cover from one of the ruined books (a duplicated copy of Martin Pale, which mutely reproached him for how many books he had destroyed over the years to keep them from undesirables), and there was an old wig that he remembered settling on him more cosily than his own hair. He did feel (still) so exposed without going from daily wig to evening nightcap, though.
Mr Strange's choice was one of his better colourful waistcoats and a piece of mirror-frame. Mr Norrell found the latter dubious, but Mr Strange said, "For quite a while mirrors were my way to step between worlds. It exposed me to dangers, but we need something to symbolise that step."
Sniffing crossly (the way he did when he didn't want to admit Mr Strange had a point), Mr Norrell had to admit they needed something of the sort. He liked being implicitly included in the "we".