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Jonathan Strange was in love.
This was a rather new and exciting revelation. And, well, somewhat unsettling, for a wide variety of reasons. His marriage might be one had he not come to his agreement with Arabella the last time he had seen her, but as it stands, he fully expected her to continue with her life until and unless they return, and his intention was to do the same. No, his conscience was quite clear on the subject of his marriage.
The unsettling part was that it was with Mr Norrell that he was in love.
Quite aside from Mr Norrell's unsuitability for romantic sentiments - which was a formidable obstacle to Strange's comfort with the notion of being in love with him - there was the fact that he was Strange's only companion in this Pillar, so that if Strange spoke he would run the risk of entirely alienating Mr Norrell should he not be reciprocate Strange's feelings. If this were to happen, the consequences could be severe. Alone in Faerie, who knew what might happen to them?
However, Strange had never been one to shrink back from risk, and so, consequently, he had conceived a scheme.
After all, he had managed to woo Arabella. That had been some time ago, and of course Norrell was a different person, but he was reasonably confident that the general approach was the same regardless of the individual, even if one had to adjust the specifics. After all, people were people and love was love. And he knew Mr Norrell well enough that he ought to be able to transfer his methods successfully.
Yes, the scheme was a good one. He was certain of it.
-
Gilbert Norrell was in love.
This had, of course, been true for some considerable amount of time. Indeed, he had a sinking feeling that it had been so for well over ten years now.
He preferred not to contemplate this fact. It was most terribly undignified to think that one has been in love with a married man for virtually the entire span of your acquaintance with him, including a period of time in which he was your mortal enemy. In general, therefore, he did not consider the timing or circumstances of his falling in love.
The important thing, in any case, was the present moment. Mr Norrell had frequently heard Strange discuss his new arrangement with his wife, generally in what Mr Norrell thought of as a "look at how noble I am" context, although he was not at all sure Strange meant it this way. Regardless, he was sure that Strange now considered himself to have a certain degree of liberty in romantic matters. This gave him a significantly better chance of obtaining Strange's favor than he had had in their entire period of acquaintance.
This was not an opportunity to be wasted. It was true that they were in a foreign land, but there was no way of knowing how long Strange might remain at liberty; for all he knew, the man would fall in love with a fairy the next time they stopped at a kingdom. It was exactly the sort of reckless thing he would do, Mr Norrell felt (and it must be said that the degree of fondness which accompanied this thought was not negligible, though he would not admit it).
He had, in his usual fashion, laid out a plan of action. He had very little experience in romantic affairs, but a fair amount of experience in Strange, and therefore he was confident in his plan.
It was logical. Of this he was positive.
-
It was always best, Strange felt, to start small in these matters. He wished to effect a closer relationship with Mr Norrell; hence, he would start by calling him by his Christian name. He had not done anything like this with the women of his acquaintance, but it would hardly have been proper for him to refer to an unmarried woman by her first name unless they were on very intimate terms indeed. With Mr Norrell - with Gilbert, he supposed - using the first name would only serve to indicate the closeness of their friendship. Once Mr Norrell was contemplating this, perhaps he might turn his thoughts in more romantic directions.
He watched very carefully for an opportunity to do this. The moment had to be perfectly correct; during an argument it would only seem like teazing, and during a casual moment it might seem jarring. No, the moment had to be one already intimate in nature.
This moment came when a lizard entered the breakfast-room one morning while Strange and Mr Norrell were eating.
How the lizard got there neither of them could be entirely sure. It was certain, however, that it was a very odd sort of lizard. It was large and an ugly brick red, with two tails and visible teeth. It was, in consequence, no wonder that Mr Norrell took a fright.
"Mr Strange," said Mr Norrell, drawing his legs up onto his chair against his chest with surprizing agility for a man of his age, "There is a lizard!"
"I see it, Mr Norrell," said Strange. In truth, he was not wholly fond of the look of the thing either. The teeth were worrying him. But he refused to draw his legs up. It would not have been a good shewing for a man who had been at war.
"Do something about it, Mr Strange!" cried Mr Norrell. "It is spoiling the atmosphere of breakfast!"
Strange sighed to himself. But he had long ago resigned himself to being the one who dealt with entities Mr Norrell classed as dirty, a category which included spiders, insects of varying sorts, mice, and a wide variety of peculiar and mysterious fairy-creatures which were most exceedingly unpleasant to look at.
He rose and fetched a piece of paper and an empty tea-cup with which to trap the creature.
As he advanced, Mr Norrell rose and stood behind him. Strange glanced behind to see him peering over his shoulder at the creature, standing on tip-toes so as to see around Strange without having to relinquish him as a shield.
As they both crept slowly closer, however, the lizard gave a sudden and frightening leap into the air. Mr Norrell made a sound of terror in the back of his throat, and Strange jerked backwards, colliding with Mr Norrell and knocking him over.
"I beg your pardon!" began Mr Norrell indignantly, but this turned into another terrified noise when he realized that the lizard was right beside his hand. He scrambled to his feet and collided with Strange, who was nearly knocked over himself, but managed to right himself. He caught hold of Mr Norrell to prevent him overbalancing as well, and found that suddenly, his arms were around him.
There was a long pause as they both realized this at the same time.
"I - I am sorry - " began Mr Norrell.
"You nearly fell again," said Strange, not letting him go.
"I am afraid I have never had a good sense of balance," said Mr Norrell. He was making no move to get out of Strange's arms, and Strange realized this would be the perfect moment.
"I have noticed," said Strange. "My dear Gilbert." He began to move one hand upwards to touch Mr Norrell's face, but Mr Norrell jerked back upon hearing his Christian name, shaking himself loose from Strange's embrace.
"I beg your pardon," he said again, though the effect of wounded dignity was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he kept glancing towards the lizard, trying to anticipate if it would move again.
"I am sorry?" said Strange.
"You addressed me by my first name."
"Oh," said Strange as if he had not done so with the utmost purposefulness. "I suppose I did. It must have slipped out."
Mr Norrell frowned. "I would thank you not to do so again."
"Well, I am sorry if I have given you offense, but why on earth not?" Strange looked through his lashes at Mr Norrell, employing his very best earnest and pleading look, which in the past had made ladies of his acquaintance melt. "I call many of my friends by their Christian names, you know."
"I am not fond of my own," said Mr Norrell. "It has unpleasant associations."
"Oh," said Strange. "I am sorry. I did not intend to cause offense."
"Yes. Well. Now you know."
"Indeed I do."
There was another long pause. "You could call me Jonathan," Strange ventured.
Mr Norrell gave him a puzzled frown. "Why should I do so, if you are to continue to address me by my surname?"
"Well, we are friends."
Mr Norrell looked down at his hands, back up, and then down again rapidly. Strange found it peculiarly endearing that even this much of a declaration of affection seemed to embarrass him. "I should not like that," said Mr Norrell finally. "No, I do not think it would be proper. Not if you are to continue to address me as you were."
"Just as you wish, sir," said Strange. "I will go and be sure that the lizard is captured if you will retire to the drawing room so that you need not face any more exposure to it."
"Thank you, Mr Strange."
When Norrell turned away, Strange made a face.
He had been so close!
-
Mr Norrell was no great expert in romantic behaviors. He had read no novels, and listened to few songs. However, he was aware that people made each other things. Small items of food, and so forth. Therefore, he had determined that the best route to Strange's heart was to make him breakfast.
Strange was very fond of the following things: boiled eggs, toast, tea, marmalade, and bacon. Mr Norrell had not been unable to procure bacon qua bacon here in Faerie, for it seemed that they were not immensely fond of keeping pigs for slaughter. Neither Strange nor Mr Norrell had thus far seen so much as a single pig, although they had often searched, Strange having expressed an opinion that they might keep livestock. This was an idea repugnant to Mr Norrell, who thought of livestock as very dirty and unconducive to the proper hygiene of a gentleman. Fortunately, this passion had been one of Strange's brief flights of fancy, and they sought no more pigs or chickens or any other type of animal. This did, however, mean that their main source of food now was the fairy markets.
Certain items in Mr Norrell's pantry replenished themselves - eggs, tea, bread, and a few other such staples - which Mr Norrell assumed was part of the spell, to prevent them from dying early and thereby ending their torment of 100 years of solitude and darkness. These things became very dull after a while, however, and thus it was that Mr Norrell and Strange had come by degrees to the fairy markets. Here they purchased foods that the pantry did not provide. Among these items they had found some sort of cured meat which Mr Norrell supposed would do for bacon. It would have to.
Everything else needed for the breakfast, the pantry would provide, except the marmalade. This Mr Norrell was put to some trouble to acquire. They had not had any in some time, because three months ago when they had attempted to purchase jam from a fairy-market it had tasted of regrets and broken promises and both of them had been ill for several hours.
This time Mr Norrell had gone to a different fairy-market and obtained some marmalade. It was an odd colour, not so much orange as...well, in fact it was orange, but not of a shade Mr Norrell recalled seeing before, which was very odd.
Nevertheless, Mr Norrell was determined to persist. He cooked the breakfast as best he could. The boiling-time of the eggs was a matter of some uncertainty, for he could not find in his library a book which told him how long he ought to cook them for. He did his best. The cured meat was a similarly fraught issue; Mr Norrell felt it best to cook it for as long as possible for fear some injurious influence should otherwise remain, but it did look blacker than it ought by the time he was done.
Toast was easier; it only required the fire and a toasting-fork. It took him several tries to get the time correct, but he did it in the end and managed to turn out two perfect slices of golden-brown bread, with which he was exceedingly pleased.
Tea, of course, was the simplest matter in the world. He had been making tea for himself ever since they had entered the Pillar, because Strange persisted in making it far too strong.
Mr Norrell thought about this fact, and with it in mind carefully left the tea to steep for an additional thirty seconds, by his pocket-watch.
He considered taking the breakfast to Strange in his room, but decided that this was unwise. Heaven only knew what sort of state Strange might be in.
Instead he waited anxiously for Strange to come down to the breakfast room. He did so not very much later, for Mr Norrell was a careful observer of Strange's routine and generally correct in his assessment regarding the time he would arise.
"Good morning, Mr Norrell," said Strange, sitting down at the table. "What is this? I have never seen you eat boiled eggs for breakfast."
"I made them for you, sir," said Mr Norrell, pushing the tray towards him. "Here."
Strange looked astonished. "Indeed? Well, thank you." He took up the tea to pour himself some.
"I see you have made it very...delicate," said Strange, peering into his cup.
"I steeped it for longer in deference to your sensibilities," said Mr Norrell.
"Indeed. Yes. Thank you." Strange looked at the tea for a moment, and then sipped it. His face seemed to be doing some rather unusual things, but Mr Norrell could not tell what they were meant to indicate. His certainty in the logic of his plan was quickly evaporating.
Strange picked up a slice of the meat that was almost bacon and bit into it. It crunched so loudly that Mr Norrell heard it across the table quite clearly.
Perhaps he had gone too far with his caution in that regard. He was certain bacon was not meant to crunch so loudly, even fairy-bacon.
Strange set the piece of meat down and picked up an egg thoughtfully. He rolled it against the table to crack it, and raised his eyebrows when some goo trickled out.
"I apologise," he said, "I did not realize they were soft-boiled."
"They were not meant to be," mumbled Mr Norrell, feeling increasingly nervous about the breakfast. But Strange did not say any thing more, only picked up a piece of toast.
"Ah," he said, relief evident in his tone, "This is very fine-looking toast." His eyes alighted on the marmalade, and lit up.
"This is a surprize indeed!" he said, spreading some on his toast. "Where on earth did you find marmalade?"
"At a fairy-market," said Mr Norrell.
Strange bit into the toast and said, "Yes, it is excellent toast. Done just right." Then his face did something odd again, although odd in a different way from previously. He suddenly looked profoundly sad.
Mr Norrell was certain that the toast was not nearly sufficiently bad as to induce this effect. He said, "Mr Strange, are you quite well?"
Strange's face only grew sadder. "Sir," he choked, "I believe this marmalade to be flavored with homesickness and longing for the past. For I have never wished for England and my wife more than I do at this moment."
Mr Norrell stared at him. Tears were brimming in Strange's eyes, and his whole attitude spoke of despair and longing. He had no idea what to do, or how to comfort Strange; all he could do was look on in bewilderment.
"If you will excuse me," said Strange, rising, "I feel I must be alone until this wears off."
Mr Norrell opened his mouth to form some apology and found he had no idea what to say. Strange was gone before he could form any words.
By the time all was said and done, it was the most miserable breakfast either of them could recall in a year, and Mr Norrell was no closer to Strange's affections than he had been. Indeed, he was perhaps further, since Strange had been reminded so vividly of his wife.
It was back to planning, then.
-
After that, Strange thought a poem might be the thing. He had in fact, wooed Arabella with a poem. It had been a riddle-poem, full of sideways puns on her name and sly yet favorable references to her appearance, not a strictly romantic one; Arabella did not object to romantic gestures by any means, but she liked them to be clever ones, and he had spent a long time in making sure that the poem was just according to her sense of humor. Ever since then riddle-poems had been one of the most important ways he demonstrated his affection to her, and he had grown quite good at them.
But Mr Norrell was not good at riddles, and would likely take any slyness as clear evidence of mockery (Strange recalled the debacle about the name with a wince). Therefore, a proper romantic love poem was the thing. There could be no mistaking that.
Strange did not, strictly speaking, know how to write a proper romantic love poem, but he was certain he could undertake it with some research. Now that the Pillar encompassed his house as well as Mr Norrell's, he hand his own books with him. He owned several volumes of excellent poetry, and he determined to find a poet whose style he could learn from.
Not Byron. Certainly not Byron. But there would be others.
Unfortunately, one day when he was deeply ensconced in his study with several books, trying to puzzle out a rhyme for 'your eyes' and idly tossing around whether Mr Norrell's eyes were, in fact, quite the same shade of blue-grey as stormy skies, which was the first thing that had occurred to him, the man himself walked into his study.
Or, to be more accurate, he knocked very gently on the door, as was his habit, so that Strange could hardly hear him. He was far too absorbed to pay attention.
There followed more knocking, and then the door creaked open.
"Mr Strange," said Mr Norrell through a crack in the door.
"Yes, Mr Norrell," said Strange, looking up from his poem and far too consumed with thoughts of scansion to pay attention to what was happening.
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
Mr Norrell entered with a pen in hand. "I was wondering if I might obtain your thoughts on the king we visited the other day," he said.
"When I am finished with this I will gladly help you," said Strange absently. He frowned at the paper and realized his nib needed mending and indeed probably had for the last three lines, which were now ink-splattered. That would not do, it would upset Mr Norrell's sensitivities. Oh, well, it was only a draft.
Mr Norrell had shuffled closer while he was contemplating this. Strange looked up to find him gazing with the utmost curiosity at the books on his desk.
"I have not seen those before," said Mr Norrell. "Are they books of magic?"
"Er," said Strange, suddenly aware of his peril. He moved to shuffle the sheet of paper under some others on the desk, but it was wet and he did not wish to smudge it. By the time he had decided to place it into a drawer, Mr Norrell's attention had already been attracted to it.
"Are you writing love poetry?" asked Mr Norrell. He pronounced this term with the utmost bewilderment and disgust.
Strange looked down at the books in front of him, and the paper beside him, and decided there was no good denying it.
"Yes," he said, meeting Mr Norrell's gaze.
"What on Earth for?" asked Mr Norrell, frowning. "Do you hope to be able to contact your wife again?"
Strange opened his mouth to say something, but found he was so thunderstruck by Mr Norrell's assumption that he could not quite make out what he wanted to say. It was not an easy task to explain that this poem was not to be for Arabella, but for Mr Norrell himself. Strange could not imagine what the reaction might be.
Unfortunately, taking his silence for guilt, Mr Norrell continued. "I know that my, er, attempts with breakfast have brought her to the forefront of your mind, for which I apologise."
Strange grimaced at the memory, but said, "You were not to know, sir. There is nothing to apologise for."
"Indeed. Well. I do realize how difficult it is for you to be parted from her - " This Strange rather doubted, as Mr Norrell had never shewn the slightest inclination towards marriage and was hardly likely to have any clew how missing a wife felt - "But I believe that concocting a stable spell would be much more of a priority." He frowned. "Love poetry is a waste of paper, sir."
"Come now," said Strange. "You cannot believe that entirely."
"I do. I very much do." Mr Norrell shook his head. "It is a waste of words and energies that could be better applied to scholarly pursuits." He peered over at Strange. "I should think that researching how to get us out of this Darkness would take priority over poems."
Strange, stung, said, "Poems have their place in maintaining the proper balance of the human psyche. We must have space to express our feelings as well as our intellects."
Mr Norrell pursed his lips. "All the same, I think it is not a good use of your time," he said, and shook his head again. "No, I cannot approve of it. We have a limited store of paper, you know, and it is difficult to obtain replacements. There is no good in spending it upon frivolities."
Strange watched as Mr Norrell went out of the room. He sighed loudly and crumpled the paper up into a ball. There was no use in it now. Even if presented with a poem crafted with the utmost delicacy and care, Mr Norrell would probably just sniff about how Strange could have used the paper for spellwork, or notes on Fairy. It was most dreadfully ungrateful.
-
The next attempt Mr Norrell ventured was much more obvious. The idea was a simple one: to write some sort of love-spell on a piece of paper and leave it where Strange was likely to notice. In theory, Strange would realize that it was thoroughly out of keeping with Mr Norrell's usual sort of spell, and take it as a message.
From there he was not quite sure where the conversation might go, but he was hopeful that it would be in suitably romantic directions. Mr Norrell was not very good at talking about such things, but Strange was, and perhaps once he realized he might take action so that Mr Norrell would not have to.
Mr Norrell did not consider love-spells to be proper magic nor worthy of his attention, so he had very few relevant books. There was, however, a volume of French love-spells which he had recieved by accident and which Childermass had translated for him. These would have to do.
He went and got the book, which sat on a shelf in his library that he reserved for very unimportant and/or particularly useless books. He had not sent it back, and he could not now remember why. Mr Norrell himself did not read French well - he had never prioritised it, not when there were so many dead languages to learn. He could struggle along vaguely in medieval French, with his combined knowledge of Middle English and Latin, but certainly not well enough to accurately translate spells, in which precise wording was of the utmost importance. But, he recalled, with Childermass's rather good modern French they had managed well.
Could Strange read French? He thought he might be able to. He could certainly speak Spanish, and he had a French dictionary; Mr Norrell remembered seeing it (Mr Norrell had an excellent memory for books), so perhaps he might be able make it out. Mr Norrell thought perhaps if he copied the spell in French, it might prove sufficient a puzzle as to capture Strange's interest.
When he looked through the book, there was a spell titled "for Attracting Someone's Attention". This, Mr Norrell decided, would be the best choice.
He fetched a piece of paper and sat down with the book and a pen, writing in his smallest, neatest handwriting. Several times he made an error and had to begin again, for he would not allow this to be sloppy work.
His pen scratched over the page, leaving tiny straight rows of handwriting, until at last he was finished to his satisfaction. He examined it carefully as the ink dried. There were no misspellings, and the penmanship was perfectly legible. It would do.
When it had dried, Mr Norrell folded the paper carefully into quarters, and took it with him to the library. Strange was not there; he had gone up for bed while Mr Norrell wrote. This was perfectly satisfactory, for the book he had been reading was still sitting upon the table he favored with a bookmark stuck in it. This habit Mr Norrell had induced in him with much lecturing, for he was in the habit of using any little object he could find as a bookmark,or even creasing the spines by leaving the book face-down if he could not find any thing. Mr Norrell had cured him of this appalling habit when he had first come to be apprenticed to him, but he seemed to have resumed it after the period of their acquaintanceship had ended, and he and Mr Norrell had had many arguments on the subject during the first few months of their confinement.
Mr Norrell picked up the book and looked approvingly at the bookmark. Then he stuck the folded spell into the book a few pages later, where Strange would certainly discover it.
Satisfied, he went up to bed.
The next day happened just as he had suspected it would. Or, at least, up to a point. Strange came into the library today, and resumed his book. Mr Norrell immediately left off reading and watched him over the top of his book, which he kept up in order to disguise his activities. Strange was a fast reader; he soon finished the four pages between himself and the spell. He flipped to the next page, and discovered it lodged into the crease between pages and binding.
"What is this?" he muttered. It was, Mr Norrell had noticed, his wont to talk to himself when he was reading. He unfolded the paper and his eyebrows raised as he peered at it.
"Mr Norrell," he said, "What do you make of this? It is a spell in French."
"Is it indeed?" said Mr Norrell. "In one of my books?"
"Yes. Can you read French?"
"Not, er, very well," said Mr Norrell. "Can you?"
"Somewhat. At least, I learned at school, and I suppose I must see how much I can recall." Strange put the spell down. "Give me a moment." He left the room and returned shortly with the dictionary Mr Norrell remembered seeing before.
Mr Norrell buried his face in his book and read ferociously without really taking in any of the words in front of him.
For a while, there was only the sound of Strange muttering quietly as he translated the spell. Periodically, he would let out a "ha!" and Mr Norrell could not tell if this was triumph or some variety of scorn. It was exceedingly nerve-wracking.
After a while, Strange said, "It seems to be a love spell."
"Indeed?" Mr Norrell managed, keeping his eyes on his book.
"Yes. It says it is a spell for attracting someone's attention."
"How very peculiar."
"Yes," said Strange, "And the worst of it is that it is not very competent."
Mr Norrell looked up to find Strange scowling at the piece of paper. He said, "I know, sir, that love spells are hardly within the area of your interest."
"That is true," acknowledged Mr Norrell, heart in his mouth.
"But you can still appreciate a piece of work as good or bad when you see it, can you not?"
In truth Mr Norrell did not think much of the spells in the book, but he had not realized this would be what Strange would focus on.
Strange continued, "There is a great deal of unnecessary nonsense in it. Look, calling on saints and so forth - you have the utmost scorn for that, I know." He gestured impatiently. "Come and see this, Mr Norrell."
With a distinct feeling that the situation had slipped out of his control again, Mr Norrell went and peered at the spell. "It is certainly not very well-made," he admitted. "The work is very sloppy."
"Quite. Now, personally, I think that if you took this invocation out and added the general one of intent used in Bloodworth's spells, the result would be much neater. And then you could - "
"Bloodworth?" Mr Norrell said. He frowned. "No, no. I do not think that would do at all. It is Lanchester that we must look to."
Strange snorted. "Do not be ridiculous," he said. "That has no relevance at all. Attracting the attention of the natural world is not at all the same as attracting the attention of a person."
"Nevertheless I hardly think that a minor magician like Bloodworth - "
"His spells worked, Mr Norrell, that you cannot deny - "
It was thus that Mr Norrell was drawn into a magical argument with Strange, and entirely failed to confess his feelings or indeed to move the conversation in a romantic direction at all. Strange did not even ask where the spell had come from.
Mr Norrell entirely forgot to be annoyed about this until some time after the conversation had ended, and by then it was too late.
-
The flowers, now. Strange felt that flowers were a good idea. True, flowers were not generally associated with a masculine object of affection, but the point was that they would be very obviously romantic. There would be no chance of Mr Norrell mistaking them for a gesture of friendship, or indeed of assuming that they were for Arabella. He took the greatest care to chuse a suitable sort. They were pansies. Strange had once purchased a small French flower-dictionary in order to engage in a game of coded messages with Arabella, and according to this book, pansies stood for 'you are in my thoughts'.
Or, at least, the flowers he had chosen were as close to the pictures of pansies he had seen as he could find in Faerie. He hoped that would be sufficient.
It started rather well. He went on a walk as an excuse to cut the flowers, and presented them immediately when he returned. Mr Norrell seemed very pleased; indeed, he almost beamed when he took them from Strange's hands.
"I do not know how you knew that I needed flowers for this spell," said Mr Norrell, turning back to his book.
"I saw them on my walk and thought they might come in useful," said Strange with his most studied careless air. In truth this was not at all the reaction he expected. Mr Norrell did not seem to be interpreting the gesture as romantic in the slightest, although Strange realized he ought to have considered that Mr Norrell would not have the least notion of flower-language. But he was smiling at Strange, which could only be a good sign.
"It is very thoughtful," said Mr Norrell. "I wonder if perhaps you might consider assisting me with this spell?"
"Certainly," said Strange. Magic had not been his intention, but perhaps this could be turned around. He often felt closest to Mr Norrell when doing magic with him.
Mr Norrell pushed the spell-book across the table. "It is for causing plants to sprout, you see," he said. "I thought we might use it to grow fresh strawberries, since you complain of their lack. But of course it should be tested first."
Strange blinked at this display of thoughtfulness from Mr Norrell. "I see," he said. "That is very - well. Thank you."
Mr Norrell said nothing, but looked rather pleased. He said, "The spell requires the practitioners to entwine their hands. I trust this will not trouble you, for the sake of the magic?"
"Oh! No," said Strange. "A practical magician does not regard such things. Not when there are spells to test."
"Indeed," said Mr Norrell, and smiled at him again, a shy little flicker of the mouth. Strange nearly grinned with his own glee at the way his plan was shaping up - so unlike the other two times! - but he managed to control his reaction and came over to look at the spell-book.
Mr Norrell had gathered the ingredients and placed them neatly upon the table, as was his wont. (Strange was more likely to gather things up as he went along, which caused no end of arguments between himself and Mr Norrell as to the efficiency of one approach versus the other, but he was not in an argumentative mood just now.)
"Now," said Mr Norrell, "We place the flowers in the center of the circle, like so - " And he suited the action to the word, putting them in the middle of the paper onto which he had so carefully drawn his symbol. "Then we hold hands and recite the spell."
Wordlessly, Strange slipped his hand into Mr Norrell's own. Mr Norrell seemed to catch his breath, and twined their fingers together. Strange supposed that this was required by the spell, but nevertheless it felt very comfortable. Mr Norrell's hand was soft, only lightly callused on the pads of the fingers with writing, and he held Strange's hand delicately, as if he was uncertain of his welcome or afraid of hurting something cherished. Strange wanted to squeeze back, assure him that he was in no way unwanted or in danger of harming Strange. But this, he decided, would be too much at the present moment.
They shared a moment of silence, and then Mr Norrell cleared his throat. "Here you can see the incantation," he said, pointing to the page. "If you will read with me - "
The read aloud, and their voices seemed to mingle together to produce green sparks in the air, full of potential like the smell of earth after rain, or the bright warmth of the first spring thaw. It brought back vividly to Strange childhood April days when the world seemed so filled with life and joy that it might burst. He felt his hair stand on end. The flowers sprouted delicate roots that writhed gently, seeking nourishment the air could not provide, and grew larger.
And grew.
And grew.
"Mr Norrell," began Strange, "What limitations should this spell have?"
"Ones that have been far surpassed," said Mr Norrell, letting go of Strange's hand. He spoke a word hurriedly, but the flowers kept on growing. The roots wrapped around the table and began to spread outward towards the magicians.
"Is there a counterspell?" asked Strange, grabbing for the book. But a questing root nearly grabbed his arm, and he jerked back.
"I very much fear there is not," said Mr Norrell, backing away. "Or that it might not work. Are these fairy-flowers?"
"Of course they are fairy-flowers, where else would I find flowers while we are in Faerie?"
"There is no need to take that tone, sir!" said Mr Norrell, drawing himself up. "It is always best to be sure before one makes assumptions!"
"I believe a little less surety and a little more action would be appropriate here, sir!"
"I am trying not to charge in unawares, as you so commonly do!"
"At least I do something and do not just stand there waffling about with a book," said Strange, folding his arms.
Mr Norrell glared. "Yes, and you entirely fail to think through the consequences of your actions. Look at this! If you had not brought in fairy-flowers to use we would have been perfectly fine."
"You are the one who decided to use them for a spell."
"For what other purpose could they possibly be used?" demanded Mr Norrell.
Strange opened his mouth, but felt the touch of a vine on his ankle and yelped most embarrassingly. He and Mr Norrell looked at each other and, almost in unison, cried "They are spreading!"
In the end, it took them three hours to clean up the spell and remove all the roots, and the larger study was entirely unusable for the whole of that period.
But all the same, failure though the attempt had been, Strange could not forget the feel of Mr Norrell's soft hand in his.
-
It was time for desperate measures. Mr Norrell would have rather it had not come to this, but he was prepared to make sacrifices to secure Strange's affection.
To wit, he was going to show Strange the most valuable books in his library.
Shortly after they had fallen into the Darkness, he had locked them in a trunk in a small private room in order that Strange should not see them without permission. After all, although they were now both together for the foreseeable future, Mr Norrell did not wish Strange to go off and do anything rash with some of the more dangerous magical books.If nothing else, Strange had certainly proved himself to have a penchant for dangerous and unstable magic.
However, Mr Norrell felt that the situation was now grave, and called for action. After all, he reasoned, if he did not manage to woo Strange there was no telling what might happen. He might become lonely - people did, did they not? Mr Norrell did not often feel lonely, and could not have thought of it while both Strange and his library were with him, but he was aware that most people did not consider one friend and several thousand books sufficient company. Mr Norrell told himself firmly that he was anxious about the possibility of Strange seeking out a fairy-woman for company and physical contact, and that offsetting this risk justified showing Strange his books.
It had nothing to do with his own feelings for Strange.
Well. Not very much.
Uncomfortable with this line of reasoning, Mr Norrell contemplated the trunk full of books in front of him. It was very large - as tall as his bed, in fact - and very heavy. He could not possibly lift it, and even his ability to drag it was questionable. He had had to carry the books up in several loads, and bringing the trunk into the room had been a great struggle.
He thought for a moment, and then went to fetch Strange, following the faint pull of the spell. He turned out to be wandering around the grounds of Ashfair, toeing stones contemplatively over.
"Mr Strange," he said, trotting up behind him.
"Ah. Mr Norrell. Do you need something of me?"
"It is more that I have something for you," said Mr Norrell. "Please follow me."
Raising his eyebrows, Strange nevertheless complied.
When they got to the room, Mr Norrell stood in front of the trunk and cleared his throat. He wished suddenly that he had prepared a speech. He had not thought to, but now he had no idea of what to say.
"I had thought," he began at last, "That given our present situation it would be best for me to show these to you. I know I have not always been, er, entirely forthcoming - perhaps you will take this as a symbol of my intention to improve. And, and of my commitment to breaking the Darkness which currently surrounds us." He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve for a moment. "These books are all the ones I have concealed from you since we came here, Mr Strange."
With this, he heaved open the lid of the trunk and shuffled back. He thought too late that he ought to have made some sort of flourish - that was the sort of gesture people made on these sorts of occasions. But the fact was that Mr Norrell was simply not a flourisher. He supposed Strange ought to understand that by now.
It did not seem to matter. Strange was smiling that smile he sometimes got, the one that made him look as if all his dreams were coming true at once. His eyes were soft as he gazed at the books. This expression always made Mr Norrell feel slightly weak about the knee regions, although he would not have admitted this for the world.
"Mr Norrell," said Strange, in an awestruck voice. "At last, sir!"
"I am afraid the box may be too heavy to move," said Mr Norrell, "But you may chuse some you especially want to read and take them away with you, when you go. Tell me at any time when you wish to obtain more."
Strange looked up, and focused that smile on Mr Norrell himself, which distinctly increased the weak-kneed feeling and made him feel that the dreadful wrench of parting with books had been worth it.
"Thank you, sir," said Strange. He ruffled through the books rapidly and picked up six or seven. "Thank you very much indeed. I do not quite know how to express my delight."
"Oh!" said Mr Norrell, shuffling his feet. "I am very glad you are pleased."
Strange stood up, his arms full of book. He laughed. "Indeed I am," he said. "I beg your pardon, sir. You will understand. I must read these immediately!"
He rushed out the open door to parts unknown, leaving Mr Norrell standing there beside his open trunk.
Mr Norrell did not see Strange all that day, nor most of the next. It was true that when he finally emerged from his study for tea, he was in a very good mood and inclined to be well-disposed to Mr Norrell, so perhaps it had done some good after all. All the same, the encounter had once again not proceeded as Mr Norrell had hoped.
Mr Norrell sighed into his tea, despairing of ever finding some way of conveying his intentions to Strange.
-
All of Strange's previous plans having failed, he was considering the next step when the Headgear-Stealing Fairy came into their lives.
In fact neither of them were at all sure it was a fairy at all. Strange was first aware of it when Mr Norrell came out of his room at unusual speed, yelling, following a bright buzzing light that had a wig and several caps floating around it like an aura.
"Mr Strange! My wig!" he cried.
Strange took up the chase as well, out of the halls of Hurtfew Abbey and into the meadow they were currently parked in. The buzzing light was very fast indeed, and Mr Norrell soon fell behind. Strange, who was much more used to athletic activity, managed to keep up, and thought of a spell he might use on it.
Puffing, he yelled the words of the dissolution spell. The buzzing light ceased. However, before Strange had time to revel in his triumph, the wig and caps dropped into a pond which they had unfortunately chanced to be over when he recited the spell.
Strange put a hand on his forehead, feeling that he had not entirely thought this through. He looked at the pond, which was very dim and muddy indeed. Muddy ponds in Faerie held far greater terrors than even ones in England, and he had no idea of what might be lurking at the bottom.
Grimacing, he trudged forward.
Apparently this brought Mr Norrell outside the range of their spell, for he appeared on the bank just as Strange waded into the pond.
"Mr Strange," he said, "What happened?"
"I am rescuing your headgear, which was dropped into this pond."
"Oh!" said Mr Norrell. "It looks very dirty in there."
"I fear that is the case." Strange tentatively waded out a bit further. "In fact, I fear that may be what chiefly hampers me. It is difficult to see just where anything is."
"I know a spell to make lost objects glow," Mr Norrell said. "Perhaps - ?"
"That would be very helpful."
Strange poked around with his toe while Mr Norrell gathered drew symbols in the grass and recited words. He encountered several snapping things that nearly bit his foot, but he was able to draw back in time and move to another part of the pond. He did not wish to investigate what they might be.
Shortly, a section of the pond just left of the center was illuminated with a gentle yellow light. Strange looked at the area, and made a face.
"I don't suppose you know a spell to clarify water," he said.
"I do, but I am afraid the ingredients list is considerable."
"Oh, well," said Strange, and moved towards the glow. The pond became deeper abruptly and he nearly stumbled into the dirty water; as it was, it splashed up to his chest and into his mouth. He spat, making a face.
But he was near the glow now. What would be the best strategy? He was not sure he wished to dive into the murky water with his eyes open, and yet it seemed that he had little choice. Perhaps if he prodded around with his boot some more -
Another something snapped at his toe and he shivered. On the other hand, it might be that prodding was not so good an idea.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged down into the pond. The mysterious snapping thing was nowhere to be found, but he could not see well. The wiry white blob of Norrell's wig was down in front of him, so he clutched at it and came back up for air. After a few breaths, he went back down for the caps, managing two of them on one breath, and the last on the next. The mud crawled along his skin as he worked, and he could not shake the feeling that something was watching him.
He came up, clutching the four items in his hands and making a face at the awful taste of the pond-water in his mouth. He had tried to keep it closed, but some had snuck in anyway. Decidedly he would need a bath after this. His eyes felt gritty and horrible, and his hair was soaked with dirty water.
Strange dumped the items on to the bank and climbed out of the water, spluttering lightly.
"There you are," he said.
Mr Norrell peered at the pile and poked it gingerly with a toe. He seemed encouraged when it did not move.
"I'm afraid the wig is a lost cause," said Strange. "But I believe the caps will wash out nicely, so your head will not be cold."
"Oh," said Mr Norrell, wringing his hands. "That was my only remaining wig. I shall have to go without now."
"It is my opinion that you look much better without it," said Strange, glancing sideways at him through the wet curtain of his hair.
Norrell frowned. "I beg your pardon?" he said.
"Never mind," said Strange. "It is of no consequence."
"I heard you," said Mr Norrell impatiently. "It seems of consequence to me."
"It is only that you look younger without them. Less stuffy."
"Stuffy?" said Mr Norrell with some indignation.
"You must admit they are rather old-fashioned," said Strange.
"I have never kept to modern trends," said Mr Norrell.
"So I have observed," said Strange dryly.
Mr Norrell frowned at him again. Strange raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I do not mean to say it is a bad thing," he said. "Your, er, sense of dress is uniquely yours. I only wanted to reassure you that you would do perfectly well without your wig."
Mr Norrell stared at him for some time further.
"Yes," he said eventually. "Well. Younger, you say?"
"I do indeed."
"Hmm. Thank you for your opinion, Mr Strange. Even if it was unsolicited." Mr Norrell paused, seemed to consider for a moment, and then set about picking up his caps, gingerly, with two fingers. "And thank you for your assistance. Er. With the caps. Even if you could not save the wig," he added.
"You are welcome," said Strange, surprized by this expression of gratitude.
He watched Mr Norrell as he walked back to the house, and contemplated a change of strategy.
But mostly he contemplated a bath.
-
In the end, it was the Arrangement that did them in.
The Arrangement did not deserve a capital letter, for it was nothing so complicated as to need one. It was not even a formal arrangement. Mostly, what it was was this: at times, Strange slept in Mr Norrell's bed.
It began in this way.
One evening they had an extremely harrowing encounter with a sort of goblin which had threatened to steal their senses and enchant them to wander forever. They successfully escaped the goblin, but after that the darkness seemed very dark indeed and they both found themselves still awake at what was, by their internal clocks, a very late hour.
Mr Norrell was curled in his bed, feeling miserably aware of every sudden noise and jumping shadow, when Strange appeared in the doorway and stopt at the edge of the door.
For a long moment they only looked at each other. Then Strange said, "Sir," and paused as if he was not certain where the next sentence would go.
Mr Norrell twisted away towards the wall. He did not particularly want to face yet another complication in this day, and Strange did always bring complications. "Mr Strange," he said.
"Mr Norrell. Are you quite all right?"
"I am perfectly fine." Mr Norrell pulled the covers tighter about himself. "Is there something you need?"
Strange bit his lip. "I was hoping for your company," he said. "I find myself rather unsettled by the day's events."
Mr Norrell turned his head back to look at Strange to see if he was mocking him. There did not seem to be any trace of amusement in his face, so far as Mr Norrell could see, which did not mean there was none there.
Still...
"Very well," said Mr Norrell slowly. "Should we go to the library, or the study?"
Strange took a deep breath. "I thought perhaps we could stay here. Or go to my room."
Mr Norrell felt a split second of panic before Strange apparently saw his expression and hastily added, "I only thought it might perhaps help to, well, sleep in companionship. As boys do at school. After what happened today - it seems appropriate."
"We are no longer boys, Mr Strange," said Mr Norrell, slowly. He was thinking of school as he had experienced it - one year of pure torment - but also of the idea of companionship on this very gloomy evening.
"No, but I slept beside my comrades in the army," said Strange. "A desire for physical contact after an upsetting event, especially one of a violent nature, is perfectly normal. In any case, it might be safer."
"Safer?" said Mr Norrell.
"We do not know what the goblins might do. I believe we are secure here, but still, it would be better for us to be together, would it not?"
Mr Norrell looked at him for a very, very long moment. He certainly did not feel very secure. Then he turned away and said, "I suppose you are right. If we may stay here I believe I would be more comfortable in my own bed."
"As you wish," said Strange. He shifted from one foot to another for a moment, uncertainly. "May I - "
"Oh. Yes." Mr Norrell scooted over in the bed, and Strange sat down. He gave it a moment before lying down and sliding under the covers.
Mr Norrell was very tense, lying on the bed with his arms stiff at his side. He could hear Strange moving beside him, settling down under the covers, and resolutely refused to watch him. He felt strung as tightly as a violin-wire, unhappily aware of the body next to him, of how very easy it would be to stretch out and touch Strange, accidentally or purposefully. Of how very much he wished to do so. Of how his imagination kept leaping to all sorts of unsuitable places.
Strange drifted off about a quarter of an hour later, but Mr Norrell lay awake for a very long time, listening to Strange's soft breathing. He feared - he did not know what he feared. Impropriety, or to offend Strange, or to transgress some boundary he himself had set.
He did not remember when he did fall asleep, still uncomfortably on his back rather than curled up on his side. But he must have done so eventually.
Mr Norrell woke to Strange's arm draped over him, flopped so carelessly that it must have been done in his sleep. For a moment he could not breath, a warm feeling of safety blending oddly in his stomach with cold fear and dread of what would happen when Strange woke up and found himself in this position. What would he think of Mr Norrell for allowing it?
Then he realized he ought to, and indeed could, extricate himself without waking Strange. He did so, and went to make tea.
He did not wish to think of the safety he had felt with Strange's arm around him.
After that, they occasionally slept together when something harrowing had happened or simply when the night seemed particularly dark. Strange seemed to make a point of seeking out Mr Norrell on these occasions, and very rarely, sometimes Mr Norrell would come to him first.
Sometimes very late at night, when the lamps were doused, when the day had been especially difficult, Strange would move very close to Mr Norrell, and Mr Norrell would move back against him, and then would lay like that, with Strange's arm draped over Mr Norrell but not quite holding him close. They never spoke of this, and generally by morning they had separated.
All the same, Mr Norrell thought about it very often indeed.
It happened that one morning after an Arrangement night in which they had slept closely together, Mr Norrell woke up to find Strange already up, propped on an elbow and looking thoughtfully at him.
This was most disconcerting, for he did not like to be watched. But the expression in Strange's eyes was quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was - he might almost call it fond. Mr Norrell had not seen a great number of fond expressions in his life, but he thought that this might indeed be one.
Mr Norrell sat up on his elbows to look back at Strange. "Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," said Strange, continuing to watch him. Mr Norrell looked away, but then back up, into Strange's eyes, an experience he always found rather intense in high quantities. They looked very deep in the dim Faerie twilight that peeked in through the windows.
Their faces were very close, Mr Norrell realized suddenly. Close enough to reach out and touch. It would be such a simple matter to lean forward and bring his face closer to Strange's, close enough to touch their noses and even their mouths, perhaps. To touch Strange's curly hair, which always looked very soft. He had wanted to do this for so very long…
But Strange had clearly ignored all of Mr Norrell's attempts at informing him of his interest. He remembered the spell for attracting another person's attention with a little jolt. He looked down and drew away.
Strange made an odd sound in his throat, and at this Norrell glanced up again. Strange looked very indignant and had drawn himself up into a sitting position on the bed.
"Sir, I cannot stand by and let you toy with my emotions anymore," he said. "Really, I must protest."
"Toy with your - " began Norrell, feeling as though someone had whisked him into an entirely new story without informing him of the fact.
"You have callously ignored my feelings, sir!"
"I? What of you?" demanded Mr Norrell, confusion forgotten in his indignation.
"Me!"
"I lent you the best books in my library, Mr Strange! I made you breakfast! I held your hand!"
"That was for a spell!"
"Do you think I would hold just anyone's hand? Did you not see the spell of attraction?"
Strange boggled. "That was meant for me to see?"
"Of course it was meant for you to see. Would I have left it carelessly out in the open if it was not?"
"Yes, well, what about the flowers? And the poetry! And the first name!"
"I hate my first name," said Norrell, making a face.
"So you have told me, but I meant it as a gesture of intimacy."
"How was I to know? I thought you were mocking me."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"Well," said Strange. "This certainly seems to have been a case of terrible miscommunication."
"Indeed it does." Mr Norrell glared steadfastly at the bedsheets. "The poetry was meant for me?"
"That poem you thought to be for Arabella was to be about you."
"Oh."
"You really left that spell in my book intentionally?"
"I did. I thought I could not be any more obvious."
"Oh."
There was a long pause while they both contemplated the facts in front of them.
"In that case," Strange said, "There is only one course of action."
"Yes?" said Mr Norrell nervously.
Strange leaned over and swept him into a kiss.
It was a very romantic sort of kiss, the sort of kiss that people described in books, all passionate embrace and enveloping arms. It was only slightly hampered by Mr Norrell's minor confusion about his role in the entire business. He tried his very best to reciprocate, although he was not entirely experienced at the business of being romantically kissed and was not altogether sure of what to do with his arms. All the same, he felt very capable of learning with extended practice.
When Strange pulled back, grinning crookedly, he said, "I've been wanting to do that for quite some time."
"You have?" said Mr Norrell, slightly dazed.
"Yes."
"Well. Er. I see no reason to leave off so early, then," said Mr Norrell. He was not entirely certain where he had left his caution or his good sense, but it seemed to be far behind him.
Strange's grin widened and he cupped Mr Norrell's face in his hands. This time it was a rather different sort of kiss, gentle and tender as if to say I am very glad we have made it here, and Mr Norrell found his hands moving quite without his instruction up to Strange's hair, which was as soft as he had always imagined it would be.
Strange pulled back only to catch his breath and then he was laying soft kisses on Mr Norrell's mouth, on his cheeks, on his neck. Mr Norrell's breath hitched and he sighed, softly.
"This is much more efficient than poetry," he said.
Strange smiled against his skin. He said, "I cannot disagree."
After which they went about their day quite as normal, but if there was a higher proportion of touching and hand-holding and perhaps even pauses to kiss again in passing at times - well.
It must be said that the day was better thus.