Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Read Free

Segundus, so that he continually turned in his chair and looked about him to discover where they might be. But there never was any thing — only perhaps a mirror or an antique clock.
    Mr Norrell said that he had read Mr Segundus’s account of the careers of Martin Pale’s fairy-servants. 3 “A creditable piece of work, sir, but you left out Master Fallowthought. A very minor spirit certainly, whose usefulness to the great Dr Pale was questionable. 4 Nevertheless your little history was incomplete without him.”
    There was a pause. “A fairy-spirit called Fallow thought, sir?” said Mr Segundus, “I … that is … that is to say I never heard of any such creature — in this world or any other.”
    Mr Norrell smiled for the first time — but it was an inward sort of smile. “Of course,” he said, “I am forgetting. It is all in Holgarth and Pickle’s history of their own dealings with Master Fallow thought, which you could scarcely have read. I congratulate you — they were an unsavoury pair — more criminal than magical: the less one knows of them the better.”
    “Ah, sir!” cried Mr Honeyfoot, suspecting that Mr Norrell was speaking of one of his books. “We hear marvellous things of your library. All the magicians in Yorkshire fell into fits of jealousy when they heard of the great number of books you had got!”
    “Indeed?” said Mr Norrell coldly. “You surprise me. I had no idea my affairs were so commonly known … I expect it is Thoroughgood,” he said thoughtfully, naming a man who sold books and curiosities in Coffee-yard in York. “Childermass has warned me several times that Thorough good is a chatterer.”
    Mr Honeyfoot did not quite understand this. If he had had such quantities of magical books he would have loved to talk of them, be complimented on them, and have them admired; and he could not believe that Mr Norrell was not the same. Meaning therefore to be kind and to set Mr Norrell at his ease (for he had taken it into his head that the gentleman was shy) he persisted: “Might I be permitted to express a wish, sir, that we might see your wonderful library?”
    Mr Segundus was certain that Norrell would refuse, but instead Mr Norrell regarded them steadily for some moments (he had small blue eyes and seemed to peep out at them from some secret place inside himself) and then, almost graciously, he granted Mr Honeyfoot’s request. Mr Honeyfoot was all gratitude, happy in the belief that he had pleased Mr Norrell as much as himself.
    Mr Norrell led the other two gentlemen along a passage — a very ordinary passage, thought Mr Segundus, panelled and floored with well-polished oak, and smelling of beeswax; then there was a staircase, or perhaps only three or four steps; and then another passage where the air was somewhat colder and the floor was good York stone: all entirely unremarkable. (Unless the second passage had come before the staircase or steps? Or had there in truth been a staircase at all?) Mr Segundus was one of those happy gentlemen who can always say whether they face north or south, east or west. It was not a talent he took any particular pride in — it was as natural to him as knowing that his head still stood upon his shoulders — but in Mr Norrell’s house his gift deserted him. He could never afterwards picture the sequence of passageways and rooms through which they had passed, nor quite decide how long they had taken to reach the library. And he could not tell the direction; it seemed to him as if Mr Norrell had discovered some fifth point of the compass — not east, nor south, nor west, nor north, but somewhere quite different and this was the direction in which he led them. Mr Honeyfoot, on the other hand, did not appear to notice any thing odd.
    The library was perhaps a little smaller than the drawing-room they had just quitted. There was a noble fire in the hearth and all was comfort and quiet. Yet once again the light within the room did not seem to accord