#cuervoymatine

A few weeks after what passes for a return – it is more acoming home, a slinking back into the course of history – Gilbert Norrell receivesan invitation to a ball.

It is to be held in Newcastle as is fitting, there will bemany magicians there in his honour, etc etc. John Segundus sends his regardsand hopes to see him there, hopes that any differences between them can be laidaside in the name of magical harmony. Technically speaking, the invitationallows for Norrell to bring a partner, but since Jonathan Strange and JohnChildermass have been invited separately, this is by no means necessary.

When Norrell relays this to the two other adult occupants ofHurtfew – the clarification necessary, since Hurtfew is often full of fairiechildren and grandchildren nowadays – he is not quite sure what he wants themto say.

“You’ll need a new suit,” says Tom Brightwind.

“And a haircut,” says Joan Childermass.

“Of course. But you can’t go in that dead squirrel.”

“Exuberance would suit you. With dark green trim.”

Joan Childermass, though human by origin, has been in Fairielong enough to pick up its habits. As far as Norrell can tell, exuberance is ashade not too far from a warm purple, though it swirls and shimmers like theocean in the sun. He has been around them long enough to know neither will backdown – stubborn as mules both – and so he makes a note to ask his tailor aboutfitting him for a new suit. He ignores the jibe about his wig. There have beenenough, over the past few months, that they slide right off him.

“But who should I take?” he asks, sitting down at his deskwith a melancholic thud, “If I take one of you the other will argue the tossfor months-”

“Untrue. I would never.”

“Aye, I suppose.”

“But everyone else I know is either already going or isentirely unsuitable! And I refuse to go alone. I will not be left alone at aball again. You know how it went the last time.”

Tom and Joan both shrug.

“You are a Childermass,” Norrell says to her plaintively, “Youmust have some way around this.”

“You could not go?”

“You have been telling me not to hide myself away again! Yousaid you could not find it in you to have twostandoffish misers for husbands-”

“You called me standoffish?”

“You are at parties, Tom.”

“I am not in the least!”

“‘Rescue me, Joan!’ ‘Joan! Save me from these people I can’tspeak to!’ ‘Fetch me some liquid courage, Joan!’”

“Stuff and nonsense. Stuff and-” there is a silence in whichNorrell rolls his eyes and Joan kisses Tom out of exasperation. This is acommon kind of silence in Hurtfew.

“I will take Joan,” Norrell says.

The other two stumble apart in surprise. “You will what?”

“I have decided. I will take Joan. Clearly, she is the onlyone of the three of us who can deal with people at parties. And you are tootall. I will feel ridiculous dancing with you.”

And so, it has been decided. They still argue the toss.

  Gilbert Norrell, the first magician of the age, arrives atthe party of the century in a dark green suit with lilac trim. This is thefirst thing that is noticed. God forbid, say several guests, Gilbert Norrell!Fashionable! Exuberantly dressed! Whatever next? A fairie on his arm?

Sadly not; on his arm a ghost instead. No-one realises this –all they notice is that she is smaller even than Norrell, dark skinned and darkhaired – somehow, enough scandal to keep everyone happy – and dressed perfectly,coordinating exactly with Norrell. A few people hypothesise that the lady looksvery much like the magician John Childermass, and wonder if she is some longlost sister – she is clearly too young to be his mother, after all. Twenty-nineif she’s a day.

“Joan, Princess Consort of Innumerable Towers,” Norrellintroduces her as, in a quiet tone guaranteed to spread gossip through theparty like spilled champagne.

“I told you I don’t like the title,” she whispers, but whenhe looks at her there’s a little wolfish grin on her face.

“You outrank everyone else in the room,” he whispers back, “Isthat not satisfying?”

She tilts her head slightly in acknowledgement, and theyslip quietly into the dance. He is not good at this, but Joan has had practiceand gently pulls him around until he gets the steps.

“I’m reasonably certain Tom could bestow a dukedom on you,if you fancied one,” she says as he spins her, and when they’re facing eachother again he shakes his head.

“I am already a magician. I have my title.”

“Prince, Princess, Mister,”she says, laughing, and Norrell lets himself smile.

“What does that make Childermass?”

“The Magician-Duke of Margaret-street,” she saysimmediately, naming the street on which he was born, grey-cheeked and hardlyhowling, and Norrell spins her again, out of pace, to keep the spark in hereyes from fading with the memories.

They dance undisturbed for a couple of songs – no-one therebeing of high enough rank to cut in and ask a princess to dance – and thenretire to the sidelines. Norrell nurses a glass of wine that she pushes intohis hands, and which she drinks from when he shows no sign of even bothering totaste it, and she flashes sarcasm and tactlessness at anyone who dares to speakto Norrell with less respect than they ought. It keeps them quiet, and it savesNorrell from conversations that go on too long.

“Tom Brightwind,Prince of Innumerable Towers,” comes the voice of the announcer just asNorrell suggests they depart for the evening before the third member of theirarrangement gets antsy.