Work Text:
1809
“Oh he has got one – I have it from Clarissa Yarrow that it is a dog!” Drawlight rocked a little in his chair, waving his cane. “Yes, she met Mr Strange and his wife at Lord Seward’s ball only a week ago. She says it is a largish sort of dog, and it was by his side the entire evening – even during the dances! Can you imagine?”
“Farcical,” said Lascelles.
“Of all the possible animals a magician might consider for his familiar–” Drawlight fluttered his hand in front of his face. “–a dog really does seem a poor choice. Apart from being a very inconvenient creature to have around when one is trying to dance, there is no getting away from the fact that it is a terribly unprepossessing animal – although I grant you much depends on the breed. Why, Miss Cassidy had that Maltese, now that was a darling little creature, at least to look at, and it comes off very well in that portrait with her, the one with the blue gown and pearls. You remarked on the blue of her gown when you saw it, did you not Mr Lascelles?”
“I can scarcely recall.” Lascelles turned to look at Norrell, who had been pacing for some time in front of the windows. “Will you not take a seat, sir?”
Norrell stopped and peered out the window, eyeing an approaching carriage with keen anxiety. When the carriage drew past without stopping he began to pace again.
“Now, a greyhound,” Drawlight resumed. “A greyhound would be quite becoming, but the gentleman would have to be tall, there is no question. Yes, if Mr Strange must have a dog as his familiar, it ought to be a greyhound. I have always felt that those dogs have something of the macabre about them, which would do very well for a magician, and by all accounts Mr Strange is at any rate not a short man, so it works out nicely.”
“You are assuming that this dog of his is in fact his familiar,” said Lascelles. “I think it more likely he has adopted a stray.” Lascelles’ thin mouth curled in amusement. “I daresay he keeps sausage in his pockets.”
“When was the last time that clock was wound?” Norrell said suddenly, staring at the clock on the mantelpiece. “And its springs, I believe I asked for its springs to be replaced–”
“They were replaced, it has been wound,” Childermass said quietly. “The time is correct, sir.”
“You did this yourself?” Norrell had gone over to the fireplace. He squinted at the clock face while he took out his pocket watch.
“I did.”
Norrell lingered for a while longer before going back to stand at the windows, his pocket watch still in his hand.
“It is only...a dog is so terribly commonplace,” said Drawlight. “A bird on the other hand – a creature of flight? Most majestic. Most unusual. And an owl above all – ”
Outside, a man and a woman were walking arm-in-arm, a child running ahead of them playing stick-and-hoop. There were no carriages coming.
Norrell caught the eye of his reflection frowning back at him. He tucked his pocket watch away, then he withdrew to his desk. He sat down and picked up some papers and leafed through them. This quickly proved intolerable. He stood once more.
“…really think Mr Strange ought to reconsider his choice,” Drawlight was saying. “It would be a kindness to advise him to settle on some other species, something less fixated on odors and - and eating, and tearing about after rodents–”
“A magician does not choose the form which his dæmon takes,” Childermass said.
There was a stiff silence.
“When we see this dog of Mr Strange’s,” Lascelles said firmly, “I guarantee it will be about as much a dæmon as Miss Cassidy’s Maltese.”
“Dulcie was quite a vicious little thing,” said Drawlight.
“Where are you going?” Norrell said sharply as Childermass got to his feet.
“I had thought to bring you the post, sir.”
Norrell could think of no reason to forbid this.
When Childermass returned, he thoughtlessly set the letters down on Norrell’s desk instead of giving them into his hands, so that Norrell was obliged to leave off his pacing and to sit down at his desk again in order to examine the stack of correspondence.
Childermass meanwhile placed himself at the window and turned his head to look out, and the sight of him there, keeping watch, was sufficiently comforting to Norrell that he became absorbed in one of his letters and for a while forgot his agitation.
It came as a shock then, when after several minutes, Childermass stood up tall and dark in front of the window and said,
“He is here.”
Norrell dropped his letter and sat back sharply.
Childermass did not need to be told – he was already crossing the room. He drew the door closed behind him as he went out into the passage.
Norrell was on his feet. He tugged at his waistcoat. He was dimly aware of Drawlight and Lascelles still talking in lowered tones. Lascelles smothered a derisive laugh just as the door opened.
Childermass came first, announcing,
“Mr and Mrs Strange.”
*
“We had heard that you had a familiar, Mr Strange. A dog, we were told.” Lascelles paused for effect. “It hasn’t run away, has it?”
“No indeed,” said Strange.
“Oh good. Because notoriously a magician’s familiar must remain close to the magician at all times. I’m sure you are aware of this. Even people wholly ignorant of magic pick up those sorts of crude details from children’s stories, folk tales and the like.”
Norrell was standing almost with his back to the others, Morgan Bourbank’s Hermeneutics of The Abbots Bromley Horn Dance open in his hands. He stared down at the shapes of the words on the page, his grip on the book tightening fractionally as Strange answered,
“I confess my knowledge of familiars is limited to my own experience.”
“You will forgive me, sir, if I remark on the conspicuous absence of your familiar here today,” said Lascelles.
“Oh, she is not absent,” said Strange. “You simply cannot see her.”
Norrell lifted his head, his gaze flickering to Childermass, who was sitting at the writing desk in the corner. Childermass returned his look from under his brows.
“Indeed?” said Lascelles.
“I learned this morning that there is a spell for concealing one’s familiar.” A note of wryness came into Strange’s voice. “I believe it is a spell favored by Mr Norrell himself.”
“Ah yes, very good,” said Lascelles flatly. “Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, is it not? It’s just rather convenient, isn’t it? That you should learn this particular spell on the same day you are to meet with Mr Norrell, Britain's only magician. I say it is a shame, as we were all so looking forward to seeing this famous dog of yours.”
Norrell closed his book and carefully replaced it on the bookshelf.
“It is of course understandable for an idle chap to want to amuse himself in this fashionable way–” Lascelles was saying.
“I should be very glad to see some of Mr Strange’s magic now,” Norrell said, turning to face the room for the first time since the beginning of Strange’s visit, when he had shaken hands with the man in a state of such blind agitation that he had failed to gather any distinct impression of Strange’s appearance.
He looked at Strange now. Their eyes met.
“If he would favor us.”
*
Strange’s dæmon materialised without anyone noticing while he was in the midst of working his spell, and she stood politely behind his legs during all the excitement that followed.
It was only after Drawlight had come around the desk in order to examine Strange’s work more closely that the presence of the dæmon had become known. So unexpected was the sight of the dog’s friendly dark head peering out from around the side of Strange’s knee that Drawlight gave a shout of alarm and fell over.
“Whatever is the matter?” Norrell looked on in bemusement as Childermass helped Drawlight to his feet.
“I must apologise,” Strange said to Drawlight. “I did not mean to alarm you, sir–”
“There is – there is a dog there!” exclaimed Drawlight, straightening his wig as he shrank behind Childermass.
“Jonathan,” said Mrs Strange in a voice low and anxious.
Childermass was standing quite still and staring.
Norrell came forward quickly to see for himself.
“I fear I haven’t quite mastered the spell of concealment as well as I’d supposed,” said Strange, his mouth twisting sheepishly.
“Good God,” muttered Lascelles.
The dog was perhaps some sort of an English Setter, its coat speckled and spotted black and white, its head mostly black. It stood beside Strange, its feathery tail in the air wagging slightly back and forth.
Norrell had read a great deal about dæmons. His library boasted a range of books on the subject – books theorising about what exactly a dæmon was, books about the dæmons of the great magicians, books of spells relating specifically to dæmons, books from centuries past that were etiquette manuals instructing magicians and their dæmons on how to conduct themselves in society.
Though Norrell considered himself well-equipped with this theoretical knowledge, he had never seriously entertained the idea that he might one day see another magician’s dæmon and thus have any practical need of it.
He stared – even though his studies had given him to understand that to stare at another magician’s dæmon was a rather ill-mannered thing to do.
“I can hide her away again if you like?” offered Strange, looking down at his dæmon along with everyone else.
Norrell gave no answer – he had not heard Strange’s question.
“Then this – this is your dæmon, sir?” he said haltingly.
“Dæmon?” Strange repeated. He laid his hand absently on the dog’s head. Norrell stared at that, quite riveted. “My familiar, do you mean?”
“Dæmon is the proper term,” said Norrell dazedly. He blinked and with a conscious effort drew his gaze up in order to meet Strange’s eye. “I mean to say, that is the term magicians use.”
“Indeed?” Strange lifted his eyebrows, his look expressing pleased surprise.
“A demon?” said Mrs Strange. “Is that not an evil spirit?”
“No, madam, that is something quite different,” said Norrell, turning to her. “It is unfortunately a common error to confuse the terms…”
At this point Norrell took a moment to speak a little on the subject of the word’s purported derivation.
“It is all terribly fascinating,” said Lascelles. “But sir, I regret I must remind you of your appointment with Lord Mulgrave. He is due to call within the hour.” Lascelles addressed himself to Mr Strange. “The Admiralty consult with Mr Norrell on all sorts of vital issues.”
“Of course,” said Strange. He looked at Norrell regretfully. “You have business to conduct, sir.”
Strange came around the desk to stand with his wife, his dog dæmon followed close at his heels.
“You’ve been very generous with your time.”
“Not at all,” said Norrell.
Mr Strange inclined his head slightly.
There was a pause. Norrell was conscious of Lascelles standing behind his shoulder.
He was also conscious that he did not wish to be parted from Mr Strange so soon. There was much he now desired to speak with him about. It was no easy thing though, to express himself under these circumstances.
A flicker of movement from the dæmon's tail drew Norrell’s eye and he found himself staring once again. The dog returned Norrell’s regard with an arresting frankness, and perhaps it was mere fancy, but Norrell thought that in the those warm dark eyes he discerned some fellow-feeling.
“I must ask you, Mr Strange,” said Norrell with a sudden yearning interest. “What was the summoning spell that you used?”
Strange blinked. “Summoning spell?”
“When you first called forth your dæmon. Was it Lanchester? Absalom perhaps?”
“I…wasn’t aware that such spells existed,” said Strange, opening his hand and then slapping it against his side in a helpless gesture.
“But then how–” Norrell looked from Strange to his dæmon. “How was this achieved?”
“Well I had rather hoped–” Strange faltered, glancing at his wife. At her slight nod of encouragement, he looked to Norrell again. “In truth, I had hoped you might be able to explain it to me.” He smiled crookedly. “She just appeared one day, you see. It was around the time when I did my first spells, but they were only simple magic. I do not know any summoning spells.”
“A spontaneous materialisation,” said Norrell, speaking almost under his breath. He looked at Strange sharply. “There are accounts of dæmons appearing in this manner in Goubert. But it is quite uncommon, sir.” He considered the dæmon again with academic appreciation. “It is quite uncommon,” he repeated.
It was decided that Mr Strange would return the following morning.
*
Norrell stood in front of the fireplace with Dorothea on his wrist, both of them listening impatiently to the noises out in the hall.
“Here now,” said Norrell in an undertone, straightening up as he heard the approach of footsteps.
Strange was shown into the library and Norrell noted with some disappointment that he had elected to cast the concealment spell over his dæmon again. Norrell had not been anticipating this.
“Good day to you, Mr Strange. I hope you will forgive me, it was only after you had left yesterday that I realised that I had been unpardonably rude.”
When he had first stepped foot in the room, Strange had been wearing a cordial smile, his lips parting in readiness to return Mr Norrell’s greeting, but when his eyes had landed on the little owl perched on Norrell’s wrist, Strange’s face had gone slack with astonishment and he halted in his tracks two yards’ distance from the fireplace.
It took a moment for Strange to recover himself enough to answer.
“I’m afraid I don’t entirely follow,” he said, coming cautiously nearer, his eyes almost luminous as he stared at Dorothea.
“Allow me to explain,” said Norrell. “You see, when two magicians meet for the first time and one of them reveals his dæmon it is proper for the other magician to do the same.”
The look of attentive interest on Strange’s face as he listened was immensely gratifying.
“That is how magicians may ‘know’ one another,” said Norrell, favoring Strange with a meaningful look.
“Oh. Oh! Yes, I see,” said Strange suddenly, and almost in the same instant his dæmon was revealed at his side, her ears perked forward and her tail wagging animatedly. “I had assumed,” said Strange, “well, yesterday it seemed that– I was aiming to follow your example, you see–”
“Yes, I quite see.”
“I confess I am more easy like this,” said Strange, tilting his head guiltily, grinning. “It’s something of a strain keeping her out of sight. She’s a very active sort of creature.”
While he spoke his dæmon was sniffing all around the fireplace, the firelight glinting off her handsome wavy fur.
Norrell and Dorothea and Strange watched her for a moment in silence.
“Of course, when she first appeared, I knew she was not merely a dog,” said Strange. “Though I admit it took me a couple of days to realise what she was.”
Norrell glanced at him in surprise. “You did not know at once that she was your dæmon?”
“I suppose I didn’t really think of myself as a magician.” The flickering light of the fire gave a shifting illumination to Strange’s features. “And if I was not a magician, she could not very well be my familiar.”
“But you had performed acts of magic.”
“Yes. It all happened rather suddenly. And…in my ignorance…” Strange paused. He clasped his hands behind his back and transferred his weight between his feet, darting a chagrined look at Norrell. “You will think it very foolish of me.”
“By no means, sir,” said Norrell. Dorothea turned on his wrist, her small talons gripping carefully at Norrell’s coat sleeve. She wobbled slightly, her tail bobbing up to keep her balance as she manoeuvred around to face Strange. She had decided to cast off some of her aloofness and condescend to look at him.
Strange for a moment appeared somewhat startled to have the little owl’s yellow eyes fixed on him.
He cleared his throat and resumed, “In my ignorance I thought that the familiars of witches and magicians tended to be – well. Birds.”
“Why, my good sir!” Norrell exclaimed, unable to repress a smile. “Surely you know of Stokesey with his lion? And Absalom’s fox? Goodness me, Thomas Godbless himself had a dog for his dæmon. And that is to say nothing of Gnuberl and his bear!” Norrell caught the look on Strange’s face. “Surely you know Gnuberl?”
“I am afraid not.” Strange put his hand up on the mantelpiece. “I have not found it easy to come by books of magic.”
At this moment Strange’s dæmon skirted close to Norrell, not touching him of course, but scenting the air around his shoes.
Strange looked down in surprise and spoke a quick word and the dæmon drew away.
“My apologies,” he said to Norrell.
Norrell’s eyes followed the dog as it went to stand behind Strange’s legs. He could sense the magic of her, Strange’s magical aura was all around her. It was a powerfully peculiar thing, to sense another magician in this way.
Dorothea, perched on Norrell’s wrist, had fluffed up her feathers.
“We’re hopelessly uncivilised,” said Strange apologetically. “I know hardly anything of how it ought to be between magicians.”
“There will be ample time for learning.”
Strange nodded his thanks and looked down at the fire, and Norrell went on regarding him.
“Which is to say.” Norrell wet his dry lips. He had memorised beforehand the words he would say. “Mr Strange. I should like to extend to you an offer: that I might be your master, and oversee your education in magic.”
Strange turned to face him, his features shifting in eager astonishment, settling in a boyish grin.
“You honour me, sir.” He put out his hand. “Of course - of course, I most gratefully accept!”
As he shook Strange’s hand, Norrell managed only to say,
“I am glad.”
He was wholly unaware that he was beaming as he regarded his pupil.
“You realise it has been centuries since an English magician last took an apprentice?” said Norrell as they went on smiling at one another. “It is marvellous, Mr Strange – only think of the delights that await you! I expect you will want to begin your studies immediately. All that remains is for you to give to me the true name of your dæmon.”
Strange’s smile faltered. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you know your dæmon's name?” said Norrell.
“I…” Strange looked back over his shoulder at the dog. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“It is a sacred thing, a dæmon's name,” said Norrell. “Do you know what I mean by that, Mr Strange?”
“I think I do,” murmured Strange.
Norrell eyed him searchingly. “Then you will have taken care not to tell it to any other person?”
“I have told my wife,” Strange admitted. “Was I wrong to do so?”
“It is not ideal. But I suppose…as she is your wife…” Norrell had to adjust his thinking. He was not happy that Strange was married – in his view a magician had no business marrying. And in all his preparations the night before, in all his thinking about Strange as he attended to the preliminary plans for his education, Norrell had not given much thought to Mrs Strange.
“You must understand,” said Norrell, weighing his words solemnly, “it is a very powerful thing to have the name of a magician’s dæmon. I would strongly advise you against telling any other person. This knowledge can be used against you – it is knowledge of your very soul. There are many accounts of magicians throughout the ages undone by simple carelessness on this count. There are some spells that require you to name your dæmon, but these spells must only be undertaken with the utmost caution. I advise you to never speak her true name unless you are certain that you are alone, or else all too easily your enemies may come to know it.”
Norrell saw from Strange’s faintly stricken look that he was taking this warning to heart.
“Of course, this sort of thing was a problem when England was full of magic and full of magicians. Now, it is only the two of us." Norrell smiled kindly. "I will guard your dæmon's name as closely as I do my own. This is how it has been done for centuries. It must begin this way – with the pupil handing over his sacred name.”
Strange was silent.
His silence lasted rather longer than Norrell expected it to.
“Of course,” said Norrell finally, uncertainly, “if...you should need more time to consider the matter…”
“Please do not think that I hesitate,” said Strange. “I want very much to learn under you. I am resolute. Indeed, in all the time I have spent trying to settle on a profession, I have never felt so resolute as I do now. It is the thing I must do. I want to learn magic.” Strange had been gesturing emphatically as he spoke, and now, as he seemed to have gained sufficient momentum, he paused with his hand raised before him, and said,
“Her name is…”
His mouth worked in silence.
He closed his fist and dropped it irritably.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled.
“There is no rush,” said Norrell. “It is no trivial matter. Come, let us have some breakfast and then–”
“/̛͉̞̻̣̫̟̺/͙̝̝͈̤͍/̺̩͕̺̹͘/,” said Strange on a shaky exhale. He looked down at his dæmon. “That is her true name. But to me she is simply Henrietta. Henny.”
With this bit of business done, they repaired to the breakfast room.
It was after they had eaten and were returning to the library that Strange ventured to ask if he may know the name of Mr Norrell’s dæmon.
“Oh, dear me. No, no.” Norrell turned to his pupil with an indulgent smile. “You misunderstand, Mr Strange. That is not the done thing. I am the senior, you see.”
They had come into the library and Norrell gestured for Strange to close the door.
“You do me the honour of demonstrating your trust in me, and in return, I endeavour to enrich you by my instruction.” Norrell put out his arm to indicate the bookshelves. Dorothea, perched on his shoulder, partially opened her wings at the sudden movement.
“Of course,” said Strange quietly. His dog-dæmon stood placid and biddable by his side. Norrell felt a thrill of satisfaction to look at them both, standing there in his library, ready to learn from him.
It was a peculiar pleasure to know that he held the future of another magician in his hands. What he was feeling was surely the emotion felt by every magician of ages past who had taken an apprentice.
“The common name I use for my dæmon is Dorothea. And you may call her that.” Norrell gestured to the little owl. “Now then. I've drawn up a plan of study for the next ten years...”
*