Darkness swirls around Strange's dream. He's in a grand library, though the library itself is in a state of disarray and devoid of any books. Instead, it's full of birds: twenty or so ravens perch on the bookshelves, scattered throughout the library. Occasionally they caw, flitting from shelf to shelf. Broken shards of mirrors litter the floor—which is odd as there aren't any empty mirror frames to be seen.
And, as stated before, it's dark. Outside of the windows is blackness. The darkness writhes, almost like a living thing as it moves throughout the room, staying on the edges. It covers a bookshelf but withdraws shortly afterwards. It reaches up to try and swallow one of the birds, but it flies away just in time. Despite the fact that it is immensely dark, all the details of the room are still visible (because dreams are dumb that way). Occasionally, muffled voices come from the darkness. Most of them are unfamiliar: a pleading and sad woman's voice, the authoritarian voice of a man used to command, a middle-aged man who just sounds so tired. But one of those muffled voices is familiar to Steven: it's Childermass's.
In the middle of it all is Strange, without his carnival changes and looking more like his pre-castle scruffy, unshaven hobo self. In his hands, he's holding a candle, the only source of light in the room. He's holding it far too close to himself, cupping the flame with his other hand to keep it burning. And, as he hears someone enter, in true Strange fashion, he starts complaining.
"It took you long enough! Honestly, Norrell, I cannot keep this lit under my own—" Hang on a second, that tiny person is not Gilbert Norrell. Strange pauses, looks at Steven, and then comes to the conclusion that huh, this is weird! Perhaps Norrell sent him? But Norrell doesn't know Steven, does he? Dream logic smooths all that out as Strange looks at Steven with a frown. "Well? Do you have another candle?"
night of day 171!
And, as stated before, it's dark. Outside of the windows is blackness. The darkness writhes, almost like a living thing as it moves throughout the room, staying on the edges. It covers a bookshelf but withdraws shortly afterwards. It reaches up to try and swallow one of the birds, but it flies away just in time. Despite the fact that it is immensely dark, all the details of the room are still visible (because dreams are dumb that way). Occasionally, muffled voices come from the darkness. Most of them are unfamiliar: a pleading and sad woman's voice, the authoritarian voice of a man used to command, a middle-aged man who just sounds so tired. But one of those muffled voices is familiar to Steven: it's Childermass's.
In the middle of it all is Strange, without his carnival changes and looking more like his pre-castle scruffy, unshaven hobo self. In his hands, he's holding a candle, the only source of light in the room. He's holding it far too close to himself, cupping the flame with his other hand to keep it burning. And, as he hears someone enter, in true Strange fashion, he starts complaining.
"It took you long enough! Honestly, Norrell, I cannot keep this lit under my own—" Hang on a second, that tiny person is not Gilbert Norrell. Strange pauses, looks at Steven, and then comes to the conclusion that huh, this is weird! Perhaps Norrell sent him? But Norrell doesn't know Steven, does he? Dream logic smooths all that out as Strange looks at Steven with a frown. "Well? Do you have another candle?"