During the daytime Pillar of Darkness was smooth and columnar, impenetrable-looking--a black rent in the sky around it, a needle that pierced the daylight. At night its edges were more difficult to determine. At what precise point did night become night? Where did ordinary meteorology end and Jonathan Strange's little piece of the world begin? What step took you from here to--elsewhere?
Only the unfamiliar stars above provided any insight. It was peculiar to remember that Strange himself was unable to observe any of this: he was playing what was probably a very vexing game of blind man's bluff, positioned as he was. So she would have at least something to offer him.
The man was a tardy answerer of doors. It was reaching the point where a second ring started to look tempting when the door swung inward to reveal a familiar-looking man in disheveled Regency dress.
"Madame Lutece," Jonathan Strange greeted her with no sign of recognition. He ran his hand back through his red hair self-consciously, in the manner of a man who knew he was in no shape to receive company; he rested his shoulder on the doorframe out of evidently idle habit. "I apologize for the state of my new quarters. Would you like to come in?"
But he peered into Rosalind's face with a piercing kind of curiosity.