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The first spell was quite unintentional. Well, mostly unintentional.
As Arabella stared down into the now clear water below her she was filled with a desperate urge to do something. Anything! Just let him go, he says. Be happy, he says. She had always known that Jonathan lacked a certain logical quality. Passionate? Naturally. Clever? Certainly. Creative? But of course. And intelligent, well, she had never had cause to doubt. Now though, now she didn’t just doubt. She was Damn sure. Her husband was a complete imbecile! She had waited for him, not just through one war, or two, but through an entire lifetime of one fool excuse after another. Too young, needed to travel, without a carreer, Father won’t let me, taking an apprenticeship. God the list just went on! More the fool her.
Honestly. What in all nine hells was the man thinking?! Yes, of course, dear, despite having withstood the barriers of an army, a continent, heavy artillery, lost friends, pestilence, oh yes, the constant looming spectre of Death, and the many days afterward where he would seem to stare through her as if one of them were a ghost; no, no, CLEARLY it is this entirely intangible spinning smokestack that is worth giving up over.
All of a sudden, it was there, in her mind. An epiphany like a lightening strike. The only thing standing between her and her husband was his giving up. It was after all, all about perspective; and with that she promptly grabbed the dead vine from the wall, and traced the form of that first spell, witnessed so long ago.
It was so simple. She lifted her hand from the surface, and there he was, her Enemy. Her Love. Her Jonathan.
He had collapsed, caught in the arms of his once mentor and friend. He looked even worse, somehow, wain and weak. Oh god, he was dying!
The image started to waver.
He lied to her! Deceived her! How could he?!
It sharpened once more. Yes, that was better. Perspective.
His head lolled back as he lost consciousness. Norrell held him tight in a white knuckled grip, then stilled. He seemed to steel himself suddenly, a look of peace settling over his features. Then he drew his hand down Jonathan’s jaw, parting his lips, and leaned forward, as if to kiss him.
Surely he would not presume upon her husband in such a wretched state. But, no, even as the affront grew within her a mist, like fog seemed to roll from Mr. Norrell’s mouth flowing like water into Jonathan’s. With each shallow breath he seemed to regain a bit of his usual color. As the moments passed his breaths grew deeper and more even. He seemed now closer to a natural slumber, rather than a hair's breadth from death. Mr Norrell, however, was looking significantly more palid than he had before, and only stopped the mist flowing when he collapsed, his forehead resting atop Jonathan’s own, as his eyes momentarily rolled back. Shortly, he regained himself enough to roll to the side, eyes squeezed shut, the hand he brought to his temple knocked his wig askew.
How had she ever thought herself to hate this man? Her heart swelled with relief, and joy. That man. That damnable man, wonderful man! Why in this moment she surely loved him almost as much as Jonathan, himself.
...the idiot.
It was no good. Even as her tears caused the water to ripple the image was already gone. Such petty spites were not enough to fuel the spell. But it hardly mattered, magic was plentiful and varied. If she had learned nothing else from her husband’s tales, she had learned that. She would have her husband back, and she would see him again in the meantime. She had his original manuscript, and all his notes. If a spell did not exist, she would simply have to craft one. Clearly magic was not so far beyond her grasp as she had thought. If her husband could craft miracles on no sleep, depleted field rations and next to no resources, she could surely manage with Time, patience, and all of the Shropshire estate available.
Yes, well nothing for it then. A woman’s work is never done. She supposes she will even rescue Mr. Norrell, as well.