Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

by Susanna Clarke

The gentleman was already on the packhorse bridge. Stephen followed him and … … and everything changed. The sun came out from behind a cloud; it shone through the winter trees; hundreds of small, bright patches of sunlight appeared. The world became a kind of puzzle or labyrinth. It was like the superstition which says that one must not walk upon lines between flag stones – or the strange magic called the Doncaster Squares which is performed upon a board like a chessboard. Suddenly everything had meaning. Stephen hardly dared take another step. If he did so – if, for example, he stepped into that shadow or that spot of light, then the world might be forever altered. “Wait!” he thought, wildly. “I am not ready for this! I have not considered. I do not know what to do!” But it was too late. He looked up. The bare branches against the sky were a writing and, though he did not want to, he could read it. He saw that it was a question put to him by the trees. “Yes,” he answered them. Their age and their knowledge belonged to him. Beyond the trees was a high, snow-covered ridge, like a line drawn across the sky. Its shadow was blue upon the snow before it. It embodied all kinds of cold and hardness. It hailed Stephen as a King it had long missed. At a word from Stephen it would tumble down and crush his enemies. It asked Stephen a question. “Yes,” he told it. Its scorn and strength were his for the taking. The black beck beneath the packhorse bridge sang its question to him. “Yes...