What if Elizabeth Bennett has magic? And Mr Darcy was a closet magician? And Mr Rochester a royal detective? What if magic makes a woman terribly unsuitable as a wife, so she has to go play nanny for a troubled little girl in the deeps of a moors, where a forest comes alive at the call of madwoman? What if Jane Eyre gets married to Wuthering Heights, then has a genteel affair with Pride and Prejudice, as Charles Dickens eludes highwaymen with the power of illusion? What if all these, and more, are in the shadow of 12 planets soon to align, heralding the return of creatures from another reality?
Which Team Mister are you? Team Darcy or Team Rochester?
A banquet of classics, The Magicians and Mrs Quent filled me up satisfactorily. And I don’t care if Victorian melodrama don’t sit well with Edwardian manners, and gasses up around such insane concepts as umbrals and luminals. So what if I split personalities myself. I love cholesterol.