A novel of duty and destiny from the pioneering fantasy author, the “inventor of a new mythology and weaver of surprising folklore” (H. P. Lovecraft). In Spain, Gonsalvo, the Lord of the Tower, is in a bind. His daughter is nearing her fifteenth year and should marry soon, yet she has no dowry. To cure the ills of his impoverished family, Gonsalvo turns to his son, Ramon Alonzo. He tells Ramon Alonzo the story of his grandfather, who is owed a favor by a magician. Now that the family is in dire need of money, Gonsalvo sends Ramon Alonzo to the forests beyond Aragona to meet the sorcerer and learn the secrets of the Black Art, in particular, the act of transmuting base metals into gold. Ramon Alonzo does as he is told. But he is warned by the magician’s charwoman that the wizard’s fees are too high to pay. After gifting her with immortality, the magician took her shadow, making her an outcast among the villagers. Heeding her words yet unwilling to give up on his mission, Ramon Alonzo will have to decide just what he is willing to sacrifice—for money, for his family, and for love . . . “Dunsany’s best stories remain unique: nobody else has ever been able to capture his visions.” —Ursula K. Le Guin, Los Angeles Times Book Review “Perhaps the strongest single influence in the development of fantasy fiction in the present century.” —L. Sprague de Camp “Lord Dunsany is the great grandfather of us all.” —Jane Yolen, winner of the National Book Award, Nebula Award, and World Fantasy Award

An old woman who spends her days scrubbing the floors might be an unlikely damsel in distress, but Lord Dunsany proves once again his mastery of the fantastical. The Charwoman's Shadow is a beautiful tale of a sorcerer's apprentice who discovers his master's nefarious usage of stolen shadows, and vows to save the charwoman from her slavery.

"An old woman who spends her days scrubbing the floors might be an unlikely damsel in distress, but Lord Dunsany proves once again his mastery of the fantastical. The Charwoman's Shadow is a beautiful tale of a sorcerer's apprentice who discovers his master's nefarious usage of stolen shadows, and vows to save the charwoman from her slavery."--Publisher's description.

An old woman who spends her days scrubbing the floors might be an unlikely damsel in distress, but Lord Dunsany proves once again his mastery of the fantastical. The Charwoman's Shadow is a beautiful tale of a sorcerer's apprentice who discovers his master's nefarious usage of stolen shadows, and vows to save the charwoman from her slavery.

In the Hugo-award winning, epic New York Times Bestseller and basis for the BBC miniseries, two men change England's history when they bring magic back into the world. In the midst of the Napoleonic Wars in 1806, most people believe magic to have long since disappeared from England - until the reclusive Mr. Norrell reveals his powers and becomes an overnight celebrity. Another practicing magician then emerges: the young and daring Jonathan Strange. He becomes Norrell's pupil, and the two join forces in the war against France. But Strange is increasingly drawn to the wild, most perilous forms of magic, and he soon risks sacrificing his partnership with Norrell and everything else he holds dear. Susanna Clarke's brilliant first novel is an utterly compelling epic tale of nineteenth-century England and the two magicians who, first as teacher and pupil and then as rivals, emerge to change its history.

MARY MAKEBELIEVE lived with her mother in a small room at the very top of a big, dingy house in a Dublin back street. As long as she could remember she had lived in that top back room. She knew every crack in the ceiling, and they were numerous and of of mildew on strange shapes. Every spot the ancient wall-paper was familiar. She had, indeed, watched the growth of most from a greyish shade to a dark stain, from a spot to a great blob, and the holes in the skirting of the walls, out of which at night time the cockroaches came rattling, she knew also. There was but one window in the room, and when she wished to look out of it she had to push the window up, because the grime of many years had so encrusted the glass that it was of no more than the demi-semi-transparency of thin horn. When she did look there was nothing to see but a bulky array of chimney-pots crowning a next-door house, and these continually hurled jays of soot against her window therefore, she did not care to look out often, for each time that she did so she was forced to wash herself, and as water had to be carried from the very bottom of the five -story house up hundreds and hundreds of stairs to her room, she disliked having to use too much water. Her mother seldom washed at all. She held that washing was very unhealthy and took the natural gloss off the face, and that, moreover, soap either tightened the skin or made it wrinkle. Her own face was very tight in some places and very loose in others, and Mary Makebelieve often thought that the tight places were spots which her mother used to wash when she was young, and the loose parts were those which had never been washed at all. She thought that she would prefer to be either loose all over her face or tight all over it, and, therefore, when she washed she did it thoroughly, and when she abstained she allowed of no compromise. Her mothers face was the colour of old, old ivory. Her nose was like a great strong beak, and on it the skin was stretched very tightly, so that her nose shone dully when the candle was lit. Her eyes were big and as black as pools of ink and as bright as the eyes of a bird. Her hair also was black, it was as smooth as the finest silk, and when unloosened it hung straightly down, shining about her ivory face. Her lips were thin and scarcely coloured at all, and her hands were sharp, quick hands, all seeming knuckle when she closed them and all fingers when they were opened again. Mary Makebelieve loved her mother very dearly, and her mother returned her affection with an overwhelming passion that sometimes surged into physically painful caresses. When her mother hugged her for any length of time she soon wept, rocking herself and her daughter to and fro, and her clutch became then so frantic that poor Mary Makebelieve found it difficult to draw her breath but she would not for the world have disturbed the career of her mothers love. Indeed, she found some pleasure in the fierceness of those caresses, and welcomed the pain far more than she reprobated it. Her mother went out early every morning to work, and seldom returned home until late at night. She was a charwoman, and her work was to scrub out rooms and wash down staircases. She also did cooking when she was asked, and needlework when she got any to do...