The Painting on the Cover of Thursday's Child

The painting on the cover of Thursday’s Child is a copy of ‘The Crucifiction’, by Jan Van Eck, done about 1440, and on permanent display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York (Gallery 624). Thursday’s Child is not a supernatural story as such. It’s a sophisticated love story, as much literary fiction as romance, but with a considerable resonance of myth and magic, expressed in indirect, secular terms. One of the central scenes of the book takes place at the Met (as it is affectionately nicknamed). The heroine, Adele Janson, and Tom Newcombe, a man whom she finds fascinating, are strolling through the exhibits. I’ll quote from the book:

[𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘹𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘪𝘭-𝘰𝘯-𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

I𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘑𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣y 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘢𝘯 Eycks 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥-𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘺. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯, 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘳, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘈𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘶𝘣𝘪𝘮 – 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 – 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘺, 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘺, 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

“𝘠𝘦𝘴,” 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, “𝘐 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭; 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯; 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭. . . ” 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘷𝘦; 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺. “𝘛𝘰𝘮, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘐'𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯? 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦? 𝘛𝘰𝘮? 𝘛𝘰𝘮, 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦.”

𝘏𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘧. “𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘦.”

𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘢𝘯 Eyck 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭, 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳.”

“𝘚𝘰 d𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨.” 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. “𝘐'𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭. 𝘐'𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯.”]

Some time later, when all sorts of unexpected consequences have arisen as the result of the impromptu excursion Adele took with this man, she revisits the museum, trying to get some clue as to who he actually is:

[𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵; 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 – “𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘑𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵,” 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘑𝘢𝘯 𝘝𝘢𝘯 Eyck, 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘺𝘤𝘩, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘹 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘖𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘶𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭, 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘊𝘈𝘋 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴; 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤es 𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥-𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘺, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 – 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘺𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 – 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵 – 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘺𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘮 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘛𝘰𝘮 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯; 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘸𝘢𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵.]

I repeat - Thursday’s Child is not a horror story. The novel is about Adele’s attempts to unriddle this fascinating man, and her experiences along the way. The materials are secular and contemporary - and yet there is a sense of deeper meaning in everything she encounters.

The reader who joins Adele on her journey is in for a treat. As one of the reviewers put it, the book is magical, mesmerizing. But it is the kind of secular magic that never fully reveals itself - maybe the only kind of real magic there is.