When the world at last came into focus, Digory and Polly discovered that the pool they had jumped into led to a world altogether strange: They found themselves standing on what seemed to be opposite sides of a dividing line, separating a land of snow and ice and driving winds, as cold as the depths of winter—which Polly stood in, shivering and wrapping her sweater tighter around her body—from a land of knee-high grass and birdsong and sunlight, as warm as the fullest flush of summer—which Digory stood in, peeling his coat from his shoulders.

“What is this place?” Polly asked, teeth chattering, and she at once leapt over to Digory’s side, where in an instant the warmth of the sun melted the snowflakes that had been gathering on her hair and shoulders, and she let out a great sigh of relief and tilted her face up to the sunlight.

“I don’t know,” said Digory, bending over to look at the divide between the two lands more closely—it was merely a furrow of empty soil, and the two lands abutted against it—before shivering in a sudden chill despite the warmth and adding, “but let’s not stay here any longer.”