Chapters (31)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Also by Paula Brackston
- Newsletter Sign-up
In less than a minute they have reached the stile and climb over it to step onto the lane that winds up from the lake. The tarmac feels firm beneath Tilda’s feet, and with each passing moment she begins to doubt what she saw, to find it easier to believe that the mist and the eerie light were playing tricks with her feckless eyesight and overwrought mind. The narrow road takes them past the church and immediately to the little dwelling next to it. Even as a newcomer to the area, Tilda can see that Old School House is unusual, and not built in the conventional architecture of the region. It is constructed of the same blue-gray stone as the church and is roofed with slates, but there the similarities cease. Every window, up and down, is mullioned and set in deep sills. There are pointy arches above the front door and the door set in the wall to the side. The house is approached via a little iron gate and a short path that leads through the most flower-filled garden Tilda has ever seen. Climbing roses scramble up pergolas and walls, as do wisteria, clematis, and jasmine. Even so late in the year and so early in the damp day, the air is filled with the aroma of flowers. Fine examples of hydrangeas and mock orange bushes vie with all manner of shrubs for space between the low wall that runs along the lane and the front of the house itself. Tilda can see that the garden continues around and behind the cottage, with tall and ancient trees to the rear adding shelter and shade and a sense of an enclosed and secret place. A place of beauty, of peace, and of safety.
‘Come in, come in.’ The professor drops his stick into an umbrella stand and drapes his coat over it. Tilda wriggles out of her waterproof running jacket, hands it to him, and then pulls off her muddy sneakers. ‘The sitting room is through there,’ he says, waving a hand at a door to their right. ‘You make yourself at home and I’ll make tea.’ With that he disappears into what Tilda assumes is the kitchen and soon she can hear a kettle humming and china being put on a tray.