The air in the place was stony, cool and dry. It had no smell. It was the atmosphere of a cave. But now, as she pounded along, she sensed a change. In hints and wisps at first, a fresher breeze came down to her. A breeze more vivid with the moisture of mist, a trace of earth and winter in it. Her jaw tightened, her teeth gnashed together. She upped her pace, hobbling ferociously, the tempo of her stick on the stone increasing.

The air grew richer, damper, more alive. She felt the floor rising beneath her. She knew she was coming to the end of the trail.

But she was barreling along so swiftly by then that she almost walked into the dead end when she reached it. Her stick hit the wall in front of her. She pulled up short, her nose just inches from the flat stone.

Breathing hard, she turned. She edged backwards down the tunnel, one step, two, then three. There it was. A recess to one side. And it was faintly visible. The tremulous, intermittent silver light of the moon filtered down into it over the dim shape of a stairway.

Harper moved towards that light. Reaching out, she found the banister, cold iron, crumbling with rust. The stairway was so steep it was nearly a ladder. She grimaced as she hoisted first one foot onto it, then another. Above her, she saw a broken outline of a hole, the fog beyond shot through with light.

And with the banister’s rust flaking off under her palm, she drew herself up by the banister, up the stairs.

She was panting as she reached the top, as she extended her hand to the broken iron door. Already, she saw, it was ajar, the mist teasing at the edge, the fresh air washing into her through the gap. She had her stick and the railing in one hand; she pushed against the door with the other. The door complained and ground against the earth. But it swung steadily open.

Harper Albright climbed up the last steps, ducked her head beneath the stone architrave and rose out of the little crypt to emerge into the abbey’s churchyard.

A plain of mist and moonglow. A field of graves. A dead elm hanging down as if in mourning. And the triangle of the shattered wall soaring black through the haze into the swirling sky.