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304 pages, Paperback
First published May 14, 2015
Chapter 1For decades there were no words. A muteness between the sisters ruled. Bitter, resentful notes to each other graced the tables in their dusty, derelict abode. Silence was inevitable. History: unforgivable, unforgetful, unmentionable.
What did he care about Roscarbury, how the old house folded around them in bad times, how it was the only place where she felt safe? The rooms were so cold in winter you could see your breath, the stairs to the attic creaked like a banshee, and the chill winds rattled the window latches in a din of constant tapping. The parkland dipped and rolled away to the lake, so it was impossible for Sheehy the farmer to get his hay cutter properly across it; the rills silted up every year, long after the cherry blossom flowers had gone dark brown and sodden and the oak and old horse chestnut trees had shed their leaves. Roscarbury existed for the worn days of summer sun, when warm air lingered in the house and the hens had to be hunted from the open back door. It was the starlings gathering and chattering on the wonky television aerial strapped to the first chimney that woke Ella every morning. The crows and pigeons in the fir trees destroyed the stone slabs around the fountain and she had to scrub it down once a month. The overgrown kitchen garden gave fruit for enough tarts through the summer months and luscious pears in a hot spell. Ella could never leave Roscarbury: the mists of the past shrouding the old house webbed around her, keeping her calm.