Cover Blurb:
"Still secretly mourning
the baby she
lost five years ago, Lynette Ravenshaw
is glad to escape her hectic London job as a literary agent for a few
days
on the idyllis Pembrokeshire coast. There, with two witty authors
and a charming antiques dealer, she prepares to celebrate a quiet
Christmas
in spite of their brilliant, brooding, reclusive neighbour, Gareth
Morgan
-- a playwright whose passion for Celtic antiquity is rivalled by his
rudeness.
Yet it is a recurring dream that disturbs Lyn the most -- a dream of a
monstrous creatire and a pleading blue-robed woman with a golden-haired
child. Who is the woman in blue? What is the evil that
threatens
her? How is Lyn supposed to help? The mystery deepens when
Lyn meets Elen Vaughan, a troubled young widow afraid of losing her
infant
son. Soon Lyn finds herself playing a role in an ancient drama
leading
to a place where past and present intersect -- a place whose secrets
will
change Lyn's life forever.
Introduction:
"It was a strange sensation,
to be
dreaming, and to know that I was dreaming,
and yet to feel myself responding as though everything were real.
As she turned from the bedpost, preparing to leave, I pushed back my
covers
and scrambled after her. 'Wait,' I said, 'you can't go yet.
You haven't said what I'm supposed to do.'
"She glided on, not looking
back.
'Sleep now, for on the morrow
you will need your strength.'
"It suddenly occurred to me
that something
was missing. 'Your
son,' I said, frowning. 'Where is he?'
"But already she was at the
window, and
the velvet draperies reached
to draw her deep into their shadows while the glass became a mirror
that
reflected my own image.
"Mine, and someone else's.
"A smaller figure stood beside
me,
softened by the rippled glass, the
blazing fire behind him setting all of him aglow until his golden curls
became a halo shining round his upturned face.
"And as I caught my breath and
pulled my
gaze away from our reflection,
looking down to meet the child's eyes, I felt his hand slip warm and
trusting
into mine."
Author's Note
"If you should chance to go
to Wales,
and if the road should lead you down
to Angle, where the Haven meets the sea, then you'll find Castle Farm
standing
as I've described it, the green hills behind, and the cows peering
curious
over the fence from the field where the ancient stone dovecote still
sits,
and the cats coming round from the little back garden to give you a
proper
Welsh welcome. Above the western door the blind-eyed Gerald Stone
will fix its gaze beyond you to the tower by the gate, where round the
high and roofless walls the wind tells its tales in a whispering voice
and the crows keep restless watch. I know these things because I
passed a winter in the old West House of Castle Farm, with Pam amd
Ralph
Rees as my landlords and friends, and the people of Angle as warm and
helpful
as family.
"It began with my good friends
Margoe and
David Hammon, whom I met some
years ago in Chinon, France, while doing research for The Splendour
Falls, and who were most insistent that I should journey down to
visit
them, in Pembroke. 'We have a castle, too,' they said, 'and you
could
write about it.'
"And so they do. And
so I have."
Dedication:
"This one is for Ken"
