A year went by, the seasons marching on in their uncompromising way. Imogen had relinquished the house utterly to her niece. It held nothing of the old life except memories grown too painful. Olivia worked hard to build a new life out of it, but progress, as always, was slow. Imogen might be gone, but there remained other ghosts to appease. Moving too much of the furniture at once resulted in chairlegs scratched and fraye...

At the crossroads two women stood, silhouetted against the lavender and cream of the day's end. The moon lurked somewhere deep in the veils of black branches. Down the hill, Reverend Milton was putting a heavy chain and padlock on the churchyard gate, the sound carrying clear in the quiet. Olivia grimaced at their exposed location. It had to be here, at the crossroads. "Verity!" she hissed. "Go and keep a lookout. Please,...

The ringing of the telephone dragged Olivia from the borderlands of sleep and she answered with a growled "Who is it?" A crackling pause, then: "Libby, is that you?" The voice on the other end of the line was faint, obscured, familiar from a lifetime ago. "This handwriting is near illegible, dreadful low class scribble..." the words choked off into tears. "Auntie Imogen?" Imogen gave a shaky sigh, composing herself. "I've...