The chalk path wound down the escarpment like a finger drawn through wet ash—pale, tentative, and destined to be washed away by the first proper rain. Eleanor had walked it a thousand times since coming to Gablethorne, but she still approached it with the reverent caution of someone treading on ground that might speak.
The village of Gablethorne clung to the hillside like a barnacle to ship...
Arthur Blackwell stood at the edge of Bloomsbury, where the gas lamps had only recently been replaced by electric ones, and the fog that rolled in from the Thames carried the weight of a thousand unspoken stories. He was a man who had spent his life searching for compasses—golden compasses, brass compasses, compasses of silver and iron—but he had never found the one that truly pointed him where...
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