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359 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2013
He heard the flowers open on the hawthorn bushes, the bees wake, the small furled buds of oak and ash and rowan rustle and uncurl. He felt the wind change and the breeze shiver, hedgehogs crisp through banks of leaves, tadpoles in the lake open their eyes and grow tails and swim in the deep water.
And from deep below the house he became aware of a sound he realized he had heard all night under his pillow, in his dreams – the roar of the swollen river Wintercombe, in its deep ravine beneath the very cellars.
Hurrying after Piers, he noted rain dripping into more buckets here and there, damp green mouldy patches forming on the ceilings. The whole Abbey was leaking and running with water.
In the Monk's Walk the stone was wet under his hand, the gargoyles of lost mediaeval monsters vomiting rain through their open mouths. He sensed all at once the soft timbers, the creaking gutters, the saturated soil under the foundations, had a sudden nightmarish terror of the great building collapsing, toppling, washing away, becoming the ruin that Sarah had hinted at.