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276 pages, Paperback
First published February 25, 2014










The day’s voices had fallen silent, and now the town was filled with the whispering of the sea.
The turf was soft beneath them and smelled of ancient heather and dust—long-ago vanished summers in a time of giants.
The grave was a black stroke on a green page behind him, as though God had drawn a line to end the tale of Anna.
The jangle of Fealo’s harness was like a dropped plate on a flagged floor as he tossed his head up and snorted, the only sound in a world struck dumb.
“Are you so very perfect yourself, son, that you must make yourself the right hand of God’s judgment?”
“I know all the songs tell us how terrible it is to be alone, without place or protector, a wanderer in the wilderness. I can recite the lament of the lordless with every syllable dripping with woe. It isn’t to be alone that I fear, it is to be caged. Bound to some man who thinks that because he feeds you he thus owns you.That his are the words that come out of your mouth, and his are your thoughts— that you exist only to praise and serve him. How can a man of pride bear that? How can any real man be content as another’s servant?”
Can a man have the heart of one thing and the outer appearance of another, without becoming that which he appears to be?