You [antikvár]

One February It's haunted, she thought. They emerged from the lanes on to the upper reaches of the moor, and Cecília understood that the baby girl was still there: there in the sodden cloud shadows, there in the bracken. Once she had thought that her baby lived in her own mind only, projected on to passing buggies and strangers, the back of a dress glimpsed and lost.Yet the child had stayed here all along, here where the wind blew and the ponies' manes made limp flags. She had never gone away. They drove across several miles of countryside — mother, father, three daughters — to a hamlet in a river valley near the centre of the moor. The children pushed out of the car to approach their new home on foot, the older girls languidly disgruntled as they lifted their mobiles skyward in search of reception, the young-est impatient in her desire to capture a Dartmoor pony. A nőise more raw and round than anything they'd heard in London filled their ears, roadside streams racing, lone birds fat and savage with sound. Cecilia followed them towards the house of her childhood, now her own new home. It was the same, joltingly the same as it had always been, changed only by distortions of memory that receded as the stone reality confronted her, but she walked up the path through the garden as hesitantly as an intruder.