By Kate Mosse
By means of the writer of the recent York Times-bestselling Labyrinth, a narrative of 2 lives touched via warfare and reworked through braveness. within the iciness of 1928, nonetheless looking a few type of answer to the horrors of global battle I, Freddie is touring throughout the appealing yet forbidding French Pyrenees. in the course of a storm from snow, his automobile spins off the mountain highway. Dazed, he stumbles during the woods, rising in a tiny village, the place he unearths an resort to attend out the snowstorm. There he meets Fabrissa, a beautiful younger lady additionally mourning a misplaced iteration. Over the process one evening, Fabrissa and Freddie proportion their tales. by the point sunrise breaks, Freddie could have unearthed a sad, centuries-old secret, and came across his personal position within the lifetime of this distant city.
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Damp palms, dry throat, the familiar spike of pain in my stomach. I took off my cap and leather gloves, ran my fingers through my hair and covered my eyes. Sticky fingers smelling of hair oil and shame, that grief should still come so easily, that after all the talking cures, the treatments and kindness, the kneeling at hard wooden pews at evensong, I still carried within me a cracked heart that refused to heal. It was then that I first became aware of a disturbance in the air. A kind of restlessness.
All wrong. Was I the elder brother now, having lived longer than George? Had we exchanged places? Such thoughts, becoming ever more heated, spun round and round in my mind. The waiters glided past us in black and white. The bubbles of the champagne scratched at the back of my throat. The clatter of cutlery grated on my nerves. ‘Do make an effort, Frederick,’ my mother snapped. ’ ‘Leave the boy alone,’ my father growled, but he waved away the offer of a second bottle of Montebello. All I could think about were birthdays past, when George had made me laugh and brought me presents and transformed an ordinary day into something special.
Every step to be relished. He was tall and clean-shaven, a little thin perhaps. Dressed by Savile Row. A light woollen suit of herringbone weave, the jacket wide on the shoulders and narrow at the waist. His fawn gloves matched his trilby. He looked like an Englishman, secure in his right to be on such a street on such a pleasant afternoon in spring. But nothing is as it seems. For every step was a little too careful, a little too deliberate, as if he was unwilling to take even the ground beneath his feet entirely for granted.