From here she could see the shadowed mountains in the distance and the wider body of water. She’d have to ask Morgan what it was called.Heather perfumed the humid air, and a line of dark clouds marched toward them, threatening another afternoon of rain.Below, on the slope of the glen, nearly at the edge of the water, she saw a whitewashed long house, obviously deserted. The thatch roof was in pieces and the door stood ajar.This was the desolation Mr. Seath had talked about; this was what the 8th Earl of Denbleigh had wanted and designed. There, on the heather covered hills, were the undulating flocks of sheep, black-faced and sturdy, eating their way across the earth.Morgan was walking toward a sycamore tree that sat by itself in the middle of the glen. She followed, taking care to avoid the worst of the brambles and nettles, and an occasional hole in the ground leading to some animal’s burrow.“What is it?” she asked, reaching him.His palm pressed against the bark of the tree. Above his fingers something glittered in the bright sunlight.
