The road that ran along the front of it used to have cobblestones, but had been overlaid with bitumen only ten years ago, so said the village policeman who gave Winter long-winded directions. There was a tor right behind the cottage, which set the cottage off by itself from the rest of the village and ensured that modern urban development would never take over this ancient corner of the world. Low dark clouds had settled in by the time they reached the cottage and fine mist—not quite rain—settled on everything. “Now I remember what I hate about soggy old Ireland,” Nial muttered, looking up at the clouds that seemed so low Winter could reach up and touch them. “It’s stunning,” she dared to confess. “For the first hour or two,” he agreed. “Try twenty years of it.” He pushed open the low garden gate and stepped aside for her to enter while he looked the cottage over. “This was his family’s. I wonder how he got it back?” “His family’s?” Winter questioned. “Never mind,”
