Hand artfully raised and cradling a sherry glass, Alastair Romilly de Vere viewed the towering gothic structure with a mixture of reverence and distaste. There were few other buildings that inspired such a strong reaction of dislike in his being. Bricks and mortar were rarely the enemy of man, rather it was the folk who inhabited them who were the problem, the temple being the absolute exception to that rule. Why had he allowed himself to become embroiled in this pointless dare? He didn’t give a jot if his family or society as a whole thought he lacked bottom. Could he do this? Could he go back in there? Sixteen long years had passed since he’d last ventured across the folly’s threshold. He’d been a mere boy the last time, seven years old and not a care in the world. Yet the horror he’d known still visited him. Alexander would laugh to know it—Alexander, his elder brother, who had locked Alastair and their sister Viola inside the tower, then sat back and laughed at their panicked shrieks.
