In that twisted nocturnal world, fire tore through the cottage, destroying every trace of Hester but leaving the building itself miraculously untouched. She looked on helplessly while someone – the dream would not reveal who – walked about inside, adding the manuscript to the flames page by precious page. When she finally awoke, her relief was tempered by the smell of burning. It was just light enough for her to look at her watch without the help of a torch: half past five, neither night nor morning. She grabbed her dressing gown and hurried downstairs to check the fires, but the grate in the study was as grey and lifeless as the dawn, and the range would need a lot of coaxing before breakfast. The smell was less detectable downstairs. She opened the back door and went a little way out into the garden, shivering as her bare feet touched the paving stones, but the bonfire had died quietly with no stray embers to find their way into the thatch as she had feared. The air was damp and still, the fields half-veiled in a lingering, delicate ground mist, and she was struck by the dark bulk of trees behind the cottage.
What do You think about The Death Of Lucy Kyte (2013)?
