And she was weary. Bronte put her foot down. The still and oppressive heat of the day was giving way to a stiff but warm breeze as storm clouds, black and boiling, rolled in from the South East, from the continent. Rather than use the air-conditioning in her car, Bronte had the passenger and driver's windows down. It was late afternoon and the narrow road was quiet. She hummed along to Coldplay's A Sky Full Of Stars, that blared from her speakers. Ozone electrified the air, she could smell it. She knew the twists and turns of the road like the back of her hand. Intuition took over as her hands relaxed on the steering wheel. How many years had she driven this road? Twelve? But then a sixth-sense took over, made her take her foot off the gas as she took the turn to pass the place where her parents had perished. The family had erected a small memorial, a carved cross made of oak from trees planted in the land surrounding Ludlow hall.
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