Tried to sleep, rather—the visit with Jane had been very disturbing, and Michelle was still back in Dartmoor. The next day, we all returned to Grimswell Hall late in the afternoon. Dartmoor was a welcome sight, the air clean and bracing after the stench of London. The ride to the hall was spectacular, the terrain so varied—the sweeping, barren expanses of the moor, the streams of cold clear water, the patches of stunted woods with twisted black oaks, their leaves gone, the marshy dark mires where man or beast trod at their peril, and the black granite tors atop the hills set against the luminous sky. However, as we drew closer to our destination, my spirits sank. Michelle took my hand. “Is something wrong?” I shrugged, then glanced at Rose Grimswell and Holmes. “No.” Michelle frowned. She knew me well: she could read me like a book. Soon we were following the drive through the trees, the massive edifice of dark stone ahead. We stepped down, and the heavy oaken doors of the main entry swung open.
