The Phantom Tree. Nicola Cornick
Читать онлайн.| Название | The Phantom Tree |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Nicola Cornick |
| Жанр | Контркультура |
| Серия | MIRA |
| Издательство | Контркультура |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9781474050692 |
NICOLA CORNICK is a historian and author. She studied at London University and Ruskin College Oxford and works for the National Trust as a guide at the seventeenth-century hunting lodge Ashdown House in Oxfordshire. Her award-winning books are international bestsellers and have been translated into 26 languages.
For old friends, and remembering Flagstone Farm andan evening of remarkable plotting.
‘Time, the thief.’
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
Contents
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Alison, Marlborough, Wiltshire, the present day
She saw the portrait quite by chance, or so she thought.
It was eight weeks to Christmas and the rain sodden streets of Marlborough already glistened in the gaudy light of the decorations that were strung from buildings and lampposts. The wind was strong that night and the illuminations swung back and forth scattering shadows and shards of colour over the late-night shoppers below. A Victorian market was being held in the town square and the air was thick with the smell of grilled sausages and hot soup. It made Alison feel hungry.
She put her head down and increased her pace against the fine rain that slicked the pavements. She hated this sort of faux historical event with rosy, smiling stallholders dressed up in costume. Beneath the crinolines and jackets they had on their thermal vests and long johns to guard against the cold. They had waterproof boots and raincoats. They thought this play-acting was fun, a jolly celebration of Christmas past.
She remembered past Christmases very differently; the bone sharp cold, the damp, the chilblains and the hunger that had hollowed her stomach. Even though she had been trapped in the present day for so long now that time had started to blur, some of her past she could remember with utter clarity. Pain, sickness, violence, death, had been a raw reality. Someone thrust a toffee apple under her nose in an invitation to buy, and she shuddered and turned away, picking up her pace along the pavement.
There was a creaking noise high above her, a flap as the wind caught the edge of an inn sign and set it swinging.
The White Hart.
She stared at the image of the majestic white stag as it swayed backwards and forwards in the wind. Its head was raised proudly. Around its neck was a golden