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In a land far, far from Yorkshire, Archibald Craven woke from his dream with a start. It had been so clear, so vivid! In it, he had heard his wife’s voice calling to him, ‘Archie! Archie!’ He had smelled something in his dream too. The scent of roses. ‘Oh, Lilias,’ he whispered, ‘Lilias, where are you?’
‘In the garden,’ came the voice, ‘in the garden!’
All day, the dream stayed with him. It followed him on his long, lonely walk up the Italian mountainside. It followed him as he passed by the dazzling lake beneath. What didn’t follow him, for once, was the dark shadow he had carried around for ten years. The shadow that clung to him like an ice-cold fog, no matter how far from Misselthwaite Manor he roamed.
It was such a strange dream, he thought to himself. So real. ‘She is calling me back,’ Archibald thought, ‘she is calling me home.’
