George thought of his mother’s wedding ring patiently sitting in a vault in the family solicitor’s offices overlooking the West Door of the cathedral in Chichester. He was resolved now. The decision was made. He would present himself to Colonel Purfew at the first opportunity on his return to England. And from that all of his life would follow. It was time to go back. January 1892 would find him at home.
Sandall stood up. ‘Are you ready to go on, sir?’
‘How much further?’
‘Quite a way, sir. Pretty steep from here on.’
George looked up at the bare rock. Suddenly the sadness of the story seemed too real. A chill came over him, despite the warmth of the afternoon. He shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. Going further felt impossible. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Sandall nodded, as if not surprised. They turned their backs and walked away. Leaving the place where, still, the mountain wept for Pyrène.
Kate Mosse Sussex, August 2009
1
An earlier version of this story was published as The Cave, a novella written for the 2009 Quick Reads initiative aimed at adult emergent readers.
Kate Mosse, The Winter Ghosts
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