“Miss Lamb.” A thin face shows from the shadows a few paces away. It’s pale as death, its eyes so dark they could be hollow. It moves toward me, a light flaring suddenly before it. I smell sulphur. “Here,” whispers the apparition. “Let me light your candle.” from “Lamb” by Kate Cary
The coachman is hunched in a gabardine. “Go knock,” he tells me. I look past him to the house. It looms, square and stone-faced, above me. Its small windows show no light, except a small leaded pane high above the great, dark front door. Shrinking from the stinging rain, I climb the stone steps and …
My landscape has changed. I have escaped tree-lined streets and smoke-stained towers and moved to a home where I can see the horizon. From my window I watch clouds tumble, and the trees keep a respectable distance, edging the far hills rather than pressing impatiently against my windows.
I save till last the most beautiful of all.
He has the name of a haberdasher and the eye of a child. If you’re interested here’s a brief bio I tripped over that will link you to others.
Discovering illustrators of a golden age gave such pleasure, I thought I’d delve further.
From a time when fairy-tales were truly grimm.
Victorians loved the spirit world. They were always bothering the dead with seances and trying to snatch photos of them shimmering in the afterlife. Don’t you just love the ghoulish side of Victoriana? Delish.
I find myself utterly discombobulated. Moving from one lair to another (vampire code for moving house) is proving to be greatly distracting. The best bit of course is being allowed to nose one’s way around the houses of strangers, inspecting every nook and cranny.