It felt very rural and rustic. As she hiked over hills with the yellow dog, flowers in her hand for an ancestor’s grave, Jude imagined it as part of her weekly routine. The Irish country woman with her faithful hound, paying respects to a distant cousin.
It would be something she would make a habit—well, if she actually had a dog and really lived here.
It was soothing, being out in the air and the breeze, watching the dog race off to sniff at God knew what, catching all those glorious signs of spring in the blooming hedges, the quick dart and trill of a bird.
The sea rumbled. The cliffs brooded.
As she approached the steeply gabled oratory, the sun shot through the clouds and splashed over the grass and the stone. The three stone crosses stood, casting their shadows, with the well hold
