GRACE ALDEN LAY IN HER BED, staring at the dark ceiling and listening to the storm raging around her. The wind and rain roared so loudly that she couldn’t hear her own heartbeat. But she knew it was racing because it jumped into her throat each time she heard something bang against the cottage. The wind howled like a banshee over the cliff tops, screaming through the eaves and bringing with it a torrent of black rain that fell with the force of a hurricane.
“Please God, let the roof hold.”
Around her, the old limestone and timber cottage groaned beneath the fierce battering of the storm.
“And the walls, too,” she whispered in afterthought, “if not too much trouble.”
After ten more minutes of staring at the ceiling, she slid out from beneath the covers. Sleep was proving impossible toni
