“I like it here,” Eleanor said, surprising herself as the atmosphere wrapped around her like a gauntlet. Somewhere in the moor, a whaup whistled, its call melancholic yet strangely beautiful.
“It’s rather austere.” Thomas examined the property they had never seen before.
Anton’s Walls made no compromises to the terrain or the weather. The house stood solid and defiant, glaring over the moor from its wide dark eyes as if saying. “Here I am and damn you. Do your worst, for I am not moving.”
“Whoever built this place had an eye for territory,” Thomas said with complete lucidity. “The path is muddy, but the moss on either side is impassable. Anton’s Wall’s guards the pass or the slap 1 as they call it.”
“The pass?” Eleanor asked.
“Can’t you see?” Thomas swept his arm around the moor. “The
