CHAPTER TWELVE
Eva stared out the window at the back of the house without seeing. The view of the garden was different from this angle; the woodlands did not dwarf the lawn, rather a delicate progression from house to the burial mound sitting above and behind the lake, surrounded by firs. The burial mound in which her father now rested.
“Nobody escapes death,” she murmured.
The landscape was green and lush, in stark contrast to her mood, the late afternoon sunlight diffused by a haze of moisture formed as the day went on. The theme continued through the house; everything was pale panelled oak: the floor, the walls, even the buttressed roof. Where possible, natural wood had been used, trunks split to form the stairs, branches woven with nest-like care to form handrails. It was like livin
