I put my feet into the stream. The water was cool. My body tingled.The woman still hadn't looked at me."The water is refreshing isn't it?" She asked.I...simply nodded.I was looking at her face. She was staring off across the stream, but I could still see the side. She had very pale cheeks, along with flowing locks of light red hair. Hair that seemed to move even without the aid of the wind.She had silver eyes."Would you like to know my name Maria?" she asked calmly. Her gaze was still fixed on. The vista was very much the England of nostalgic oil paintings, and as the Earl explained, it was at the extreme southern end of what became the Pennine hills away to the north."Is it very old?" she asked."The house itself was built by Robert Smythson, in the 1580s," said the Earl.Viewed from the outside, in the fading light of a late summer evening, the impression was that of a rectangular block with square towers at each corner, its blunt ruggedness emphasised by the numerous many-mullioned. More

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