Shadows in the Cotswolds by Rebecca Tope Read Free Book Online

was hooting, somewhere in Oliver’s wooded acres. She consciously counted her blessings, noting that no part of her body was hurting; she had enough money for her needs; and none of her relatives was suffering unduly. (Except Emily, she reminded herself, and even Emily was very much over the worst, a year on from the Incident.)

    Sunday morning dawned fair but breezy. The bedroom looked broadly eastwards, over the wooded acres where Oliver fed the birds, and past that to a hill behind Sudeley Castle. She could hear the treetops swishing, like waves on the seashore, but less rhythmic. There was nothing soothing about wind, no hypnotic predictability, as there was with waves. Wind could blow the roof off, or send the chimney crashing down on top of you. All her life, Thea had very much disliked strong winds.
    Her mother was coming. And a man who was brother to the owner of this house. There was some peculiar illogical element to this that continued to evade her. It was hard to see exactly what her own role was in the picture – perhaps that was it. She had to feed the birds. She had to provide seeds and fat for creatures who, in September, could perfectly easily obtain their own food. There were berries everywhere,as well as nuts and seed heads. All she was doing was to lure them into staying close by, so that Oliver could photograph them.
    Which reminded her of the video camera. She was supposed to set it going early each morning, when the birds were at their most active and interesting. It would run for ten hours or so before closing itself down. She had to replace the little card and keep the early one safe, with the date on it. A simple task, but one that nobody else was going to do.
    ‘Come on, Heps. Rise and shine,’ she said.

    It was early – just after seven-thirty. The sun was up, but not yet warm. The slight bite in the morning air was a stark reminder that winter was not far off. September was inescapably evocative to any country-dwelling Northern European, with the atavistic urgency that came with it. Firewood had to be collected, fruit preserved, hay stocks carefully protected. The very gentleness of winter’s approach could seduce an unwary population into postponing these essential preparations. There would be warm, sunny days for weeks yet, fostering the illusion that winter might be short and mild this year. And then you could get six inches of snow at the end of October and find yourself in all kinds of trouble.
    Except that this was the twenty-first century, when mankind had dominated the elements, and simply pumped in more oil for heat and light, to repel the natural forces of darkness. 
    There was a pleasing paganism to these thoughts, which recalled Thea to the week or so that she and Phil had spent in Cold Aston, making the acquaintance of Ariadne Fletcher, a real and proper pagan. Almost two years earlier, she realised, with a start. Two years in which the passing of the seasons had pressed in upon her in a number of ways. She had been imprisoned by snow, deceived by rain, and disappointed by a reluctant sun. In a country habitually obsessed by weather, the subject had been greatly augmented by large arguments about climate. At least it was never boring, she thought now, with a smile.
    Once outside, the wind seemed much less intrusive. Beneath the trees, it was almost calm, all the activity focused on the top few inches of the branches. The leaves on the birches had just begun to turn yellow, but they were not yet dead enough to fall off in the breeze. The overall hue remained a determined green, on all sides, the leaves hanging on for several more weeks, all being well.
    She trod the narrow path as softly as she could, hoping to see the woodpecker again, and aware of his extreme nervousness. The dog danced lightly along, a few paces in front, doing nothing that might scare birds away, other than merely existing. They came into the clearing with the many contraptions for holding food, and the