Eve Green is only seven when her mother dies and she goes to live with her grandparents on a remote hill farm. With the help of a shoebox full of cards and letters and photographs left by her mother, the adult Eve tries to find about her childhood and her mother and father. This is an absorbing book about loss and the search for identity set against a very Welsh background of slate and scudding rain clouds where everyone in the village seems to know more than Eve.
Of course everything changed when Rosie disappeared - but not overnight. It's easy to look back and believe that panic seized Cae Tresaint, that doors were suddenly bolted , fields disallowed, curfews imposed. It would make a better story perhaps, if I talked of sinister places - of how Tor-y-Gwynt watched us, of shady lanes, of peat bogs, of the old gold mines that felt dank, even in dry weather. These were eerie places, certainly; and Welsh lore is full of shadows. But the changes were slow in coming. They crept on. They soaked up our lives as slowly as damp on a wall.