On the very night of the murder, Owleye lay cold and
alone three thousand miles to the north, barely breathing.
Outside her rough crypt, icy rain fell and squalling winds blew,
tossing the high branches.

The old woman stared up, her blind eyes white, dreaming
of things that once were. Dreaming of things that soon would be.





After a long and leisurely gestation, my second book has hatched at last.

Friends tell me it's darker and denser than Quid and Harmony, and much better written!

I think that's a compliment...

Anyway, I've enjoyed meeting old Owleye very much, and I hope you will too.