Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.

Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.

I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .

I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.

While I wasn't certain how I felt about spiritualists, I was certain enough about the type of people who were drawn to them. Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.

It was the sibling thing, I suppose. I was fascinated by the intricate tangle of love and duty and resentment that tied them together. The glances they exchanged; the complicated balance of power established over decades; the games I would never play with rules I would never fully understand. And perhaps that was key: they were such a natural group that they made me feel remarkably singular by comparison. To watch them together was to know strongly, painfully, all that I'd been missing.

There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.