Intricately plotted, beautifully paced, The Music of the Spheres is an elegant historical novel rich in detail, at times Dickensian in its description of London. Elizabeth Redfern has made an exciting debut.

An idyllic childhood is probably illusion.

And so it continued all day, wynde after wynde, From a room beyond came the whistle of a teakettle. Now, you really must join me. I've some marvelous Darjeeling, and some delicious petit fours a friend of mine gave me for Christmas.

The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.

You can never do enough for the dead. You search around for comfort but there is no comfort; there never was and never will be. There is only a gradual wearing away of the sharp edges, so that you don't feel ambushed at every turn, as if you saw the dead suddenly rounding the corner.

I cleared my throat - it isn't frogs you get in your throat; it's memories.

writers just kept on staring at nothing until they wrote something. Might be two minutes or two weeks.