It was one of those mysterious, autumn evenings that could have been painted in pastel tones of light and shade – of almost-color – by J. M. W. Turner, or sketched in liquid pentatonics and waterlogged whole-tones by Claude Debussy; or even, for those with intrigue running in their veins, it could have been the perfect setting for a masterful Conan Doyle sleight of hand.  All along the southern border of England and Wales, especially in the hill folds, river runs and water meadows, the residue of unseasonably late October warmth had condensed into a delight of veils, chiffon scarves and coverlets of pure light-grey wool; redolent with the smell of nettles, docks, wet sycamore leaves and vegetation . The ancient oaks and beeches struggled for definition, barely keeping heads above hazy waves, while the once-vibrant emerald of the highest hills offered an archipelago of solace for the weak platinum sun, gratefully setting in a sea of mist and taking all the lingering greens, browns and blues with it. Left behind was a grayscale stream and treescape with the pencil-traced outline of a substantial, castellated manner–house etched into the edge of the quiescent, always sentient forest.

There had been no sound whatsoever ever since a solitary crow had given up its unashamed, tuneless mockery; his final thoughts on the day fade-echoing into evening.  There had been no movement to mention either, save the almost swirl of mist and the occasional bovine coming briefly into sleepy focus before browsing back into the ambient haze. With the final glimmerings of day, you wouldn’t have been sure, and the eventide might have been playing tricks on your senses–the locals would have said it was the Tylwth Teg , the Welsh elves again–but the hint of a frail, grey, hooded figure seemed to flow as lightly as a light, late, evening breeze, ghosting in, out and under the canopy of leaves and encroaching undergrowth along the forest edge. Then the wraith would dissolve into nothingness, only to reassemble, all the while sidling obliquely for the manner. But … maybe not, the whole vision–trees, mist, house et al–quickly and silently faded to moonless indigo then black; only a halo of pale lantern light next to the ivy-shadowed door suggested any kind of responsive life at all.

John and Alys were sitting near a cheerful, reassuring fire that scattered red, yellow and gold fingers of light onto their concerned faces; the lively, crackling wood and flickering flame in deep contrast to their studied silence ...