What if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: “This life as you now live it and have lived… - Kate Atkinson

Sylvia loved secrets and even if she didn't have any secrets she made sure that you thought she did. Amelia had no secrets, Amelia knew nothing. When she grew up she planned to know everything and to keep it all a secret.

Amelia envisaged that between York and the royal-infested Scottish Highlands there was a grimy wasteland of derelict cranes and abandoned mills and betrayed, yet still staunch, people. Oh and moorland, of course, vast tracts of brooding landscape under lowering skies, and across this heath strode brooding, lowering men intent on reaching their ancestral houses, where they were going to fling open doors and castigate orphaned yet resolute governesses. Or — preferably — the brooding, lowering men were on horseback, black horses with huge muscled haunches, glistening with sweat —

"Why is everything an 'adventure' with you?" Sylvie said irritably to Izzie."

"Because life is an adventure, of course."

"I would say it was more of an endurance race," Sylvie said. "Or an obstacle course.