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Romanesque style signaled the end of the tunnel.
    She stepped out into the immensity of the stone crypt that underlay the original abbey. The smell of old stone and damp earth and the dust of centuries enveloped her. The darkness was hardly dispelled by her tiny candle. The nearest round arches that held up the ceiling loomed above her. She had explored every corner of this hidden sanctuary when she was little. So she knew that if her light reached far enough, it would reveal the stone coffins, some with effigies carved in their lids, that lined the edges, and the side chapels where the walls had caved in and the earth fell into fans of wet loam. Several great fireplaces lined the walls. She had no idea whether they were there for heat, or whether they had once served some more sinister purpose. There were altars in the two small chapels that remained and carved fonts for anointing the dead. Nothing here held terror for her.
    This was her secret place. Above her the ruined arches of the abbey when it had been taken by Henry VIII were Gothic because they were newer than this crypt. The standing walls aboveground were still attached to the part of Maitlands Abbey that was occupied, as if in silent reminder that all on this earth was transitory. The Brockweirs had no need to build a Gothic folly on the grounds to evoke tristesse and passing time. The building carried its own ruins. The intact portion had been transformed many times, its Gothic stone softened into comfort by succeeding generations who forgot about the crypts below the ruins. Ann only found them because of the secret passage.
    Her footsteps echoed in the immensity as she crossed to the stairs that led to another narrow passage. Now she was creeping along under the knot garden, toward the wilder part of the estate. After what always seemed an eternity, she saw the stairs to the stone door in the monument that stood beyond the cultivated gardens of the estate, out past the meadow, next to the woods. She climbed and pushed against the door. On spring hinges it opened to her touch as though it were new and not hundreds of years old. She stepped into the night. The stars spread out in twinkling chaos after the rain as they wheeled above her, the constellations only an artificially imposed order. Behind the stars was the cloud of the Milky Way.
    Calm. How could you not be calm in the face of such implacable immensity? She looked back at the impassive stone men in robes looming above her. Were they priests? Their inscription had been lost to time and weather. The door to the passage was in the base of their statue. They understood immensity. But she did not reach out to touch them. Their stone had been carved by human hands.
    She turned to the woods marching up the slope to the Gorge. The Gorge was filled with trees and stones that had never been touched. Trees held only the passing of seasons,the occasional trauma of storm or fire, but no emotion; no betrayal or dismay or anger. There was a faint . . . satisfaction in trees, the almost imperceptible joy of growth. But up there, hidden in the sheer stone above the river, was her very favorite place. A place of stone. The stone of caves was even quieter than trees.
    She started through the woods.
    Stephan Sincai strode up through the forest behind the town toward the gorge that cut sheer sides through the Mendip Hills. They were more than hills really and the road that followed the gorge sloped up steeply. Best to keep off the road if possible. He struck out through the trees. The forest was mixed with deciduous trees and conifers, unlike his native lands in Transylvania. The night was nearly moonless and shadows of deep and deeper black were all that revealed the presence of the trees and boulders. But Stephen walked surely through the maze. The night was his time. The smell of rotted leaves and the green spice of needles filled the damp air.
    The ostler said the hills were filled with caves, most without an entrance to