Dappledown is a place of brutal sugar crashes and the copper-scent of old rituals, where the farm demands its due in blood and soil.
“The cattle had stirred early that morning. It was strange. Hetty’s call was more of a wail and the cockerel didn’t crow. It should have been a warning. But my rose-tinted view of life at Dappledown filtered out the primal caution. My life was soft. Fluffy marshmallow clouds, sweet and soft, wrapping me up in suspended safety. I didn’t know the sugar crash was coming.”
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