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368 pages, Hardcover
First published October 19, 2017
The road had always been at the mercy of the weather and he remembered the Cutting being nothing more than a dirt track that softened to butter in the autumn, and in the summer kicked up dust that marked its meander in a thick brown haze. After even the briefest of rainstorms, the top layer of it would run like a river and horses would have to trudge the miles knee-deep, dragging the carts like sledges. In the worst winters the valley could be cut off for days. After the Blizzard, it was weeks before anyone got in or out. By that time, what had happened there, what the Devil had done, was already fable.
To this day there's no road sign to the village of Underclough or the few houses of the Endlands. Anyone who needs to come to the Briardale Valley knows where they are, and if a stranger asks for directions then they're told to turn between the abattoir and the three beech trees that keep that part of the lane in permanent shade.
“Nothing changed in Underclough. Nothing happened. Not really. … elsewhere was always a place where the worst things happened. … The world outside the valley might well collapse but we wouldn’t necessarily feel the ripples here.”