Jane was fifteen when her life changed for ever. In the woods surrounding a Yorkshire country house, she took her eyes off the little girl she was minding and the girl slipped into the trees - never to be seen again.
Now an adult, Jane is obsessed with another disappearance: that of a young woman who walked out of a Victorian lunatic asylum one day in 1877. As she pieces together moments in history, Jane uncovers a tangled story that has been buried for more than a century, and finally confronts her own past . . .
Jane was 15 when the girl she was babysitting just...disappeared...one day. On a walk in the woods, with Lily's father not far away, Lily was suddenly nowhere to be found. As Jane becomes an adult, that day still haunts her life - often in ways she doesn't truly understand. Paralleling that story is the story of "N" - a girl who disappeared from a local asylum years before while out on a walk with two patients. As Jane attempts to piece together the puzzle of "N", the story becomes about memories...where do they begin and end, and how infallible are they?
Aislinn Hunter has a way of writing that is truly evocative. From the beginning of the book: "A wisp of fresh air, of drying earth and dilly grass, slipped into the corridor just the through a gap between the door and its frame...". Unfortunately, sometimes that gorgeous writing seems to drag the book out in ways that are unnecessary. This is a *long* book - and it has some characters that I struggled with as to their actual place in the story. To say too much more would be to give spoilers, which I just don't do. But I do think that the book could have been cut down by about a quarter and still have been left reasonably intact.
Overall, it's an interesting look at how the past tends to intertwine with the present, often more than we would ever understand. It's not plot-heavy, and it's not a hang-on-to-your-hat kind of read. However, it is the kind of book that could be enjoyed on a hammock with a cup of iced tea, right before one decides to take a nap.
