When Lori Shepherd decides to treat herself to a relaxing day hiking through the serene English countryside, she has no idea that the blizzard of the century is about to hit. The storm comes quickly and furiously, but fortunately Lori is able to find refuge in nearby Ladythorne Abbey, the fabulous home of the late Lucasta DeClerke. Soon she's safe and dry, along with two other stranded backpackers. But has she escaped one danger only to fall right in the middle of another? In the abbey's cloisters and passages still lingers the haunting presence of Lucasta, a mysterious madwoman who spent the last years of her life locked up alone in the abbey. And Lori must also deal with the threat of an unstable caretaker, who lurks around every corner. Even her fellow abbey guests turn out to be suspicious. Lori thinks she's learned of their plot to steal a priceless DeClerke family heirloom - a dazzling peacock parure hidden away at the abbey. Soon she discovers the intended theft is only one piece in a complicated puzzle of ominous secrets and traitorous deeds surrounding the fate of the priceless jewel. As Aunt Dimity says, "Old sins cast long shadows" and the treacherous events in Ladythorne Abbey's history have continued to plague generations. Can Lori stay out of harm's way long enough to sort out the truth? Only Aunt Dimity's indispensable wisdom can help Lori wade through the deceit and banish the hatred and guilt that shroud Ladythorne Abbey in a blanket considerably thicker than the accumulating snow. Nancy Atherton is the bestselling author of eighteen other Aunt Dimity mysteries. The first book in the series, Aunt Dimity���s Death , was voted ���One of the Century���s 100 Favorite Mysteries��� by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. She lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado. One The holidays nearly killed me. While my clever lawer husband used work as an excuse to avoid all but the most pressing social engagements, I flung myself at Christmas with the carefree abandon of a lemming rushing headlong toward a cliff. While Bill barricaded himself behind legal files in our honey-colored cottage, I volunteered for every committee and attended every party given in or near Finch, the tiny English village we'd called home for the past six years. I adorned St. George's Church with evergreen boughs, warbled carols on a multitude of unsuspecting doorsteps, constructed scenery for the nativity play, prepared our four-year-old twin sons for their stage debuts as singing shepherds, baked enough angel cookies to choke a reindeer, and gave nearly as many parties for children as well as adults as I attended. Even when the holidays were over, even when we flew to Boston in January for our annual visit with Bill's family, I couldn't shake the tinsel from my hair. While Bill spent his days enjoying cozy chats before the fire with his delightful father, I took the twins sledding and skating and sleigh-riding and compounded my folly by whisking Bill off on sentimental journeys to revisit old friends and dine out in favorite restaurants every evening. By the time we returned to the cottage in mid-February, I was a burnt-out husk of my formerly jolly self. I winced when our sons burst into song, my gorge rose at the thought of nibbling another angel cookie, and I could scarcely bring myself to repack our Christmas decorations because the mere sight of them made my head throb. I was, in short, the pitiful victim of a self-induced holiday hangover. Emma Harris had no trouble diagnosing my condition. As my closest neighbor and dearest friend in England she'd seen it all before, and when she found me lying listlessly on the bamboo chaise longue beneath the apple tree in my back garden, she knew exactly what had happened. Appearances notwithstanding, I wasn't merely lounging. Since Bill was catching up on paperwork at his office in Finch, and Annelise, the twins' saintly nanny, was spending the afternoon with her mother on the family farm, I'd retired to the back garden to keep a sleepy eye on Will and Rob, who were busily building highways in the well-mulched vegetable patch. Although I wasn't prepared to receive visitors, I was always glad to see Emma, who'd strolled over from her manor house to welcome me home and bring me up to date on local gossip. As she called a cheery hello to Will and Rob and seated herself on the deck chair opposite mine, I found myself envying her vitality. It was a gorgeous day, unseasonably warm and sunny, but I could barely summon the energy to acknowledge her arrival. Emma surveyed me critically before commenting, "You've been burning the yule log at both ends. Again. I hung my head, knowing what she would say next. "What happened to the simple family Christmas you raved about?" she asked, right on cue. "What happened to staying at home and making angel cookies" "Please don't mention angel cookies," I muttered as my stomach whimpered. "and singing carols around your own h