Hailed for her “remarkably accomplished and poignant work” (Washington Post), acclaimed author Elizabeth McGregor returns with a haunting love story about two lost souls brought together by chance—and bonded forever by a mystery that transcends madness, tragedy, and time itself.... Catherine Sergeant is adept at going through the motions. After losing her parents at an early age, she buried her grief in the study of antiquities. Now, deserted by her husband without warning or explanation, she reports to work at Pearson’s auction house, exchanging pleasantries with colleagues, never revealing her pain. Cocooned in loneliness, she couldn’t be more surprised to find herself opening up to a total stranger—a new client, no less. In widowed architect John Brigham, Catherine finds a kindred spirit. The two share a fascination with Richard Dadd, an early Victorian painter who lived most of his life incarcerated in an insane asylum. There he produced his most stunning works—works that have deeply moved Catherine and now draw her inexorably to John. Soon the two are falling in love. The reawakening of passion in a woman like Catherine is more than John ever hoped for. But when she discovers his possession of an unknown Dadd, it is just the first in a series of revelations that leave her wondering if she knows this man who has shown her life’s true beauty. For John, it may be a last chance to free himself from the priceless secrets he has been harboring too long. Secrets about a soul laid bare on canvas, and a legacy that could shatter all he holds dear in the space of a heartbeat… A compelling blend of human drama, art, and history, this intriguing tale casts a spell that lingers far beyond the final page—and celebrates the strength we all must find within our hearts. Here is an absorbing, well-written mix of romance and melodrama that reserves its most passionate passages for the role of art in our lives. Fine-art auctioneer Catherine Sergeant is devastated upon learning that her seemingly happy marriage was a fraud. Her husband, a repressed businessman, walks out on her without a word. Retreating into her work, she meets architect John Brigham, and the two discover a shared fascination with the work of Richard Dadd, an early Victorian painter who did most of his best work while incarcerated in an insane asylum. Interspersed with the story of Catherine and John's increasingly intense relationship are episodic scenes of Dadd at work in the asylum, painting incredibly detailed works depicting ambition, agony, and raving madness. McGregor carefully and delicately weaves into her plot the idea that art is a conduit for the emotions, casting it variously as a therapeutic tool and as an expression of our darkest impulses. The author is at her most lyrically persuasive when detailing her overarching theme: a life without art is no life at all. Joanne Wilkinson Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved “Here is an absorbing, well-written mix of romance and melodrama that reserves its most passionate passages for the role of art in our lives…. McGregor carefully and delicately weaves into her plot the idea that art is a conduit for the emotions, casting it variously as a therapeutic tool and as an expression of our darkest impulses. The author is at her most lyrically persuasive when detailing her overarching theme: a life without art is not life at all.”— Booklist “An intriguing, ambitious literary work that will reward."— Kirkus Reviews Elizabeth McGregor is the acclaimed author of The Ice Child and A Road Through the Mountains . She lives with her daughter, Kate, on the south coast of England, in Dorset, where she is working on her next novel. Chapter One It was only a week after her husband had left her that Catherine Sergeant went to a wedding. It was a cold and bright spring day, a blue sky, frost on the deep grain of the church door. She purposely arrived late, to avoid the conversations; but she couldn’t avoid them afterward, when the congregation emerged. The photographer took the bridal couple close to the trees, to be photographed in the sunlight under a thin veil of blackthorn blossom. “Catherine,” a voice said. She turned. It was Amanda and Mark Pearson. “Why didn’t you tell us that you were invited?” they demanded. “Why didn’t you mention it? We could have come together.” “I didn’t decide until the last minute,” she said. Amanda had looked around her. “Where is Robert?” she asked. “He’s gone away.” “Working?” There was a moment. “Yes,” she said. She moved from person to person, friends of friends. Fortunately, this was not a family wedding; Catherine was a peripheral guest. There were some people whom she didn’t know, and who asked her nothing. She moved to the very edge of the crowd and leaned for a moment on the wall. She was wearing red, and she thought suddenly how very inappropriate it was, this celebratory color, this color of triumph. She felt anything b