The Garden Of Dreams

‘Now I know how royalty feels,’ Lissa said as the car threaded its way out of the square and through another narrow street. They turned a corner and the river was before them—a placid rather shallow affair spanned by a sturdy stone bridge. Paul parked a little way from it, and helped Lissa from the car.

‘Allons-y,’ he commanded, and led her on to the bridge. Before her the road curved upwards into a dark mass of trees. Lissa followed his pointing finger and caught a glimpse of grey towers rearing above the massed trunks. She was filled with a strange breathless excitement. It was like all the fairy tales she had ever known—with the castle crouching almost unseen among the clustering trees—a place where one might find the Sleeping Beauty, or even Bluebeard, who had been the Frenchman Gilles de Rais, Lissa recalled with some amusement.

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