"Frost crackles on the sheepskin as I push it away, white plumes of breath rising in the faint light. For years, I have arisen at Lauds, before dawn: in this hour, the deep darkness of the sky is touched with royal blue.


The landscape has changed in the night. A vast shroud of snow drowns every feature,

the unceasing tide sweeping over the land, covering the path and the campsite.


Under the new snow, our campsites are hidden, like the holes of vermin, buried

among the rocks and drifts. Above us now, the high hill is peaked with an

overhang of snow that curves like a butcher’s blade above our hollow.” 


-- from the novel SINFUL FOLK