Excerpt:

Fate plays on strange chances. The littlest coincidences, the small things, the horseshoes by which wars are won or lost, the animals that save the lives that then go on to do great and terrible things. The lectors at some of the great academies can prattle all they want about the broad sweep of grand and impersonal sociohistorical forces, but all that's just so much hot air besides the smallest things on a summer's day.

The gathering breeze, for instance, egged on by mischievous gods, or perhaps simply ignorant ones. The frailty of the little cardboard warning sign put up because the normal wooden one caught fire in a completely random accident not the week before. The shutters closed against the light rain earlier, totally blocking out the eerie blue glow of reality getting it's arm gently twisted in the rooms beyond until it cried uncle.

The path leading to the house is almost lost in the tall grass. Not many people pass here along the moor. Somewhere in the distance is a small village, big enough to have the services of a smithy, a stable, and an inn, and even a small constabulary; small enough that people still leave pies for one another on the sill. Apple, for preference, which grows on trees in yards and gardens, and with wild mushrooms and berries from the hills not too far off in the distance. Further off, in the lee of wild and rocky cliffs, the sea smashes itself under a lighthouse against dragon-toothed rocks.

A pie is on it's way now through that very same path to the house on the heath. An apple pie, not too long from the oven, and a little flask of hot tea thick and rich enough to float a horseshoe. It is carried by a boy not quite ten, with his father's black hair and his mother's brown eyes, and a little quirk on his face that would seem like a smile if it were any more pronounced. The air would have a faint tinge of iron, if not for the same winds that have blown away the little cardboard warning sign at the gate.

The boy approaches. The skies are grey and woolen, which is normal for these parts, but the same wind carries along with it a faint scent of rain. The house is the only shelter nearby, made of brick and mortar, with homely wooden fencing surrounding a garden which was obviously once part of the best of intentions of the gentleman scholar residing therein.

The door latch is treacherously undone, and it is no difficult matter for the boy to push his way in, which he does thankfully, if a little curiously. His mother usually makes the trips with him, but this time there was some trouble at home to deal with, and so she, trusting him with the best of intentions, asked him if he would mind going himself. A question like that is not to be asked lightly of any ten year-old boy with a certain look in the eye.

The house is quiet, and the air is stuffy from the shuttered windows. The taste of iron creeps into the air. The boy leaves the pie on the table, but the wind is whipping up the heath now, and he doesn't really want to head out again just yet. There is a fire crackling on the hearth, and old books everywhere, books worn and faded, new and with shiny leather binding, all thick and impressive and heavy enough to concuss a rhino from the wild South, far from here. He knows this because he's read about them, and he's heard stories about them from one or two of the older gammers in the village, and he's actually quite hoping to be able to see them one day. One or two of the books are bound with small silver chains to bookshelves. Little lines of silver filigree lead from these chains along the wooden shelves and behind them. He looks around. Right now this is all quite an adventure to him.

He walks along the shelves, pausing to look at the books, his fingers hovering near but never quite touching any of the spines, and by happenstance at the end of the bookshelves in the room a door is ajar...

When he wakes up he looks into the face of his father. Or rather, I look up and see my father, looming over my face like a small moon, and I realize I'm on my back and lying on what proves to be a settee. I smile to see him, but he still looks worried, and slowly I feel my smile going away uncertainly. I felt, I thought later, rather like a kitten who's just come into a house where they don't really like kittens very much.

In the background against the fireplace and the shelves I see the gentleman scholar pacing back and forth, looking even more worried than my father. When you're ten years old the world can be full of light and laughter, but when your father looks worried and troubled you tend to pick up on it easier too.

My father, man of few words, pulls me close and gives me a big hug, and I'm more confused than anything else now. When he lets go of me and tells me he's glad I'm alright, I blink at him, and I stupidly ask what's wrong. He's a big man with strong arms and he gives great big wonderful hugs, and it's not like him to look this worried.

There is an exchange of words between my father and the scholar, which mostly flies over my ten-year old head, and my father turns to me and tries to give me some sort of explanation, some sort of warning, which I subsequently forget when he pulls off the blanket I'm covered in and shows me what happened to my right hand.