On the northern edge of Keswick, ten minutes walk from the market square, lies a half ruined barn. The walls are damp and dripping in places, and the door is broken in allowing the chill wind to enter, but the roof is relatively sound and there are dry corners where a man can shelter from the elements.
It's here that Jonesy wakes, covered in newspapers, shortly after dawn the morning following the strange events in the Blackstone Hotel. The rain has relented slightly, and now only a persistent drizzle is falling. Your night has been extremely troubled. If the doubts put into your head by the photograph about your parentage weren't bad enough, you have had the most extraordinary and unsettling dream.
In the dream you were dancing within a stone circle. Your very movements were strange: you held your arms to the side, leaping and whirling. Yet you executed the steps without thinking, your body moving instinctively, as though you had known the dance all your life. In the middle of the circle was a figure holding a shining knife above a human sacrifice. As the figure brought the knife down, you woke up.
The sky outside is leaden to match your mood.
