Prologue
Macsen
Dappled sunlight speckles the winding country road as it filters through the bordering trees, allowing starbursts of light to diffuse the sweeping shadows that cling to every curve and bend. The almost magical scene laid out before me counteracts the arduous hours spent on clogged grey motorways.
My lower back aches, my legs cramp, and every muscle in my body screams at me to stretch, needing to escape the confines of the car. Still, I ignore the nagging call of my body and drive on.
I’ve had plenty of opportunities to stop and take a break, but at every signpost indicating a service station, my hands have gripped the wheel tighter, my eyes steadfast on the road ahead as I’ve battled a frantic tightness in my chest. It’s an almost painful tension that’s threatened to catch my breath, making my heart stutter and skip a beat—the missing beat a call, a yearning, that’s echoed behind my ribs with a frantic tattoo. The only thing that’s come close to easing it has been keeping going, so I’ve forced the rental vehicle to devour the miles upon miles of tarmac with an almost maniacal hunger.
A few times I’ve cursed myself for not using my driver, but once I made the decision to leave, there didn’t seem time. Desperation screamed at me to get on the road. I needed to move, and race, and run, more than I needed my next breath. With this seemingly irrational desire pulsing through my veins, I left my solicitor’s office and sprinted down the high street in my grey tailored suit. My handmade, Italian leather shoes scuffed the pavement as passers-by gawped and stared. Curious faces, unhidden whispers, and dropped jaws followed me as I ran. They all wondered why, on a hot summer’s day, a man in a business suit would be rampaging through the streets. Nobody was chasing me. I wasn’t running from anything. But what they didn’t know, couldn’t realise, was that I wasn’t running from something, but running towards everything.
My mind, devoid of its usual reasoning, gave no thought to call for my car service. It was stupid really, the way my thoughts tumbled and turned, the drumbeat in my chest growing and building, yelling at me to ‘Run. Get there. Get there’, but I’d learned not to ignore that inner voice. It had guided me my entire life. It had made me the success I was today, and it would now take me where I needed to go.
I came across the car hire place by pure chance, almost running past the narrow doorway next to the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a row of shiny display vehicles. My panting breath and dishevelled appearance raised brows as I flung open the door and raced inside. So did hiring the first car they offered, uncaring of the make, model or affordability. I almost left my credit card behind with a complete lack of thought; my only concern was getting to where I needed to go as quickly as possible.
Lily Bay.
The popular Welsh seaside village and summer tourist hotspot had been on my mind since the day I’d seen an auction listing for the Lily Bay Manor House.
I’d paid well over the odds for the ramshackle former hotel which had fallen into disrepair many years ago. The price was of no consequence. I would’ve paid ten times as much, despite not even seeing it first-hand or having ever set foot in that part of the country.
I knew. Just as I had with other things in my life, I knew when to listen to that ever-present pulse—the tug that pulled me forward—and I’d ensured that Lily Bay Manor became mine.
Once the sale completed and the deeds were in my hands, I became consumed with an urgency that demanded I ditch everything else and go.
This acquisition had been six long months in the making. Every possible obstacle had been conquered, and every legal complication cleared to get me to where I am today. Nothing, short of a multi-car pile-up, could stop me now—and even then, I knew I’d run the remaining distance on shaky legs until I collapsed with exhaustion.
I am close now. Closer than I’ve ever been, and I have to wonder why it has taken so long to get here. Not ‘here’ as in the West Wales coast, but here—the place I know is calling me.
As sure as I know my own name, I know Lily Bay holds the one thing I’ve searched for since I was a child—a comfort that’s always been just beyond reach. But, not anymore. The closer I get, the stronger the pull wrenches at me.
Lily Bay – 7 Miles.
The narrow road becomes wider, the occasional farm or house appearing more often. And still, I yearn.
Lily Bay – 5 Miles.
Sporadic homes turn into small, quaint hamlets all with the names of flowers—Red Roses, Buttercup Meadow, Bluebell Well.
Turn Left. Lily Bay – 1 Mile.
My heart tries to claw out of my chest. It pushes against my ribs, begging, calling, searching, aching. By the time I reach the edge of Lily Bay town, it hammers and thuds, punches and thumps, and it is all I can do to remain in the car. The insistent pulse inside me yells, ‘Close. So close. It’s here.’
I fumble my fingers across the door panel and hit the button to lower the window. The heady brine breeze seeps into my lungs, the hustle and bustle of narrow, busy streets filled with holidaymakers assault my senses, and my vision constricts. Despite my vow to head straight to the manor house, my eyes scan the streets—searching, always searching.
And then everything stops.
With a jarring halt, the car comes to a stop. My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white and my heart—the damned foolish beast—quits trying to break my ribs, and instead scrambles up my throat.
Everything at the edges of my vision becomes hazy—the people blur into a cloudy mist, the noises dull as if underwater and the smell of the sea becomes less pungent. Except for that one spot in the crowd that remains crystal clear.
I crane my head, not wanting to lose track of the man as he weaves his way effortlessly through the masses. My heart seems to stop when he disappears out of sight for brief moments, only for it to beat once more when he reappears further away.
Where is he going?
For long seconds I lose sight of him completely. My lungs seize, and my pulse turns frantic. And then, as if the crowd parts only for him, he reappears once more. My breath explodes in a ragged exhale, and relief washes over me. I watch transfixed as he walks into the open doorway of a pub. The sign overhead depicts an old boat adrift on stormy seas. The name in bold, gold lettering above the door says, ‘Safe Anchor’.
“I’ve found him.”
The words leave my lips on a whispered prayer, finally answered.
“He’s really here.”
It feels like I’ve been searching my entire life.
This moment is the start of the beginning.
Chapter 1
Macsen
Lily Bay Manor is a spectacular Georgian grand house set over three storeys and flanked by two-storey wings, but, after years of neglect, it has fallen into disrepair. As it currently stands, it’s uninhabitable.
Cradled between cliffs overlooking the sea and standing on twelve acres of wild gardens and woodland, you cannot ignore its rugged beauty and bewitching charm.
As I stand on the overgrown terrace, concrete balustrades crumbling and threaded with weeds and ivy, I absorb the magnificent vista before me and ignore the endlessly ringing phone in my pocket.
I should answer it. I have responsibilities.