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370 pages, Paperback
First published September 24, 2015
"She comes in the night. Sometimes, in mist or fog. A woman, or once a woman. White, starved...Have you not felt her? Waiting in the shadowed places outside the lamplight, at the bottom of wells. Behind you, in long dark corridors..."
"Rawblood. Home. It sounds like a battle, like grief, but it's a gentle name. "Raw" from scraw, which means "flowing", for the Dart River that runs nearby. "Blood" from bont, a bridge. Old words. The house by the bridge with the flowing water.
"Sometimes, I walk through it in my dreams - the interior of my heart. It is like a black land, where black flags hang in tatters and venomous plants grow in sickly clumps and serpents writhe...A deadly night garden, my heart."
Loneliness is not what people think it is. It is not a song. It's a little bitter thing you keep close, like an egg under a hen. What happens when the shell cracks? What comes forth?In chapter two, Rawblood switches to the diary of medical student Charles Danforth, 30 years before Iris's story. For a while it is a two-hander, with chapters alternating between these viewpoints. Then, for reasons I won't spoil, it moves on from them, and new voices are added to the mix.
”What would it be,” I ask, “not to die, ever, anyhow? If by putting a glove on a stone, you could do it? Might be awful.”
“People shouldn’t die,” Tom says. “Just shouldn’t.”