> Outside the rain beat in horizontal brush strokes across the shrubbery. The wind, getting in on the act, wuthered enthusiastically away in the chimneybreast. The square-built house of smoke-blackened stone on the edge of Roughlee-in-Pendle glared across the valley at the Hill, barely visible today beneath its shrouding of low cloud. It was a staring match that had been going on for a hundred and fifty years.
So far, it was still a no-score draw. The house had been built by a race that had prized above all else the ability to stand upright and glare back at whatever opposed you for however…