The year was 1910, and the wind sweeping across the desolate plains of the Illinois countryside carried a bitter, unyielding chill that stripped the warmth not just from the flesh, but from the very soul. For Judy, perched atop a weary roan mare, the cold was a familiar companion. It had settled deep within her bones six months ago, on a bustling New York street, when the screech of carriage wheels and the sudden, violent impact had taken her husband, Thomas, away from her forever. Behind Judy rode her two children, twelve year old Clara, her small frame swallowed by a heavy wool coat, gripping the reins of her dappled gray gelding with white knuckled intensity, and eight year old Leo, riding double with his sister, his face buried against her back to shield himself from the biting wind. The sky above was a bruised, sullen purple, the sun already dipped below the horizon, leaving a twilight that felt heavy and expectant.  The temptation of the house had been too great to resist. A two hundred year old estate, practically ancient by American standards. Judy had envisioned a grand, sturdy home, a fortress against the cruelties of the world,  herself seated by a roaring hearth,  a blank notebook on her lap,  the words finally flowing again as her children played safely in the spacious rooms. It was a dream of salvation,  a desperate hope that happiness could be found in the quiet isolation of the country. But as they crested the final hill,  the dream began to fray at the edges. There, sitting at the end of a long, overgrown driveway flanked by dying oak trees, was the house.