All her life Greta had loved the fog. Her mother said it was unnatural. She herself hated the great gray clouds blowing in from the sea. But somehow in every generation of Addingtons a child was born who understood the fog—no one knew why—not even Greta, until the day on the old Post Road when the surrey came by with a woman whose plum-colored dress rustled "like a three-master coming up in the wind" driving toward Blue Cove, and Greta knew that there, where no house had stood for a hundred years, she would find what she was seeking. "Go on," said the woman. "In the second house you'll find Retha Morrill. You two will pull well together."
This is a tale brief in text, but long in memory. With a sensitive economy of words the author has fused two worlds, the real one and the one a hundred years gone by, into a story not so much of magic as of heritage, of the love and understanding of the generations one to the other—made tangible to Greta standing alone, on the half-obliterated old Post Road, in fog-wet walls of spruce.
—from the dust jacket
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