This was a frustrating book, only because at times I wanted to race ahead to see what happened next, and, at the same time I wanted to read as slowly as possible to savour some of the beautiful writing. As befits a novel about aesthetes in the 1870s, the book is shot through with painting and poetry. I presume Parry is an artist himself, since his evocation of the `inner eye' of the artist was brilliantly done--even I, who could not paint a lamp-post, got a wonderful sense of how a painter looks at the world. Some of the set pieces, such as Tennyson's poetry reading are marvellous. The descriptive writing, especially of landscape, brings to my mind the colours and textures of Samuel Palmer (rather than the expected Pre-Raphaelites). On one level the plot is a glorious Victorian melodrama. But beneath that surface lies a strong strain of M R James, with an occasional tinge of Edgar Allan Poe. The undercurrent remains an enigma, even at the end. Did something really happen? Is there a real connection and parallel with Ann Boleyn? Is the unworldly companion first encountered in the Tower really there? Or is all this simply a result of too much `loddy'? The way in which this is all left open to the reader's imagination gives an enormous strength, and depth, to this marvellous book. Now to read it again, slowly and reflectively!