About the book
A Window That Looks Back
The window had been bricked over for twenty-nine years, which was the first sensible thing about it. Clara Finch knew this because she had signed the repair ledger herself every December since her mother died, written the same neat line beside the same dead wall in the little back room of Finch House Library: no movement, no damp, no visible fracture. Her father had done it before her in a softer hand.