The Winter Ghosts by Kate Mosse

Pitiful old Winter has returned,
Limping up and down our roads,
Spreading his white blanket of snow
While the Cers wind cries in the
branches of the pine trees.
Traditional Occitan song

It is 1933. A young man walks into a deserted book shop in a quiet town near the Pyrenees. His quest: to ask the owner to translate a medieval letter written on parchment in the old Occitan language.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ he asks.

And so the story unravels… The solitary young man is mourning the loss of his older brother, missing, presumed dead in the Great War. Alone in his grief, he crashes his car in a snowstorm and seeks refuge for the night in a nearby town. He is invited to the local fete but takes a wrong turning… What follows is both possible and implausible: a masterly ghost story that weaves itself around the reader, drawing him in closer…
Freddie and Fabrissa take comfort in finding each other, across the centuries, worlds apart. A healing takes place; it is enough that their loss is recognised, their loved ones ‘known unto God’.
The next day I reread the account of their initial meeting to find out what really occurred. Had I imagined it? It seemed as clear to me as it was in Freddie’s memory. Or was it? And there I let it rest.

A sad tale’s best for winter: a moving story exploring love and loss. I shall look forward to reading it again in December.