Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley door pickup 10am - 7pm 3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611

  • Open Daily: 10am - 10pm
    Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm

    3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
    612-822-4611

Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm
3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611
Dreaming I Die

Dreaming I Die

Robson, Kim Lombard

Paperback

Series: Dreaming Trilogy, Book 3

Historical Fiction

ISBN10: 1545503591
ISBN13: 9781545503591
Publisher: Createspace
Published: Nov 29 2018
Pages: 150
Weight: 0.46
Height: 0.32 Width: 5.98 Depth: 9.02
Language: English
In Dreaming I Die, the final installment of Kim Robson's Dreaming Trilogy, lighthouse keeper Liam ponders the existential question: They say you can't die in a dream, but really, how could you know for sure? Thirteen miles off the southern tip of mainland Ireland on Fastnet Rock, the caretaker sat by the lower level of the lighthouse tower's glass gallery, puffing gloomily on his pipe. The North Atlantic sea crashed and foamed angrily against the jagged shale rocks a hundred and fifty feet below. An oppressive blanket of fog had crept in before dawn, stealing soundlessly on cat's feet across the cold dark water. Liam had gone up to the double-deck gallery to start the generator for the fog horns, check on the giant vaporized-paraffin lantern, and watch for passing ships. The light rotated with a soft hiss in its vat of mercury to clockwork clicks, flashing a brilliant beam over the sea, illumining its surface across two dozen nautical miles. A whiteness glowing in the dark. A life ring bobbed just off the treacherous rocks. A person clung to it.He found the life preserver washed up against the flat landing rocks at the quay. He held up the lantern, peering intently into the surf while the crest of the rising sun blinded him.Where are ye? Hallo? Can ye hear me? he shouted above the hissing foam. Hallo?!? Carefully, he ventured out past the rusting hoists that stood sentinel over the receiving dock, sea spray misting his face. And like a ghost coalescing from the mist, she appeared, clinging to an ancient rusted mooring ring with her white hands. She was soaked, shivering, and utterly exhausted, but it was her nonetheless. His Angel of Death.

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