This is an extraordinary novel: original, beautiful yet tough (Barker loves jaggy, spiky words such as "monkey puzzle", "azaleas", "horizon", anything with a "z" in it), with a sympathetic outsider of a heroine whose tragic fate is depicted on the very first page, puncturing any kind of narrative tension but capturing our attention nevertheless. Few see colour in a grey Scottish day the way Barker does, when a dying winter sun "sheds an unearthly glory; shafting drifts of crimson, green and blue, alive with whirling atoms of dust ." And yet this darkly magical tale has been forgotten, displaced in the pantheon of great Scottish writing by other, supposedly tougher, work. Barker's love of the classics, her focus on mothers and daughters, and her remarkable evocation of landscape, should mark her out as one of Scotland's principal writers, but fashion and the politics of literary movements have skimmed over her.