Excerpt from Slade House by David Mitchell, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I've stopped, because the far end of the garden, the wall with the small black door—it's gone all faint and dim. Not because of evening. It can't even be four o'clock yet. Not be¬ cause it's misty, either. I look up—the sky's still bluish, like it was before. It's the garden itself. The garden's fading away.

From the book Slade House by David Mitchell. Copyright © 2015 by David Mitchell. Reprinted by arrangement with Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.