For years, the villagers of Mirecoombe have turned to their Keeper, the old and battle-scarred Lord Pelagius Hunt, mediator between the worlds of men and fey, for help. But this is a time of change. Belief in the old ways, in the piskies and spriggans, has dimmed, kindled instead in the Reverend Cleaver's fiery pulpit. His church stands proud above the mire; God's name is whispered, hushed, loved. And now, death stalks Mirecoombe on the moor. There are corpses in the heather. There is blood in the gorse.
Nancy Bligh is determined to do what Pel will not: maintain the balance between the fey and the human world, be the Keeper that he refuses to be. Blessed with natural sight, friend to spriggans, piskies and human locals of Mirecoombe, Nancy has power that Pel never had and never lets her use. But as Mirecoombe falls into darkness, perhaps her time has come.
A poignant and lyrical examination of faith, love and grief, Gorse asks what do we choose to believe, and how does that shape who we are?
