Breathing Life into Settings: When Places become Characters

I’ve always loved a strong setting — and I see them as characters in their own right. My first book, Tower of Vengeance, is set in the Tower of London during the 13th century — a place I know intimately, having volunteered there for over thirteen years. Immersing myself in its atmosphere came naturally, though in my imagination I did have to knock down a few walls and build new ones! My aim was always for the Tower itself to dominate the story, to stand as a living, breathing character that shaped the fate of those within its walls.

With Ravenscourt, the process was very different. The house in this story is entirely fictional, so I had to construct its presence from scratch. To anchor my imagination, I researched Victorian Gothic houses — and discovered Tyntesfield House, a magnificent National Trust property just outside Bristol. It was the perfect inspiration. A visit earlier this year helped me step fully into Ravenscourt, to feel the weight of its architecture and the whispers of its imagined past.

In the novel, Ravenscourt personifies the evil that has taken root within it. When Alexander first enters, it’s as though the abandoned house begins to awaken. The atmosphere shifts — doors slam, locks snap open, and the decaying walls seem to crumble in recognition. The house is alive, speaking to him even in its silence. It wants to reveal its secrets, yet in doing so, it begins to destroy itself and the memories it holds. It is an unhappy house, defined by its own sorrow and unrest.

Alexander’s struggle mirrors that of the house. He seeks the truth, while the building itself seems to challenge him — daring him to keep going, to uncover what lies buried. I loved writing these scenes. I’ve always believed that places, especially old houses, hold echoes of the past. When we enter a building, we sometimes feel instantly at ease — or deeply unsettled. Perhaps it’s the décor or the welcome we receive, but I think there’s something more intangible at play: a residue of emotion, a memory embedded in the walls.

Venice, the setting for the beginning of Ravenscourt, serves as a metaphor for the book’s central theme — that beneath beauty, there can be darkness and decay. I’ve always admired E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India, particularly his opening description of Chandrapore, a fictional city under British rule. He leads readers from the manicured gardens and grandeur of the British Civil Station, through the spiritual quiet of the mosque, and finally into the slums — a powerful reflection of tension, inequality, and the complexity of colonial life.

I don’t pretend that Ravenscourt is as profound, but in my own opening scene, as Alex first encounters Venice, I wanted to capture a similar duality. Through his eyes, the reader sees the city’s shimmering beauty — yet beneath the silken green water lies decay, rot, and a hidden ugliness. “He did not register the decay beneath the silken, green water — the rottenness of the city’s foundations, nor the ugliness which tarnished its beauty. A beauty that was a façade, a Carnival mask covering the dark truth that nothing was as it seemed.”

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