Hidden between rugged and disjointed mountains, somewhere remote in the Guilleries frequented by wolf hunters, bandits, ambushes, pugs, witches, maquis, rally drivers, ghosts, beasts and demons, the Clavell farm stands on the ground like a tick. It is a house, above all, inhabited by women, where a single day contains centuries of memories. Those of Joana, who, in order to find a husband, made a pact that would inaugurate an apparently stubborn offspring. Those of Bernadeta, who is missing her eyelashes and, from as much thyme water as they poured into her eyes when she was a child, she ended up seeing what she didn’t belong to. Those of Margarida, which instead of a whole heart has one of three quarters. Or those of Blanca, who was born without a tongue, with a mouth like an empty nest, and does not speak, only observes. These women, and more, are preparing a party today. With the verbal torrent, the sense of rhythm and humor, the formal boldness and the ability to evoke atmospheres and embody imaginaries that characterize her work, Irene Solà has written a novel like an exultant jet of stories, which explores the duality and the intrinsic link between light and darkness, life and death, oblivion and memory, reality and fiction.