Mam’s right. I really am hopeless.

It’s a long walk back to the family farm, but there’s nothing else for it. And in fact I should hurry, because with the rain coming down like this, there’s every chance the river will burst its banks and flood the shortest path home.

“You’re a fool, Gwen Roberts.”

Whenever I need to scold myself, my parents’ words are always ready and waiting on the tip of my tongue. They said the same thing when I accidentally let the sheep out into the hills last month, and when I burned the breakfast sausages yesterday morning, and when I said that maybe I’d rather not marry the Thomas boy just to secure the farm’s future.

I mean, I know it’s a family business and I need to make a contribution somehow, but marriage? What am I, a prize cow?

The rain’s driving horizontally now, lashing icy cold drops against my cheeks and into my eyes, and stray blackberries bounce over the dirt path as I stumble away from the forge. My basket’s swinging in the harsh wind, my purple treasures flying everywhere, and I’m already soaked to the skin.

My clothes cling and chafe with every step. My teeth chatter as I stride up the side of the valley, away from Rhys Evans’ forge.

I’ve made such a mess of this.

It’s nothing, though, to the mess I make when lightning cracks through a nearby tree, sparks swirling through the air, thunder roaring and shaking the earth. I leap sideways with a squeak, boots slipping in the muddy grass, and then I’m falling, tumbling down and down in a flurry of blackberries and bruised bones.

My fall down the hillside probably lasts a few seconds.

It feels like half a year.

I slam and bounce. The air knocks from my lungs. My jaw cracks together and the copper taste of blood spreads over my tongue.

By the time I come to a stop, I’m a groaning, muddled heap. I blink up at the storm clouds, snapped wicker digging into my hip, and vaguely note that the air is hotter again. I’m back where I started.

“Gwendoline?”

Somewhere nearby, a door pushes open and hurried steps thud against the dirt. Strong arms slide under me and I’m lifted into the air with a dizzying lurch.

“Rhys Evans,” I mumble, my brain still spinning in midair somewhere partway down the hillside. “I knew you’d save me.”

The last thing I hear is the blacksmith cursing under his breath.

Then my eyes flutter closed, and everything goes dark.

Two

Rhys

Watching the farmer’s daughter tumble down the hillside, I’ve never felt so wretched. What’s the use of these hands, these muscles, this whole useless body if when I hear Gwendoline’s terrified squeak outside, I can do nothing except stare through the window in horror?

I’m not close enough to catch her. I knew she was out there of course, knew she was tip-toeing around like a little pixie again. Lord knows what keeps tempting her all the way out here, but whenever I sense Gwendoline outside my forge, I make sure to stay inside. Hoping that she’ll linger a while longer.