‘It’s not very beautiful,’ Tilda admits, ‘but I think it will do.’ She turns to Dylan and smiles, a spontaneous, sincere response to what they have achieved. ‘Thanks for helping.’

‘Worth it to see you looking happier,’ he tells her.

Embarrassed now, Tilda says, ‘I’m sorry about … earlier. I was a mess.’

‘No, you weren’t.’

‘I’d offer you supper, but, well, there’s nothing much worth eating here. You’d get a better meal at your uncle’s house.’

‘I bet you’ve got something in that kitchen of yours. Besides, I like a challenge. Years of mustering up grub in far-flung parts of the world stand a person in good stead, you know.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re a chef in your spare time too.’

‘I’m pretty confident I can cook anything that’s come from the village shop.’

Tilda laughs at this.

‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh,’ he tells her. ‘It’s … lovely.’

‘It’s getting cold; let’s go in.’

He watches her walk toward the back door of the cottage and then asks, ‘Are you scared to be here? On your own, I mean?’

She stops on the path but does not turn around when she answers. ‘No. Of course not. Just, well, a little spooked. Sometimes.’

‘I could stay tonight,’ he offers quietly. ‘If you like.’

There is a pause. Tilda fights a confusion of thoughts and feelings. At last, she says, ‘Yes. I’d like that,’ before continuing on her way to the kitchen.

Chapter 10

10

SEREN

A feast day has been declared. Prince Brynach is back from a trip north to negotiate a peace with the Mercian queen. The agreement reached was favorable, and a celebration has been called to mark the beginning of what is already being called ‘Brynach’s Time of Peace.’ In truth, I believe he was but a foot soldier in this war of words, for his ambassador, Rhodri, Princess Wenna’s odious brother, was responsible for setting up the meeting. He it was who brokered the deal. He who accompanied the prince to the northernmost border of the realm. He the one who wrote the words on the scroll that must bind all parties to this new peace. But the written words of men are flimsy things indeed. Cast that parchment into the waters of Llyn Syfaddan and they would melt to nothing, first the lettering, then the scroll itself, until all was washed clean away. As if none of it had ever been.

I do not trust the word of the Queen of Mercia any more than I trust that of Rhodri, brother-of-the-princess. And I trust him not at all.