‘Both, in effect. Turns out pinning victims of burials in place—whether they were alive at the time or not—was not the only reason tenth-century lake dwellers might have dropped such a huge flat stone on top of them. It was common practice—so Molly assures me, and I’ve never yet had cause to doubt her research—in the burial of a witch.’

Tilda feels a shiver that has nothing to do with the snow chase down the length of her spine. Without really knowing she is doing it, she takes hold of the bracelet nestled in her coat pocket. She catches Dylan’s eye. He looks serious for once.

‘Uncle Illtyd might support that theory,’ he says quietly, more to Tilda than to Lucas.

Although it is still early in the afternoon, the winter sky is filling with new snow clouds, and the dwindling daylight is already causing difficulties for the diggers. It is decided to fire up the generator and switch on the lights. There is a fair amount of running around and shouting. More than once Lucas instructs anyone not directly involved in lifting the remains to move away from the trench. After a couple of failed attempts, the generator powers up, its engine noise thudding through the still air, black smoke chugging from its exhaust. A switch is thrown and the overhead lights flare into action, casting their intense artificial brightness directly down onto the grave and its surrounding area. Tilda blinks, shading her eyes as she steps a little farther away. She is torn between wanting to see what is going on and not wanting to interrupt the functioning of the lights. She stamps her feet to ward off the cold that is beginning to penetrate her boots and thermal socks. She is aware of a dizziness, and knows that this time it has nothing to do with low blood-sugar levels or tiredness. It is the grave, or rather, whatever, whoever, is in the grave, that is causing her to feel light-headed, to feel somehow distant from the people around her. She is able to hear things above the thrumming of the generator. She can make out the heavy lapping of the water upon the shore, the chattering of a squirrel in a nearby tree, the beating wings of swans out on the lake. All her senses appear to be heightened. She is able to smell not only the acrid diesel fumes of the engine, but the mixture of sweat and body spray coming from the diggers as they work, the musty dampness of the branches of a large oak to her right, and the pungent odor of the ancient earth that is being, inch by inch, ever more disturbed. She can almost taste the moist, cold air on her tongue. The juddering of the generator, the stomping footsteps of those workers, the slight fizzing that runs down the metal supports of the arc lights—all these vibrations pass through her body.