‘Right,’ she tells the dog, ‘I’ve got to get into the studio. You’ll just have to make do with the Rayburn. I’m not risking switching that heater on again.’ As she heads for the door she is painfully aware of a pair of beady brown eyes following her.

Will it be lonely? Should I take it with me? Oh, this is ridiculous.

‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she calls to Thistle, her hand on the latch of the door. She is just about to go out when there is a second loud bang and the power goes off once more.

‘Damn it! Again?’ She turns and strides through the kitchen. Not seeing that Thistle has got up from her cushion she stumbles into the dog, tripping, her knee connecting with the edge of a wooden chair. ‘Stay in your bed! Ouch, for pity’s sake.’ Cursing further, she sits heavily on the floor, clutching her knee. The dog is back on its cushion, making itself as flat and small as it can. Tilda is filled with remorse at having spoken harshly. She swallows a sob and closes her eyes tight. She knows if she lets herself cry–properly cry—grief will claim her again.

You are a self-pitying fool, Tilda Fordwells. Get up, girl. Get up and get on!

She wipes her face with her sleeve and stands up, allowing herself two deep breaths before she opens her eyes again. Thistle is peering up at her from beneath shaggy brows. Immediately, Tilda is swamped by pity for the dog. Slowly she moves close to the scruffy hound, crouching beside it, stroking the animal’s head and ears gently.

‘I’m sorry. You poor old thing. And your mouth is still bleeding. Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on the stove, make me a cup of tea and you some warm water so I can bathe your face. Then we’ll phone an electrician. The cell phone might not work up here, but at least the landline does. Upside of keeping the old telephones that don’t need to be plugged in to the main power supply. What d’you say, sound like a good idea? Might even be a biscuit or two to go with the tea. You could help me with those.’

Thistle replies with a feeble but friendly wagging of her tail, the movement sending up little clouds of dust to swirl and dance in the narrow beam of sunlight that falls through the window.