‘Here we are,’ he says, setting down a tray on the coffee table. ‘Bread, passed its best, but still brown rather than blue; cheese, a tub of coleslaw, two packets of crisps, some chocolate biscuits and’—he waves a bottle triumphantly—‘the remains of the brandy.’

‘I’m not sure I can cope with booze,’ says Tilda, settling herself next to Thistle on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire.

‘Yes you can.’ Dylan gets glasses, then sits as close as Thistle will tolerate. ‘It is a known fact that a little alcohol is good for shock and exhaustion.’

‘That is rubbish.’

‘Really? Can all those Saint Bernard dogs with their little barrels be wrong?’

Despite herself Tilda smiles. The events of the day have left her drained, and she is glad not to be alone.

No, more than that; I’m glad Dylan is here.

This realization is comforting and unnerving at the same time. She takes a proffered glass from him and sips it, leaning back against the base of the armchair and gazing into the dancing flames in the hearth.

‘We will need to check the kiln in a few hours,’ she tells him. ‘We have to keep as even a temperature as possible.’

‘For how long?’

‘Well, ideally, twelve hours.’

‘Okay, we can measure that by daylight, given that we can’t reliably keep a clock or watch working around you.’

‘Thanks for reminding me.’

Dylan takes a swig of brandy. ‘No problem. We’ll go by the position of the sun. We must have set the thing going near eleven. Daybreak is about seven-thirty this time of year. As long as there’s not too much cloud we should be able to tell when the sun is directly overhead. What will we do then?’

‘Rake out the fire and let the temperature drop slowly. We should be able to open the kiln about noon the following day.’

‘Wow, that’s a long time to wait. How can you resist having a peek?’

‘Easily, seeing as to do so would wreck the firing. If the temperature inside the kiln drops too quickly the pots could crack or shatter, never mind what it would do to the glazes.’

They sit in peaceful silence for a while, sharing the simple food, gradually letting the alcohol and the warmth of the fire take the tension from them. At last, Tilda can feel her feet again properly and her shoulders start to ache less as she relaxes them. Her eyes are gritty from tiredness, the drying effects of the cold weather and the irritation of the wood smoke. She finds herself rubbing them.

‘Why don’t you take them out?’ Dylan asks.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Your lenses. If your eyes are sore, you should take out your lenses.’ He shrugs. ‘You really don’t need them anymore, do you?’