Tilda gives a gasp, shaking her head slowly. ‘Well, that is somewhere we definitely differ. Nothing would induce me to go diving. Or swimming. Or even get in a boat if I can avoid it.’

‘Landlubber.’

‘Water baby.’

‘Maybe I can help you with that.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Have you ever seen the Caribbean? It’s not like the sea here. It’s turquoise, not gray. And warm!’

‘Me in that sort of sun? Do you know how much sunblock I have to wear even in this damp, cloudy country?’ She picks up the poker and chivvies the fire, encouraging more flames.

‘Which is why you run at dawn,’ he says, looking at her as if another piece of the mystery that is Tilda has just fallen into place.

‘Easier on my skin and my eyes.’

They sit together in silence again, and Tilda notices she has been able to almost forget about what happened earlier in the day. The respite was helpful, but could only ever be brief. She looks at Dylan again now.

‘You know, they will move that body. From the dig.’

‘Oh yes. Lucas will make sure of that.’

‘And when they do’—she searches for the words—‘they’ll set her free again.’

‘Who in God’s name was she?’ Dylan asks.

‘I don’t know.’ Tilda runs her hand through her hair, tugging it out of its plait in her exasperation. ‘I don’t know who she was and I don’t know why she seems intent on terrifying me. All I do know is that once that stone is taken off her again, somehow she is going to be let loose. And I have to be prepared for that. I have to be ready for her.’

‘We.’ Dylan puts his hand on hers. ‘You aren’t facing this alone, Tilda. I promise you.’

‘Being with me nearly got you killed today.’

‘But you saved me. You can beat this … creature. I know you can. And I’m going to help you. But tonight you don’t have to worry. Tonight you’re safe.’ He lifts his hand and strokes her hair. ‘It’s like spun glass.’ He touches her cheek. ‘You are the most incredibly beautiful woman I have ever seen,’ he says, and leans slowly forward to kiss her.

Thistle has other ideas. She growls and snaps simultaneously, missing Dylan’s face by the narrowest of gaps.

‘Thistle, no!’ Tilda screams at her.

Dylan leaps to his feet, backing away. ‘It’s okay. I’m fine. No harm done. It’s okay.’

‘No, it is not okay! Bad dog! What is the matter with you?’ Tilda opens the door and sends the dog out. Thistle slinks past and scurries up the stairs to the bedroom. ‘Dylan, I’m so sorry.’

‘Again? We’ve been through this.’