‘Not so long ago I’d have been called a witch.’ She gives a light laugh, but the notion feels far from funny now. ‘Maybe they would have had a point.’ She gets up and pulls on her underwear and T-shirt. The clouds outside have cleared at last, so that moonlight falls through the little window and finds the bracelet on the table, causing it to shine and glint. Tilda picks it up and studies it.

Dylan props himself up on one elbow. ‘You really think that helped you somehow? Down at the dig? You think it made you … stronger?’

Tilda nods. ‘It did. I know it did. It was scary, the way it made me feel, but I know I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did without it.’

*   *   *

Where did you come from? And why do I know I have seen these hares and this hound before?

The gold feels cool in her palm, the worn surface smooth save for the fine lines of the engraving. She turns it over and over and a faint but distinct ringing starts up in her head, as if a far-off glass wind chime were being moved by a sudden breeze. She takes a breath, and then slips the band over her hand and onto her wrist. It is too big, so she slides it up, wriggling it over her elbow until it sits comfortably around her upper arm. The metal presses gently against her skin, quickly losing its coolness as it takes up some of her own body heat.

And then all hell breaks loose.