The room is filled with a light so white that Tilda throws her arm across her face in an attempt to block it out. The ringing sound grows in a crescendo so fast and to a volume so loud that when she screams, she cannot hear her own terrified voice. Blinking through the pulsating light, she sees Dylan thrown back against the far wall. He reaches out to her, but cannot move forward. The harmless flames in the fireplace swell and grow, burning with an unnatural brightness as they lick at the mantelpiece and begin to climb the wall of the chimney breast. The air around Tilda seems to swirl and move in great waves. She is buffeted by it, pulled this way and that, her hair whirling wildly about her, until she, too, begins to spin. She is powerless to stop. And as she spins, a vision forms in the blur of her sight. She sees herself, standing tall and straight, her hair twisted with leather braids, her eyes painted darkly with kohl, her skin bearing bold tattoos of heavy black ink, her body clothed only in leather armor, a dagger at her hip. This shimmering, fearsome version of herself raises her hand, slowly, reaching toward Tilda, who cannot move, either to take her hand, or to shrink from it. She knows she must do something, something to make it stop. Something to gain control. The fire is beginning to catch the wooden mantelpiece and sparks are setting the rug alight. Dylan’s eyes are closed as if he has lost consciousness. The sensation of spinning is causing Tilda to fear she, too, will soon pass out. And then there will be no one to stop the spread of the fire.

Dammit, this is my house! My home! I won’t let this happen!

With huge effort, she forces herself to lift her left hand and clutch at the bracelet. For a moment she fears she will not be strong enough. Smoke is beginning to make her cough. She can smell burning wool. At last she grasps the bracelet and wrenches it from her arm, flinging it across the room.

And everything stops.

She falls to the floor. The vision has vanished. The terrifying noise has ceased. She can move again. She snatches up a blanket from the sofa and smothers the flames around the hearth. Dylan splutters and clambers to his knees. Once the fire is out, she goes to him.

‘Dylan? My God, Dylan…’

He looks at the devastation around the room, the upturned furniture, the broken ornaments, the burned mantle and carpet. He coughs and says shakily, ‘Remind me never to piss you off.’ Then he looks at Tilda and his eyes widen. ‘Wow,’ he murmurs.