Tilda can hear the loneliness in his voice and feels bad. While she might happily convince herself that her mother can manage perfectly well without regular contact, she knows her father misses her. But the thought of them coming to stay, with all that is happening to her, fills her with panic.

I can’t do it. I can’t cope with them, not here, not now, not like this.

‘I’m not sure about the roads…’

‘We can check the forecast.’

‘My lane is definitely blocked.’

‘Even your mother can walk a short distance if she’s well motivated.’

‘The power’s unreliable right now too.’

‘Again? I thought you were getting that fixed.’

‘Must be the snow.’

‘How are you managing?’

She pauses, unsure whether telling him about Dylan will make him worry less or more.

‘I built a wood-fired kiln,’ she tells him.

He laughs. ‘That’s my girl. Pots first, domesticity sometime never.’

‘Pots first,’ she agrees.

‘Are you pleased with them?’

‘Haven’t opened the door yet.’

‘Ah,’ he says, sufficiently well-versed in the expectation that hangs on that moment to understand something of Tilda’s nervousness about it.

They agree to watch the weather and leave things undecided beyond that. The idea of a visit is not as scotched as Tilda would like it to be but, as always, her father’s gentle concern fills her with warmth and guilt simultaneously.

When she goes back outside she is struck by how clear the air is, how sharp the colors, how pure the sound of the birdsong. It is a bright day, and the landscape is looking its most beguiling. The lake appears sapphire blue set off by the whiteness around it. Even Thistle’s mood seems to have lightened, and she is allowing Dylan to throw snowballs for her to chase.

‘You’re winning her over,’ she tells him.

‘She’s not keen to share you, but every dog has its price.’

‘A few snowballs? Some might call that cheap. My father would probably woo her with mince pies.’

‘Are your family coming for Christmas?’ It is a perfectly natural question, but it makes Tilda uncomfortable.

‘The roads are blocked.’

‘Only the lanes. The snow’s not that bad.’

‘We might have more.’

He looks at her curiously. ‘We might not.’

‘But, we might.’

‘Okay.’ He thinks for a moment and then says, ‘Of course, if the roads are blocked, if your parents don’t make it up here, well, you’d be welcome to spend Christmas at the Old School House with us.’