This is an entirely different prospect. The coziness of the professor’s home, his unquestioning acceptance of her, Dylan’s company and support, all sound so much more appealing than her parents’ well-meant fussing. She doesn’t have to hide what is happening from Dylan. Having him know, having him understand, means so much to Tilda. And the opportunity to spend time searching though Professor William’s extensive library is an added attraction. The more she delves into the past of the lake, the more likely she is to find out the identity of the body in the grave, and to start making sense of what is happening to her.

‘Won’t your uncle mind?’

‘He’ll be thrilled skinny. Why don’t we go down and tell him now?’

‘Oh, actually, I’d like to spend a bit of time here. You go.’

‘Want rid of me already, huh?’

‘No, of course not, it’s just that…’ She can’t find the words to explain that she is used to being on her own. That now, more than ever, she needs a little solitude. ‘You know, girl stuff. Might crank up the Rayburn, get some hot water together for a bath, wash my hair, shave my legs…’

‘Okay, I get it!’ He raises his hands, smiling. ‘Linny will manage the snow no problem with her chunky tires. I’ll come back later with something edible from the village shop.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Morning?’

‘Let’s make it afternoon, shall we?’ Seeing the poorly masked hurt on his face, she adds quickly, ‘I’d really like you to be here when I open the kiln.’ It isn’t true, but she knows it will matter to him.

He pulls her to him and kisses her lightly. ‘Brilliant idea,’ he says, holding her close.

SEREN

We lie in a tangle of limbs, my prince’s lean and muscular, my own lithe and pale. We are twisted as ivy through oak. Brynach has added a fine fur to my bed; a fur from a far-off land, the pelt of an animal I have never seen and will never know. I am grateful for the comfort it affords me now. It is noon, near enough, and the door to my little home is propped open to allow in the soft summer breeze with its scent of meadow hay, and the familiar voices of the waterbirds. Of late, I have submitted to a slowness that at first was frustrating and bewildering. I have come to see that nature has her own notion of what is best for me now, and I am in no position to argue.

‘Are you thirsty?’ Prince Brynach asks me, leaning over to smile down, studying my face, now my throat, now the curve of my shoulder.

‘I am not. I wish only to stay here and watch the sun fall behind the mountains.’