We watch them go. I feel Brynach’s arm tighten around me. I know he would protect me with his last breath. I pray it never comes to that.

Chapter 15

15

TILDA

The night after the firing, Tilda finds it hard to sleep. The upstairs of the cottage is so cold she and Thistle opt for the sofa in the warm sitting room, keeping the fire well fed with logs. The woodshed is worryingly low, and Tilda knows she will have to restock it soon if she is to rely almost entirely on wood for her heating. She is aware that she could most likely restore the power supply, if only patchily, but finds herself reluctant to do so. She has become accustomed to working to the rhythm of the short winter days, functioning in the low light of candles and lamps, reading by the narrow beam of her battery headlamp and doing without the computer.

Am I hiding, being like this? Am I putting off reconnecting with the world? Am I building up reasons not to have my parents here? Do I want to hide from the world?

She has to admit to herself this is a possibility. After all, it would be useful to search the Internet for information about the body in the grave, about the crannog, about the people who lived around the lake centuries ago. And yet, she is resistant.

What don’t I want to see? What am I afraid of finding out?

She snuggles deeper under the duvet. Thistle gets up from her place in front of the somewhat blackened fireplace and climbs carefully onto the sofa.

‘Really? You think there’s room for both of us up here?’ Tilda protests mildly, secretly glad of the comforting company of the dog. Her emotions are in turmoil after her night with Dylan. If anyone had asked her, she would have said she wasn’t ready for another relationship; that her heart had not yet healed after losing Mat. And yet, being with Dylan had felt right. Had felt special. Had made her feel so much better. As if she had taken some crucial step. She knows that it is a step away from Mat, and that thought brings sadness with it, but in her heart she also knows such distance is inevitable. By clinging to the memory of Mat she is holding on to her grief. A twist of guilt knots her stomach.

Am I being disloyal? Is it too soon?

With a sigh she reaches out and strokes Thistle’s ears. ‘What d’you reckon, girl? Make any sense to you?’ In the uneven light from the fire she fancies she can make out the dog’s patient expression. ‘No need to be jealous, daft pooch. You should like him; he was the one who got you out of that pink collar.’