She closes her eyes again and lets herself replay the events of the previous night in her mind. She remembers slipping the bracelet onto her arm. She can clearly feel the cool metal against her skin. And then so many conflicting thoughts and sensations come flooding back to her it is hard to make sense of them. The blinding white light. The feeling of being lifted off her feet. Dylan being thrown against the wall. The ringing noise. The swirling spinning that almost made her pass out. The fire, growing and leaping from the hearth, threatening to set the whole room, the whole house alight. And the vision. This … version of herself, standing so tall and serene and strong.

Could that really have been me? Do I even believe in reincarnation?

Beyond this, any of this, there was something else. Something that both thrilled and frightened her. It was the overwhelming, intoxicating, mind-blowing sense of power that had surged through her. She had never experienced anything like it. The fact that it was out of her control was what made it terrifying. But the energy, the force, whatever it was, that itself was glorious. And though Tilda hardly dares acknowledge the fact, even to herself, she knows that she wants to feel that power again. That she has to. That something about her, something in her, has connected with an amazing force, the like of which she cannot understand but which she cannot turn her back on.

The bracelet still sits on the table beside her. She has not dared put it on again, but she is frequently drawn to it, wanting to touch it, to hold it. Dylan had offered to take it to his uncle to see if he could shed any further light on its possible origins, but Tilda would not hear of it being taken anywhere. She wishes sleep would give her some respite from the turmoil in her head. Different concerns, each one perplexing enough to keep her awake, chase one another round and round in her mind. Dylan. Being with Dylan. Letting go of Mat. The ghost from the grave. The mysterious properties of the bracelet and the way it affects her. And the firing. She decides that, for now, she will concentrate only on the firing. Tomorrow she will open the kiln and see if weeks of work, if her hopes of transforming her ideas into something wonderful, have been successful or come to nothing.

One step at a time. Just like running. First step, the firing. And beyond that, right now, I am too tired to think.