But still, sleep will not come. As the dark hours crawl by Tilda becomes increasingly restless. Increasingly disturbed. She fidgets and moves about so much that Thistle eventually gets off the sofa and curls up on the hearth rug instead. With a sigh of exasperation, Tilda throws back the duvet, pulls on more clothes and lights a candle. She sits on the arm of the sofa, staring at the bracelet, watching the dancing light of the candle flame as it plays upon the warm gold. The flickering illumination appears to animate the drawings, so that the hares and the hound seem to first twitch, and then, gradually, the harder she stares, to start to run. She cannot resist reaching out to touch the bracelet. As her cold fingers connect with the hard metal she experiences something close to an electric shock charging up her arm, causing her to gasp aloud. Thistle wakes up, jumping silently from the rug to come and stand next to her mistress.

‘What do you reckon, girl?’ Tilda asks her, still keeping her hand on the bracelet, realizing that she wants to touch it. That she wants to feel connected to the strange magic it holds.

But is it in this beautiful, ancient thing, or is it in me? Does it affect me, or is it the other way around? How can I know?

It occurs to her that neither Dylan nor the professor felt anything unusual when they held the bracelet. She picks it up, and instantly becomes aware of the distant ringing sound she heard before. Her heart pounds running-hard as she recalls how utterly out of control she felt the last time she wore the heavy gold loop. At the same time she vividly remembers the pure energy that had surged through her body. It had been terrifying, but also intoxicating.

Looks like you’ve got me hooked.

Without allowing herself time for second thoughts, Tilda stands up, pulls off her fleece and slips the bracelet over her hand and onto her arm. This time she does not push it up beyond her elbow, but allows it to rest loosely around her wrist. Again she feels the warmth of the thing; an unnatural, fierce heat. She resists the urge to snatch it off, quells the panic that is rising from the pit of her stomach.

Steady now. No running away. Feet firmly planted. If it’s me that makes the thing work, then I should be able to control it. Stands to reason.

She closes her eyes. Thistle moves even closer, so that she can feel the dog’s tense body pressing against her. She drops her hand to Thistle’s head.