And then she sees it.

Huge and heavy and ancient beyond memory, powering up toward her through the darkness. Its skin has an iridescent sheen—blue, green, purple all at one time. It moves incredibly swiftly for something so enormous, its graceful neck stretched forward as it scythes through the gloom. It has a noble head, with a wide brow and huge eyes, shining and fathomless, deep set and ink-black. Tilda looks into those eyes and knows—just knows—that as clearly as she sees this magnificent creature, as surely, she herself is being seen. As the mysterious beast swoops upward and over her, Tilda fears she will be knocked down by it, crushed and broken, so that she opens her eyes, stepping backward, falling to the floor. The room is filled with swirling colors, but beyond this there are no more apparitions. The creature is not there. Tilda scrambles to her feet, putting her left hand over the bracelet so that she can hold it in place, but also so that she might pluck it off quickly if she needs to. But the vision is fading. The curious cry of the fabulous being she has just encountered weakens and dies away, as if the fantastic beast were traveling at great speed, singing all the while. Tilda stands for several minutes as everything around her returns to a more normal, everyday shape and state. Dawn is nudging its way above the hills outside, and shedding a weak daytime light through the small window. It is some time before Tilda feels ready to slip the bracelet off her arm. She finds she is both exhausted and exhilarated. Gently, she sets the precious band down on the table. Thistle has decided the excitement is over and climbs back onto the duvet. Tilda rubs her chilly arms, fighting an overwhelming fatigue, as she climbs back under the duvet, snuggling close to the dog, falling quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

*   *   *

The next morning when Tilda goes outside the coldness of the air and the beauty of the countryside take her breath away. There has been no further fall of snow, but the mountain has snagged a passing cloud, which has paused long enough to coat every gatepost, branch, twig and leaf in its vapor. And that mist has since frozen. Tilda has never seen anything so enchanting. Wherever she looks there are ice crystals, pure and sharp and delicate, frozen to every surface, even the wool of the Welsh mountain sheep as they chomp their hay from the equally frosted feeder in the field next to the cottage. Now a ceiling of high cloud diffuses the sunlight, softening it and removing the color from the sky. The lake itself is covered in a layer of ice that appears from Tilda’s viewpoint to be black. She knows this is an impossibility, and for a few moments is unable to do anything other than stand and stare at the wondrous scenery.