Thistle has no regard for such things, and busies herself following mouse tracks through the snow in the garden. The kiln has cooled completely now, and Tilda suffers a flash of worry that the winter weather will have caused the temperature to drop more suddenly than is good for the ceramics inside the little oven. She places her hand on the frost-topped brickwork. More than just a few pots depend upon the results of the firing. Her future livelihood is at stake, it’s true, but there is something more. Her hopes for these special pieces are linked to all the strangeness of this magical place. To all the curious things, the changes that have been happening to her. Will the designs have the quality, the impact, the strength, that she is praying for? Will she be able to make something of the strange connection she feels to the lake, its past and its people? She has slipped the bracelet into her pocket, feeling a need to keep it close. Taking it out, she holds it up so that the soft morning light picks out the hares and the hound, locked in their eternal chase. She considers putting it on again, but knows that the moment is not right to explore the secrets it holds.

Not now. Not yet.

She is still giddy from the events of the previous night. Still stunned by her experiences. Still in awe of the wonderful things she was shown. She has not yet had a moment to try to make sense of it, and a part of her does not want to. Does not wish to taint the beauty and power of what she saw, of what she felt, with the application of reason and plain old-fashioned good sense. She holds on tight to the belief that by pressing on with her work, by bringing her art to life, she is strengthening the magical connection that the designs on the bracelet and her pots share. The thought of that connection thrills her. And scares her too, though at this moment she chooses not to dwell on that. She shades her eyes with her hand and squints up at the sky in search of the sun. It is still obscured, but the brightest of the gloom is not yet directly overhead.

Too early to open the kiln yet. And too slippery for a run.

She is about to go back indoors when she notices a figure trudging up the snow-covered path toward the cottage. At first she thinks it is Dylan, but as the walker draws closer she recognizes Lucas.

Lucas? Why would he struggle all the way up here to seek me out?

He looks up, sees her, and waves. She waves back. Thistle pads over to the garden gate to inspect their visitor.

‘Good morning, Lucas.’

He stops, bending forward to catch his breath before speaking. ‘Don’t tell me you actually run up this hill,’ he gasps.

‘Not lately.’