He turns and takes in the view. ‘Okay, I get it. That is spectacular.’

‘The lake is completely frozen over today,’ Tilda points out. ‘Doesn’t happen very often.’

‘When I set out I thought it was cold enough, but now … phew!’ He unbuttons his coat.

‘No work on the dig today, then?’

He shakes his head. ‘Everything is glued together with ice. And we’ve had to sort out the lights.’

‘Ah.’ Tilda cannot meet his eye. There is no reason he should think any of the chaos at the dig site was anything to do with her. No reason beyond her own behavior, which must have looked nothing short of hysterical to Lucas.

‘Actually,’ he says, reaching down to casually pat a compliant Thistle, ‘that’s why I came up here. To tell you that we’ve rescheduled the lifting of the remains for two days after Christmas. I … thought you’d like to know.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘And I wanted to apologize. For getting so … cross. With you.’

Tilda smiles at the quaintly inappropriate word.

‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Everything was a mess … all your hard work. It was understandable.’

‘All the same, I shouldn’t have barked at you like I did. I’m sorry.’

She looks at him carefully. The fact that he has considered her, considered how she feels about the dig, that he has trekked all the way up the hill to talk to her about it, shows a side of him she had not given him credit for before. And now she sees he is looking directly at her, levelly and openly, and she is no longer wearing her tinted lenses.

‘Coffee?’ she offers.

He nods wordlessly and follows her up the path to the kitchen door.

‘I’ve only just got the stove going,’ she tells him. ‘It’ll warm up in a bit.’ She pushes the kettle onto the hottest part of the Rayburn and fetches mugs and coffee. Lucas takes off his coat and scarf and sits at the table.

‘Don’t you feel a little isolated?’ he asks. ‘I mean, all the way up here on your own…’

‘I like solitude.’

‘A true artist, then.’

‘Not a very productive one recently. Until today, actually.’ Tilda is surprised to find herself telling him about the wood-fired kiln and the firing. He accepts her explanation that it was an artistic choice not to use a conventional kiln, and for a while the two talk about art and what it is she does and how she is both nervous and excited about opening the kiln. Eventually, though, the conversation falters and she knows they must return to the subject of the dig.

‘I’m sorry,’ she begins, ‘about … the other day. When you were lifting the stone … I didn’t mean to wreck things for you.’

‘You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault the lights blew out.’ He sips his coffee and then adds, ‘You were very … upset.’