Tilda glances in the direction of the setting sun. As it drops behind the snow-covered mountains beyond the lake, it bleeds its color into the winter sky. Such a spectacle would, ordinarily, have halted her in her work, causing her to gaze in wonder. But today it serves only to remind her that the day is nearly over, and time is slipping through her fingers. It is now only two days until Christmas, and she has promised to celebrate with Dylan and his uncle, so she has only a few hours left before she will have to tidy herself up and tear herself away from the cottage. More important, she will have to put away the bracelet. Or at least, resist wearing it. The thought brings an anticipatory pang of longing. She marvels at how quickly she has moved from being afraid of what it brings her to being ecstatic about it. After the firing, Dylan had suggested a celebratory meal in the Red Lion. She had felt his disappointment when she had invited Lucas, and his relief when Lucas had declined the offer, saying he had more things to take care of at the dig site. In truth, she would rather have stayed at home. The success of the firing and the bewildering vision had ignited all her creative impulses to bursting point. She wanted to lock herself in the studio and draw what she had seen. Wanted to capture the image of the incredible creature that had appeared to her. Wanted to record all the minute details of what had danced and leapt before her eyes. Wanted to compare again the intricate design on the bracelet with her now-finished, glazed and fired artwork.

And she wanted to wear the bracelet again.

But not with Dylan there. Not with anyone there. So, she had gone to the pub with him, eaten a late lunch she scarcely tasted, drunk beer she hardly noticed, done her best to behave like a normal, reasonable, sensible person. Except that she didn’t feel normal anymore. At the end of the evening she had gently but firmly sent Dylan away, flinching at the wounded expression he had worn as he left. She had tried to explain that she needed to work. Just these few days, she had assured him. They would see each other again on Christmas Day.

‘I’ve lost you to a lump of clay,’ he told her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘It’s just that…’ she left the sentence unfinished.

‘Look, I’m pleased you’re happy. Glad to see you thinking about your work instead of … well, other stuff.’