Tilda closes her eyes tightly and the shapes become instantly clearer, sharper, bolder. She sees the hares again, running, ears flat, twisting this way and that. And the hound, silent and swift. And birds again, cawing crows this time, and a buzzard casting a broad dream of a shadow with its majestic wings. Tilda searches for faces. And for the Afanc. She longs to find the magnificent creature. Wants to experience again its ancient, magical presence. But today it is absent, and the dancing animals move ever faster, increasing her dizziness. The ringing in her ears is building, too, quickly reaching a painful level.

It’s too much. I can’t control it!

Instinctively, she opens her eyes. The supernatural brightness is shocking, making her blink and gasp, her sensitive eyes smarting, her vision blurring. For a moment she fears she will fail; that all she can do is snatch off the bracelet to make it all stop. She has her hand on the gold loop, ready to wrench it from her arm, and yet she pauses.

It’s not the bracelet … it’s me. This is in me, somehow. And if that’s true, then I must be able to handle it. I must!

Slowly she takes her hand away, holding her arms out to balance herself. No shapes appear in the blinding whiteness that reflects, dazzling, off the snow. No diamond-eyed woman. No mythical water-horse. Just glare and noise, both painful and overwhelming. Tilda can feel her heart thudding, the beat of it pounding against her eardrums, blood surging, the sensation of plummeting threatening to make her pass out.

No! Dammit, no!

She flings her arms wide and her head back.

‘Stop!’ she shouts, the word echoing around the valley, rebounding off the hills again and again, repeating and insisting. Stop! Stop! Stop!

And it does. Or at least, the unmanageable parts of it do. The deafening ringing noise ceases at once. The strobing whiteness fades to a softer glow. The swirling sensations and the bewildering giddiness abate, so that she stands steady now, stable, strong. She is aware of a powerful tingling in her hands and feet, and when she looks closer she sees that her fingertips are fizzing. Tiny blue flashes crackle from them, like the arcing of circuits shorting out. Tilda steps over to the snow-covered stone birdbath on the wall and reaches out to touch it. As her fingers get close the snow recedes, melting as quickly as if she had touched it with fire. Cautiously she brings her fingertips to her cheek. There is a zinging vibration, but no pain, no burning. She looks around the garden. Thistle stands close by, her eyes never leaving her mistress. If she is frightened she does not show it.