In her bedroom, she stands for a moment in front of the mirror. She realizes she has not exactly dressed up for the occasion, and the thought comes to her that Dylan has only ever seen her in running gear or working clothes. Or naked. She smiles at the thought. On impulse, she undoes her hair from its plait and shakes it loose about her shoulders. It looks fine, but she knows it will be a mess by the time she reaches the Old School House. She turns to her bedside locker and slides open the drawer in it, taking out a small velvet pouch. She hesitates only a moment before shaking the contents onto her hand. The silver hairpin feels cool in her palm. It consists of delicate strands of silver worked into a beautiful Celtic knot. A present from Mat. The last thing he ever gave her. A talisman for their new life in their new home. She has not had the courage to so much as look at it since he died, but now she can. Now feels like the right time to wear it. Deftly, she twists her hair up, threading it loosely through itself, and then securing the updo with the pin at the nape of her neck.

You look okay, Tilda Fordwells. You look okay.

She has already shut down the stoves in the house and studio, so that they will still be going when she returns. She collects Thistle and a tightly wrapped package from the kitchen, locks the back door, and sets off down the hill. Thistle bounds happily at her side. The energetic pace the dog enjoys reminds Tilda how long it is since she has been for a run.

I miss it. But I’d be risking a broken leg in these conditions.

‘A brisk walk will have to do us today, girl,’ she tells Thistle, smiling at the animal’s antics as she frisks about in the snow.

The Old School House is picture-postcard pretty, its low roof and deep-set windows thick with fluffy snow, and every plant in the garden similarly frosted and sparkling. Tilda feels a pang of guilt at having put her parents off coming. They had been disappointed, but had accepted that the roads were still bad and the weather unsettled. At least she had been able to reassure them that she was spending the day with lovely neighbors, successfully painting a picture of rural friendliness and community spirit to comfort her father so that he wouldn’t worry about her. She takes a breath before knocking on the arched front door.

It is Dylan who opens it. He grins at her and steps back to let her into the hallway.

‘Wow,’ he says, staring at her. ‘You look … incredible.’