Tilda shrugs. ‘It’s my very best duffle coat,’ she tells him as she pulls down her hood, though she knows he is not commenting on what she is wearing. Knows that she appears altered in some indefinable but unmissable way.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he says, pointing at the mistletoe suspended from the ceiling above them. He takes her in his arms, gently pulling her close for a warm, unhurried kiss. It feels good to be enfolded in such easy intimacy. To be held again. To be wanted.

‘Your hair is different today,’ he says, touching the pin that holds it. ‘This is pretty. It suits you.’

She feels no awkwardness at the blurring of the lines: a gift from Mat, a kiss from Dylan. She mattered to both men, and they both matter to her. She is relieved at how natural that progression feels now. She returns his kiss, the two of them only jumping apart at the sound of Professor Williams’s voice.

‘Ah! Our guest has arrived. Splendid. A very happy Christmas to you, my dear,’ he says, extending a hand and then smiling broadly when Tilda steps up and gives him a peck on his whiskery cheek. When he draws back and looks at her again she sees surprise on his face and remembers her uncovered irises.

‘Happy Christmas, Professor,’ she says, taking off her coat. She hands him the parcel.

‘A present! My dear, we agreed not to. Dylan told me…’

‘I know.’ She smiles. ‘But I wanted to. It’s just a small thing, really.’

The professor looks at Dylan, who gives him an I-knew-nothing-about-it shrug. He takes off the brown wrapping and finds one of Tilda’s earlier works, a little pinch-pot, smooth yet irregular, the finished article still bearing the potter’s thumbprints, glazed in a deep burnt umber, rich and textured.

‘Well! What a truly delightful thing,’ he says, beamimg. ‘Thank you so much. It will take pride of place on my desk. Now do come through to the sitting room, it is warmer in there,’ he tells her. ‘It is so very good for we men to have company today, else we might have let the occasion slip by unmarked. As it is, my brave nephew has risen to the challenge of preparing the feast.’

‘Have you been trawling the shelves of the village shop again?’ she asks Dylan.

‘I’ll have you know I went to the farmer’s market for the turkey and veg, and the best baker’s in town for the pudding.’ He takes her coat and notices her glance at the grandfather clock.

‘It’s not working,’ she says, a note of panic in her voice.