‘No, he does not seek to catch you, he runs with you. See? He shows no teeth, and his eye looks back, not forward. He is your protector.’

‘So much gold. You could feed an army for the price of this.’

‘My daughter is a princess. She should be adorned as such.’ He takes it from me and kneels in front of Tanwen. He lets her touch the torc, shows her the pictures, talks softly to her, making gentle, cooing noises. He lifts the golden ring and fits it into place with such care and delicacy that our babe does not protest. She puts her fingers to it, exploring the smoothness of the precious metal, picking out the carved lines upon it. But she has a young mind, and her attention is caught by a caterpillar crawling near her foot, so that she forgets what she is wearing, and hastens to catch the little creature instead. Brynach sits back on his heels, gazing at her. ‘I know she is a child of the moonlight,’ he says, the sadness catching in his voice. ‘I understand she must live as you do, making friends of shadows and shade, happiest and safest in the soft hours of cool darkness. I know this.’ He turns to me. ‘But I live my life by day, Seren. And though she is in your image, she has my blood.’ He nods at the golden necklace. ‘Now I know she will forever have a drop of sunshine with her, however deep the night. Forever.’

Chapter 18

18

TILDA

By the time Dylan drives Tilda home a sudden thaw has begun, so that the Landrover swishes and slithers through slush. The cottage is dark, but the fire in the kitchen stove has kept in well, so that the house feels welcoming and warm. Even so, Dylan suggests they would be warmer in bed.

Upstairs Tilda is embarrassed to find she is nervous. Their first lovemaking had been spontaneous, without time for awkwardness. Somehow the whole business of undressing and getting into bed together is painfully intimate. She has become so used to wearing her thermals at night and having Thistle curl up on her feet. She is unsure how to behave.

Long Johns and a hairy lurcher could be passion killers. Or should he just see the real me? Whatever that is.

Picking up on her nerves, Dylan takes her hand in his. They stand beside the bed. She is in her T-shirt and underwear. He has stripped to his jeans, his body gleaming in the faltering light of the candle that burns on the bedside table. He gently unclips her silver hairpin and puts it on the bedside locker before running his fingers through her loose hair, following the irregular waves it has gained from being pinned up. ‘It’s been a special day,’ he tells her. ‘Spending Christmas with you…’