In addition, the quiet and gloom seemed to help her sleep, so that, for once, she has slumbered long past daybreak and done without her morning run. Since knowing the insomnia that so often keeps grief company, she cannot remember waking feeling so rested and refreshed. She knows, though, that an electricity-free house would quickly lose its charm were she not able to make a morning cup of tea. The kettle begins to sing softly. Tilda finds the low light of the kitchen strangely soothing, and realizes she has forgotten to put in her contact lenses. The less light there is, the less need she has of them, after all. But they have long been a part of her daily disguise, her defense against prejudice and fear. Her colorless hair and her pale skin don’t cause too much interest. Eyes that have only the tiniest hint of blue pigment, however, so that they appear pink, unnerve people. They are what make people stare, and look away, then look again. Tilda is accustomed to a range of reactions to her albinism. Perhaps alone on the hill she will have to deal with them less. She leans against the stove and regards the shaggy shape of Thistle, who remains curled upon the inadequate cushion, watching her new mistress’s every move.

‘You don’t look ready for a run yet,’ she says to the dog. ‘Still sore?’ She wonders briefly if she should have taken the animal to see a vet, but quickly dismisses the idea. The nearest veterinary practice would be in Brecon, ten miles away. How would she get her there without a car? She crouches down beside Thistle and ruffles her fur gently.

‘Not exactly on a bus route here, are we girl? You’ll be okay. How about some sardines, eh? Would you like that?’ Tilda gropes in the cupboard for the right shaped can, opens it, and kneels on the floor to empty the contents into what has become Thistle’s bowl. The dog gets stiffly to its feet and comes wagging over. ‘There you go. Better than dog food any day,’ she says, reasoning the animal must be on the mend if it has a good appetite. At that moment Thistle stops eating, lifts her face from the bowl, and stares hard into the half-light of the hallway. The whole dog tenses. The fur on the back of its neck stands up. Tilda is aware of her own heartbeat racing. Thistle does not move or bark, but begins to emit a low, menacing growl. It is such a raw, basic sound that it transforms the dog from domesticated pet to potential killer in an instant. Tilda listens and squints into the gloom of the hallway, but she can neither hear nor see anything.

‘What is it, girl? What’s wrong?’ she asks, her voice a whisper.