The countryside that moves slowly past her window is still snowy, but has lost much of its festive charm. There is a sense of the thick layers over fields and hills shrinking and shriveling, rather than melting softly away. The result is a muddy mess in gateways and on tracks, and gray slush alongside the gritted tarmac of the roads. On the broad oaks, branches poke their elbows through worn, snowy sleeves.

Her second reason for wanting to make this trip alone has to do with her purpose in going to town. The curator of the museum had been surprised to get her phone call on the dot of nine o’clock, pointing out that they had very few visitors or enquiries at this time of year. It had taken some persuading to agree to allow Tilda access to the archives. Most members of staff were on holiday, he had explained, and as this was the quiet season many of the exhibits were being restored or cleaned. Tilda had pleaded her case, telling him of her ceramic art, of an upcoming exhibition, of her urgent need for details and references as far back as possible connected to the crannog. In the end her sincere interest in the subject and her fervent desire to discover hidden facts had appealed to the archivist in him, and he had agreed to her request.

I told him it would be just me. I know if I’d told the professor what I’m doing he would have wanted to come, and I can’t risk the curator changing his mind.

She feels bad about being secretive. Both Professor Williams and Dylan have been so supportive, so understanding. But that is the other point; the other reason she needs to go alone. If the bracelet (or the torc, as she must now think of it) can cause such mind-blowing reactions in her, what if there is something in the museum collection, some seemingly simple object, that connects with her in a similar way? She needs to allow that link to be made, to pick up on whatever is there. More important, she needs to be able to stay in control of whatever happens. She knows she will be better able to do that if she is on her own.