Who survived? Did Seren? Was there a child? And if there was, did he or she make it off the crannog, or did they perish too?

Tilda already knows from her conversations with the professor that the prince for whom the royal dwelling on the crannog was built is thought to have fallen in the battle. There is no record of him living beyond that date. What seems certain is that his wife, the princess, was among the prisoners.

But who else? Who else?

She pulls a box file of dusty documents from the shelf declaring themselves to be pertinent to the lake and baring the dates 900–920 AD. It seems as good a place to start as any. She finds a chair and pulls it up to one of the sturdier display cabinets which she uses as a desk, spreading out the papers and files, poring over them, her eyes straining for mentions of crannog dwellers, prisoners, and, ever hopeful, shamans and witches. A plain-faced clock on the far wall marks the passing of the first hour. And the next. Tilda works on, taking care to replace the documents in the order she finds them, making notes in her notebook of any details that seem relevant or helpful, though it is hard to find anything beyond what she and Professor Williams have already unearthed. The chair soon becomes cripplingly uncomfortable, and she wishes she had brought more than a bottle of water to sustain her. She repeatedly stumbles upon the reference made in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles. She knows how many people were taken, and where they were taken to. But then the trail goes cold. She sighs, stretching her aching back.

Nothing. Not a single, solitary damn clue.

She turns to look again at the boat. There is something so beautiful about its simplicity of design coupled with the certain solemnity given it by its great age. Tilda cannot resist going back to touch it again.

‘Are you Seren’s boat?’ she wonders aloud, her voice startlingly loud in the hush of the basement. She is suddenly seized by the urge to climb into the canoe. Experiencing a flash of terror at being caught taking such a liberty with a priceless museum exhibit, she knows as soon as the idea comes to her that this is what she must do. She pulls off her shoes and carefully steps into the shallow hollow of the narrow boat, steadying herself on the side, and desperately hoping that the stands on which the thing is displayed are strong enough to support the extra weight. There is an alarming creaking sound, but once she is sitting still the canoe feels stable. Once again the boat starts to sing, and soon Tilda’s vision starts to blur and she begins to feel dizzy.

Just like with the torc. Should I put it on? Dare I?