It occurs to her that the combined effects of the torc and the boat together might prove overwhelming. The thought should terrify her, but it does not. In a moment of shining clarity she sees what it is she has to do. Sees how it is she will find the answers to her questions. Taking a long, slow breath, she removes the torc from her pocket and slips it onto her arm. She keeps her eyes open as long as she can, bracing herself against the swirling, lurching sensations and blurred sounds that assail her. Her mouth is horribly dry. Her brow is damp with perspiration. The lights of the basement room flicker and their artificial illumination is replaced by a brightness so white and so strong it makes her flinch. Her fingers begin to tingle, the sensation quickly increasing to an uncomfortable level.

Okay. I’m ready. Show me. Show me Seren’s child! Show me what happened!

Tilda closes her eyes.

There is a shocking sensory assault as images of indistinct faces, of malformed animals, of eerie sounds and distorted words engulf her. A fleeting sight of the terrifying face of the witch from the dig almost startles her into opening her eyes, and she fights the urge to cry out, but it passes quickly. One moment the specter is there and the next it is gone again. Tilda forces herself to keep her eyes shut tight. For she knows this is how she will see, will truly see. She struggles to make out definite shapes among the phantasmagoria that dances in her pulsating vision.

‘Where are you?’ she whispers. ‘Where are you?’

And as suddenly as the mayhem began, it subsides. Images recede, colors fade, until there is only a gently undulating blue light. And into this light comes a figure. Tall. Slender. Her hair braided with leather. Her eyes dark with kohl. Her skin patterned with bold tattoos.

‘Seren!’

Seren walks toward Tilda, her piercing eyes aglow, holding Tilda’s own bewitched gaze, demanding that she continue to look. Tilda gasps as she sees that Seren is holding a small child by the hand. The little girl walks calmly beside her mother, her own silvery hair loose and wild, a happy smile upon her lips. The pair stands for a moment until the picture begins to shake and to judder and there comes the sound of thundering hooves. Seren lets go of the child’s hand and clutches at her stomach. Appalled, Tilda watches as blood pours between her fingers, soaking her hands, flowing unstoppably, so that Seren staggers backward, growing fainter, melting into the darkening blue behind her. The child remains, continuing to stare at Tilda. All sounds cease. The vision becomes clear and still. For a blissful moment, Tilda looks into the eyes of Seren’s daughter and finds a connection of such sweetness it makes her cry.