The room is filled with the roaring of a fierce wind, a sound from nowhere, a cacophonous noise that makes Tilda throw her hands over her ears. Thistle dives beneath the table. Tilda can feel the force of a gale against her face, but sees that this time nothing in the kitchen is being disturbed. Everything remains still. No cups crash to the ground, no books fly from the shelves, even the undrawn curtains do not so much as flutter. And yet she is painfully aware of a brutal force pushing against her, a pressing down, a buffeting and pounding. But it is only she who feels it. Only she who finds herself pulled this way and that, the breath all but knocked from her, the shrill sound growing inside her head. And then come the faces. Two, three, ten, dozens of faces, flashing before her, some old, some laughing, others crying, all with eyes staring intently at her, into her, questioning, probing. And their voices, mangled words and utterances in many languages, all gabbling and spitting at her, demanding of her, though she cannot understand what it is they are saying, what it is they want. She fears she will go mad, will finally lose her mind. She lurches forward, the whole room spinning, or is it she who spins? Nausea threatens to swamp her. A dizziness begins to take hold. In desperation she grasps the torc, ready to pull it from her arm. But then she sees another face among the many. A face she knows. Pale, and beautiful, and steady, returning her own gaze, unfaltering, knowing, strong.

Tilda chokes down panic and forces herself to let go of the torc. She pushes against the table, making herself stand upright, straight, using the power of her strong body to hold herself steady.

‘Enough!’ she shouts into the maelstrom. ‘I’ve had enough!’

It is as if all the air has been sucked from the room. There is a dazzling flash of whiteness. And then nothing. Silence. Everything as it was. Except that the laptop beeps gently back to life.

Tilda slumps onto the kitchen chair and frantically clicks points on the screen, searching for the document she was reading, dreading that it will somehow be lost.

‘No! Here it is, here! “… a boy not yet fifteen but strong and with green eyes; a woman past thirty but with good teeth; and a girl child, no more than three years, very pale, with hair clear as glass and eyes to match…”’ Tilda leans back in her seat, a tearful smile tugging at her mouth. ‘Found you,’ she says quietly. ‘I’ve found you.’

Chapter 20

20

TILDA

Pulling on her running thermals and outer layers, Tilda deftly secures her hair in a single plait. Dylan has stayed the night again and is still sleeping deeply. It gives her such comfort, such joy to see him lying there, familiar, strong, peaceful.