And mine? Is he mine? Have we really come so far so soon? I should be panicking, surely. I should be, but I’m not. And that’s bloody amazing.

The previous night he had arrived with the dusk, the old Landrover skidding up the lane over the dwindling snow. He had brought beer and a takeaway curry, which they had shared in front of the fire in the sitting room. Tilda had wanted to tell him so much about what had happened to her since she last saw him—about the way the torc brought about such changes in her and the incredible things she was able to do when she wore it. But sitting there, devouring the delicious, spicy food, relaxed by the warmth of the fire and the strong bitter ale, she could not bring herself to ruin the peace of the moment. Could not embark on the difficult task of explaining the inexplicable.

Instead, she had told him about her discovery regarding Seren’s child.

‘So you really could be her descendent?’

‘It is possible.’

He grinned. ‘So you really could be a witch?’

Tilda tried to find something flippant to say, something that would mask how much this question disturbed her. Nothing helpful offered itself, and Dylan was quick to pick up on her silence.

‘Tilda?’ He shifted his position next to her on the sofa, drawing back a little so that he could study her expression. ‘You have seriously been thinking about that, haven’t you?’

She shakes her head and takes another swig of beer. ‘It’s ridiculous. Impossible.’

‘Yeah, right. Just as impossible as whatever it was that flung me against that wall. Or set fire to this room. Or made those lights fall on me.’

She turned to face him quickly. ‘The lights fell because of whatever … whoever it is in the grave.’

‘A witch, we think, don’t we?’

‘So you’re saying I could be like that? Do stuff to hurt people? Terrify people the way that ghost does?’

‘Whoa! No, of course not.’

‘Because sometimes it does feel as if when people are around me … bad things happen.’ She had said it without thinking. Without realizing that she was talking about Mat as well as Dylan. And that he didn’t see that. How could he?

‘That’s rubbish,’ he said.

‘You don’t understand. It’s not just you. My husband, Mat … the way he died, in an accident…’

‘Tilda, an accident is nobody’s fault.’

‘But, perhaps … if there’s something bad in me…’

He put his hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘Listen to me. Lots of people feel guilty when someone they love dies. It’s a natural reaction, but of course it wasn’t your fault. And it … your husband’s death, it has nothing to do with what happened at the dig, Okay? Bad things happen to good people, that’s all.’