Outside, the snow has shriveled off the tarmac of the lane, but remains in slushy lumps on the fields and paths. By the time they reach the track around the lake, a steady drizzle has begun. Tilda regrets not putting on a waterproof jacket, but knows her fleece will keep out the wet for the hour or so she plans to be out, and she can move faster like this. If Thistle minds the rain she doesn’t show it, but bounds happily along beside her mistress.

It is so good to be running again! Come on, fleet, old feet. Pace, push, breathe. Pace, push, breathe. One step at a time. That’s how to tackle stuff. One thing at a time.

She runs on. The countryside looks drab as the snow is melted by the rain, turning the scenery from white to gray. On the lake, geese take to the deeper water, grateful for the thaw, untroubled by the lack of sparkle or sunshine. A long-legged heron prods around in the shallows. Tilda allows herself to revisit what she’s learned over the last couple of days. Seren did not survive the attack; she has to accept that was what she was shown in the vision in the museum. She had a baby daughter, and that child was taken prisoner, and later sent to live in Wessex.

So, the line continued. It really can be true. They are my ancestors. My family. All this crazy stuff, all the different ways I have felt connected since I came here—the designs on my ceramics and the torc; what the torc does for me; what I’ve seen; Seren, even the terrible being from the dig—it’s all because this is where everything started. This is where I started. This is where I belong, and where that mad spark of magic in me came from. Seren. The Afanc. The lake. Me. Here.

The notion that she is descended from the woman she saw in the boat, from the woman who she sees when she puts a loop of gold around her arm, somehow this makes sense of everything. She was meant to live here, in this magical place. She was meant to reconnect with her heritage. She cannot believe that coincidence alone has brought her here. She and Mat had visited the area several times before buying the cottage, and she had always felt an inexplicable affinity with the place. An affinity that surprised her, given her fear of water. When they had found Ty Gwyn, the cottage had felt so right, almost as if it had been waiting for them. But she had dismissed this feeling as one hundreds of house hunters experience after months of looking for their perfect home.

Only for me, it was more than that. This is my home.

And Thistle had found the torc.

And I found Thistle. Or did she find me, I wonder?