As she approaches the trench, she looks for Thistle and spies her bedraggled body in the muddy area beside the dig. Hurrying over to the limp dog, she falls to her knees beside her.

‘Oh, Thistle! You poor little thing. You were so brave.’ She puts her hand on the soggy fur on the hound’s head. The blow from the ax did not penetrate the rib cage, but dug deep into her stomach. The earth beneath her is sticky with cooling blood.

But not that much blood. Why isn’t there more?

She realizes that the cold must have slowed the flow. Quickly, she puts her ear to the dog’s chest, searching for a heartbeat, praying that there might be something, even the faintest fluttering.

‘Nothing. Dammit! I let you die too!’

And then it comes to her. An idea so crazy that even in a day of craziness it seems beyond sense.

But why not? Why the hell not?

‘Okay, Thistle, listen to me. Your heart is a pump, right? Just a pump. A working part, like in an engine, or a bit of clockwork. And I can make things stop, and I can make them start again, okay? The torc! Where is it?’

She scrabbles in the mud, precious seconds ticking by, clawing at the gritty soil with her hands, trying to recall exactly where it was the gold band slipped from her arm.

‘I have to find it. For Thistle and for Dylan!’ She is nearing despair when she catches the glint of precious metal amid the grime. ‘There! Yes!’

She drags off her sodden fleece and flings it aside. Now she is only in her vest, but bare flesh is warmer than having a wet jacket clinging to her. And besides, she wants to feel the torc against her skin. Needs that connection. She jams it onto her arm, fixing it firmly above her elbow, determined it will not fall off this time. Immediately she experiences a surge of power and warmth flowing through her body.

‘Okay,’ she says, as much to herself as to the horridly lifeless dog in front of her, ‘I can do this. I can! Just letting something work again.’

She forces herself to calm down, to focus, to be quiet and still, to open her mind to the possibility of what it is she needs to do. Already her body is glowing from the magic of the torc. All she must do now is let her own ability work with it. She places both hands over Thistle’s heart and closes her eyes. Images flash before her mind’s eye. Hounds running. Fire. Water. The darkness of the lake. Seren. Nesta in all her fury. The warmth in her body intensifies, so that for a moment she is afraid it will prove too much for her, that it might burn her up.

Mustn’t stop. Must not stop.