Having removed the lid she nervously turns back to look into the grave itself. The sight that meets her eyes is so poignant she finds herself sobbing. There is a complete skeleton, bones all appearing to be strong and unbroken and laid out as the deceased must have been over a thousand years before, with arms crossed over his chest. The skull is encased in a finely worked helmet, and even in the rain and the dimly lit day, Tilda can make out an intricate brooch pinning the remnants of a cloak around his shoulders. Beside him is the handle of a dagger, and a sword, rusted, but complete. There are plates and dishes, too, and a goblet, all lovingly placed next to the dead man, furnishing him with wealth and plenty in the next life.

Thistle jumps into the grave and for an instant Tilda fears she might pull at the bones, but she does not. Instead she sniffs at the skeleton’s left hand, her tail wagging furiously. Tilda thinks back to what Seren told her.

Take what protection Hywel holds.

‘And you must be Hywel. What have you got there?’ With great care she unfurls the finger bones and discovers a small, stoppered clay jar. It is intact, amazingly well preserved, but then Tilda is familiar with the enduring properties of ceramics. She gently removes the jar, the earthenware rough in her palm. She looks at Hywel. ‘I’m sorry,’ she tells him, ‘but someone I love needs this more than you do now.’

The run back up the hill to Ty Gwyn is the hardest she has ever run. Thistle, too, struggles, though seems remarkably sound and strong, considering her injury. For Tilda, each step feels leaden and slow, as if she is running in a dream.

Will I be too late? Oh, please don’t let me be too late.

At last she reaches her own garden gate, a sharp stitch in her side causing her to double over as she releases the latch. She can already sense the witch’s presence. It is as if dark dread emanates from the little cottage. She hurries toward the kitchen door at the back of the house but stops when she hears noises coming from the studio. Sounds of crashing, of things breaking, mixed with Dylan shouting.

He’s alive!

‘Stay back, Thistle!’ she tells the dog sternly. ‘She could hurt you again. You stay out here!’ Tilda reaches the patio doors of the studio in time to see Nesta causing one of her best pots to rise up into the air. She sees Dylan, blood gushing from a cut in his cheek, dive behind the workbench. Tilda screams through the glass of the door. ‘Leave him alone, you bitch!’