Nesta ceases her screaming and turns to look at the wondrous thing that now swoops and turns about her head. When she recognizes it she shrieks anew, only this time her voice is filled not with anger but with fear.

Dylan struggles against the workbench. ‘What is that?’

‘The Afanc!’ Tilda is smiling now, though she still holds the torc high, still dares not move from the spot where she stands keeping the lethal glass at bay.

The clay model of the water-horse that Tilda had spent so many hours sculpting is a perfect representation of the Afanc of her visions. Of the Afanc that saved her in the lake. Not yet glazed or fired, it remains the color of the earthenware clay, dark and mottled red, as if seen through storm-churned lake water, deep and muddy, but even in this unfinished state it is glorious. The magic that stirred it has given it a lustrous glow that makes it appear both miraculous and somehow dangerous; its eyes burning bright, its bared teeth gleaming, its body rippling with strength. It flies around Nesta, diving at her, snapping at her, as if it were swimming, its sinuous neck twisting as it turns, its long tail flicking and thrashing at the terrified witch. The effect it has on Nesta is immediate and striking. She is terrified beyond any thought except of escaping from this symbol of the lake witches, this guardian of the ancient magic, this creature she was told to fear all her life, as the only thing whose power was stronger than the power her own ancestors had given her. She spins and shouts oaths and curses, half dissolving once again into a bruise-colored cloud of vitriol and wickedness, but the Afanc’s avatar will not let her go. The glass spikes, no longer under the witch’s control, fall, smashing to the floor.

Tilda has no way of knowing how long this animated replica of the Afanc will serve to distract the witch. Cautiously, keeping her movements small and stealthy in the hope that they won’t be noticed, she slips her left hand into her pocket. The broken finger bones make her flinch and nausea threatens to overwhelm her, but she forces her hand into her pocket to retrieve the little stone jar. Slowly, haltingly, sweat breaking out down her spine from a mix of pain and sustained effort, she lifts the jar. She holds it close, prying off the stopper with her thumb, gasping as more needle-sharp agony shoots through her damaged hand.

Must not miss. One chance. I have to get this right.

She takes a deep, slow, powerful breath, smiles her best and brightest smile and calls out, ‘Hey! Pick on someone your own size!’

Nesta ceases spinning to scowl at her, searching for the reason for her opponent’s apparent glee.

Tilda continues to smile as she speaks.