She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. She did what she came to do. What she needed to do. I think I should leave her where she belongs now.’ She looks up and sees through the clearing rain the lake in the valley far below, the water starting to steam as the sun breaks through the clouds.

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Tilda stands back and allows herself a moment to admire the completed pieces that now fill the shelves in the workshop. It has been a productive few months. After the dramatic events at the end of last year it had been bliss to sink herself into her art once more. In truth, she cannot remember a more creative time in her life. The connection she has found with the lake and all that it signifies now fires her artistic impulses. Her gleaming pots and wilder one-off ceramic pieces are fine creations. She feels it in her heart.

A tapping on the glass doors makes her turn. Dylan holds up two mugs of tea.

‘Leave those for one minute and come out here. It’s too glorious to miss,’ he says.

She dusts the gritty glaze residue off her hands, brushing down her checked work shirt, causing specks of unborn color to dance in the late-afternoon sunlight that streams into the studio. As she steps outside, she breathes in air heavy with the scent of blossom from the apple tree. It has survived yet another harsh winter and is now a mass of pink-and-white blooms. Dylan hands her the hot drink.

‘You’re right,’ she tells him. ‘Glorious. Completely glorious.’

Spring has transformed the landscape. The lake shimmers beneath the warming sun. Flocks of small birds have returned from their winter homes to build nests on the marshy shores. The larger waterbirds are busy gathering reeds and weeds for their own haphazard nurseries. The verdant meadows are dotted with clean white sheep and even whiter lambs, which rush about in unruly groups, leaping and jumping for the sheer fun of doing so. The week has been mild, but there is still a chill in the air, which gives it such a freshness, such a purity that it might be intoxicating.

Dylan slips his arm around Tilda’s shoulders.

‘Temperature’s dropping. Might need a fire tonight.’

Tilda smiles at this. Her relationship with Dylan seemed to have begun in front of the very fire he is talking about, on the very rug on which he will no doubt persuade her to lie again. She knows it is still the place he feels closest to her.

‘Oh, I think it’s going to stay fine. The year is warming up. No need to waste firewood,’ she teases.