‘Strong, sweet tea. That’s what my late wife would have recommended.’ He raises his walking stick, pointing into the mist along the path behind him. ‘We are very close to my house; won’t you come in for a moment? I’m a poor cook, but I am quite capable of brewing a reasonable pot of Darjeeling.’

‘Oh no, thank you, I couldn’t possibly…’

‘Of course you couldn’t, what was I thinking? I haven’t even introduced myself.’ He offers her his hand. ‘Professor Illtyd Williams, local historian and keen bird-watcher, resident of the Old School House these past thirty years. Delighted to meet you.’

Tilda manages a weak smile. ‘Tilda Fordwells, ceramic artist, resident of Ty Gwyn cottage about five weeks.’ She takes his hand and shakes it in what she hopes is a firm and sensible way.

‘Well, there we are, then,’ says Professor Williams. ‘Now that we are acquainted it seems only good manners that we take tea together.’ So saying, he turns and begins to stride out with surprising vigor.

Tilda hesitates, hearing her father muttering about not taking sweets from strangers, but then reasons that this gentleman must be eighty years old at least, and is, after all, a neighbor, not a stranger. And besides, she is still unsteady, shaking a little, and there is something so very comforting in the thought of tea with this real and sensible person. On top of which, the idea of returning to the cottage, of more time alone, does not appeal to her. Not yet. Ordinarily, she welcomes solitude but this morning has not been ordinary. Tea, no doubt out of china cups and accompanied by light conversation, is possibly exactly what she needs.