A movement catches Tilda’s eye. She shifts her focus to the west of the lake and follows the jerky progress of a minibus approaching the site of the archeological dig. She recalls noticing it for the first time during her visit to the populated side of the lake. The thought of excavating the past in such a way both intrigues and disturbs her somehow. As she watches, the vehicle parks next to the large tent that appears to be the center of operations. Five people get out and are met by two others who emerge from the tent. Together they walk quickly to the staked-out area nearer the shore. Tilda turns the dial on the glasses to keep the scene sharp. The figures crouch low on the ground, and even in these conditions, through the poor light and the water-filled air, Tilda can tell that there is excitement among the group, with a deal of gesticulating and nodding and pointing going on. She wonders at people’s ability to become so animated over what seems to be merely a misshapen hole in the mud. Her eyes are becoming tired with the strain of looking at such distant and indistinct objects, when, more suddenly than makes any sense, her field of vision is filled with a face. It is a face so terrible, and so hideous, and so close, it makes her scream and drop the glasses. But in that split second, in that instant when the image filled her view, the awful details of that face have been seared into Tilda’s consciousness: the bulging eyes, the smashed jaw, the swollen and bruised flesh, the mouth open in a silent scream, the whole so distorted and disfigured she cannot even tell if it is a man or a woman. Tilda takes a step back, expecting to find this fearsome person standing inches away on the other side of the window. But there is no one. Just the view and the weakening rain. Her heart is jumping and her mouth dry. Nervously, she glances over her shoulder, but Thistle continues to sleep undisturbed. The binoculars lie at her feet. She forces herself to pick them up. Lifting them, hands trembling, she puts them to her eyes once more, holding her breath as she does so.

Nothing. Just the lake. Fields. Trees. Nothing … more.

Yet again she finds herself struggling to make sense of what her eyes—her unreliable eyes—are telling her mind.

Is my brain becoming as fragile as my eyesight now?