She directs her gaze to the crannog, but it remains a tangle of blurred branches. A small flock of inland seagulls descend from the clouds and land upon the water. The farmer has decided to bring in his cattle, and two black-and-white sheepdogs race across the field to gather them in. The archeologists continue to enthuse about their brown patch of excavated soil. All is as normal and as unremarkable as it could possibly be. All except Tilda’s galloping heart.

Her nerves are so tautly strung that the ringing of the telephone makes her jump again. She snatches up the receiver on the workbench, more than a little surprised to find it still working.

‘Hello, Little Rabbit.’ Her father’s voice brings its habitual comfort. ‘Not interrupting great work, am I?’

Tilda closes her eyes, picturing his dear face, fighting to blot out that other, terrifying one and replace it with her father’s, gentle, reassuring features. She is grateful for the normality his conversation will bring.

‘No, Dad. You’re not interrupting anything. How are you? And Mum?’

‘As ever. I am between crossword puzzles, and your mother has gone out to do battle with the local planners over the possibility of fracking, I believe.’

‘Poor planners.’

‘I think it safe to say the people of North Somerset can rest easy in their beds.’

‘It’s good for her to have a project.’

‘Other than we two, you mean? Indeed it is. I have even been left to watch the rugby unharried.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘And you, Tilda? How is life up there on the mountaintop?’

‘It’s only a hill, Dad, and I’m nowhere near the top.’

‘Even so, not many neighbors, not a lot of folk passing…’

‘I’m fine. Stop worrying.’

‘I fear it is written somewhere in the terms of my parental contract: Fret frequently about well-being of offspring.’

Tilda bites her lip, knowing that she cannot even begin to tell her father of the things she has seen. Thinks she has seen. Or the fact that she has no power in the cottage. Or how only moments ago she was frightened half out of her skin by something that wasn’t really there.

‘I’m fine, really. I’m fine.’

‘That’s what you always say.’

‘That’s ‘cause I’m always fine.’

They both know this is not true, but that Tilda says it because she loves her father and doesn’t want him to worry, and he lets her say it because he loves her and doesn’t want her to have to talk about difficult things if she doesn’t want to. Which makes her love him even more.

‘Your mother is talking about a visit,’ he tells her.

‘Ah.’

‘Yes, ah.’ The line becomes crackly, but Tilda can just about hear the smile in his voice. ‘All the same, it would be nice to see you, Little Rabbit.’