But she shakes her head, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Not unless you plan on swimming.’ And as she runs on along the lakeside path her footsteps are accompanied by the sounds of the young man trying to start the outboard motor on his boat. Trying and failing. Trying and failing. Trying and failing.

As Tilda had known he would. Only when she has reached the stile to the lane, when she has put some distance between herself and the motor, does she let go the captive image of the static motor. She releases her grip on the thing, setting it free from her influence. There is a pause, then the sound of the pull-chord being worked again, and Tilda allows herself another smile as she hears the engine at last successfully fire into life.

SEREN

I wait until the sun is directly above me, and then take my basket and head toward the woodland to the south of the lake. It is a dry day, mild for the time of year. Others are no doubt welcoming the brightness of the sunshine, but it is a trial for me. I wear my hooded cloak so that my eyes, sensitive to such harsh light, are afforded at least some shade. As I walk across the water meadows, the noises of busy lives upon the crannog start to fade. With each step the laughter of the children, the hammer of the blacksmith, the coaxing calls of the cowherd, all recede as if into memory, to be replaced by the less insistent sounds of the copse. The trees here are carefully managed. None may be felled without the prince’s permission, so that there is always heavy timber for building houses, or slender ash for making arrows, or logs to keep the people of the crannog and the village warm in the chill of the night.