The Silver Witch(100)

19

TILDA

The day after Boxing Day Tilda stands shivering at the bus stop in Llangors, her stomach turning over as she waits for the bus that will take her to Brecon. She thought of asking Dylan to take her. Thought of asking the professor. Even contemplated seeking out Lucas in case he could help. In the end though, this is something she needs to do on her own. For many reasons, not the least of them being her need to prove to herself that she can.

Don’t need my hand held anymore. A short bus ride, slow and safe, most likely lots of other people on board. Got to be independent. I can do this. I managed in the Landrover.

In fact, when the bus arrives, the only other passengers are two holiday-bored, stir-crazy teenagers no doubt desperate to escape the slow pace of life in the village for a few hours. Tilda buys her ticket and sits at the front, near the driver, silently chiding herself for feeling as nervous as she does, but noticing that she is less anxious than she expected to be. It could be the sedate speed the bus moves. Or the fact that, ghostly apparitions aside, the journey to Brecon with Dylan was manageable. And yet, she knows that in fact it is something else. There is another change. A fading. A lessening. The sharply painful memory of Mat’s death is receding into the past. Her grief for him has become more distant. For a moment this makes her feel sad, as if she is losing the last of him, but the panic passes. It is as it should be. It is time.

The countryside that moves slowly past her window is still snowy, but has lost much of its festive charm. There is a sense of the thick layers over fields and hills shrinking and shriveling, rather than melting softly away. The result is a muddy mess in gateways and on tracks, and gray slush alongside the gritted tarmac of the roads. On the broad oaks, branches poke their elbows through worn, snowy sleeves.

Her second reason for wanting to make this trip alone has to do with her purpose in going to town. The curator of the museum had been surprised to get her phone call on the dot of nine o’clock, pointing out that they had very few visitors or enquiries at this time of year. It had taken some persuading to agree to allow Tilda access to the archives. Most members of staff were on holiday, he had explained, and as this was the quiet season many of the exhibits were being restored or cleaned. Tilda had pleaded her case, telling him of her ceramic art, of an upcoming exhibition, of her urgent need for details and references as far back as possible connected to the crannog. In the end her sincere interest in the subject and her fervent desire to discover hidden facts had appealed to the archivist in him, and he had agreed to her request.

I told him it would be just me. I know if I’d told the professor what I’m doing he would have wanted to come, and I can’t risk the curator changing his mind.

She feels bad about being secretive. Both Professor Williams and Dylan have been so supportive, so understanding. But that is the other point; the other reason she needs to go alone. If the bracelet (or the torc, as she must now think of it) can cause such mind-blowing reactions in her, what if there is something in the museum collection, some seemingly simple object, that connects with her in a similar way? She needs to allow that link to be made, to pick up on whatever is there. More important, she needs to be able to stay in control of whatever happens. She knows she will be better able to do that if she is on her own.

The journey takes only twenty minutes, but still Tilda is relieved when the bus swings into the line of bays near the main car park that constitutes the bus station. As she steps out through the automatic door she finds her palms are damp with sweat and her knuckles white from being clenched. The short, chilly walk to the museum helps to calm her a little. There is scarcely anyone about, the streets all but empty save for the occasional dog-walker or bleary-eyed holiday maker clutching top-up supplies of bread and milk from the ever-open supermarket. Tilda is only vaguely aware of the curious glances thrown in her direction. Her hair is mostly covered by her warm hat, and her duffle coat and scarf hide her further. Only a person passing close by on the pavement would be able to see the strange paleness of her skin and the startling transparency of her eyes. She is, as she had anticipated, the only visitor to the museum. Mr. Reynolds looks up from behind the reception desk, sees her, reacts minutely, recovers himself and musters a practiced smile.

‘Good morning,’ he says in a tuneful, youthful voice, despite clearly being near retirement age. He is tall, angular, with a lifetime of careful reading etched into his lean face. ‘Miss Fordwells, is it?’

‘Please, call me Tilda.’ She offers her hand and he shakes it briefly, falling into distracted chatter, as many people do to cover their unease on first seeing her.