The Silver Witch(120)

Tilda has no way of knowing how long this animated replica of the Afanc will serve to distract the witch. Cautiously, keeping her movements small and stealthy in the hope that they won’t be noticed, she slips her left hand into her pocket. The broken finger bones make her flinch and nausea threatens to overwhelm her, but she forces her hand into her pocket to retrieve the little stone jar. Slowly, haltingly, sweat breaking out down her spine from a mix of pain and sustained effort, she lifts the jar. She holds it close, prying off the stopper with her thumb, gasping as more needle-sharp agony shoots through her damaged hand.

Must not miss. One chance. I have to get this right.

She takes a deep, slow, powerful breath, smiles her best and brightest smile and calls out, ‘Hey! Pick on someone your own size!’

Nesta ceases spinning to scowl at her, searching for the reason for her opponent’s apparent glee.

Tilda continues to smile as she speaks.

‘Seren says hello,’ she states calmly, before flinging the contents of the jar at the ghostly witch.

The tiny amount of blue liquid seems too harmless and too small a thing to set against such fury and strength. Tilda and Dylan watch, openmouthed, as the potion exits the stoneware bottle and sails across the room in an unnaturally long and steady arc, before it connects with the startled witch on the farside. And the instant it does, Nesta begins to writhe. She tries to turn, to spin, to rid herself of the magic substance, but it has entered her ghostly form. The spell is strong, and there is no escape. The more she fights against it, the more she rages and curses and flings herself about the room, the more the liquid appears to swell and bubble until it entirely encases the hysterical witch. It is a terrible thing to witness, but any sympathy Tilda might have felt for the creature disappears when the ghoul reaches out a misshapen hand to snatch at the Afanc.

‘No!’ Tilda cries out, but there is nothing she can do. Nesta’s poisonous grasp sucks the water-horse into the vortex of the spell, so that it merges into the mass of dark blue chaos. Within seconds the witch is reduced to nothing more than a part of a smoldering, arcane chemical reaction that ultimately, only moments later, dissolves her to nothing.

The instant she is gone, exhaustion overwhelms Tilda and she slumps onto the broken glass, too stunned to even cry out as she sustains more cuts. The workbench returns to its normal weight, so that Dylan is able to push it away and free himself.

‘Tilda! Tilda.’ He puts his arms around her and helps her to her feet, carefully removing pieces of broken glass from her hair and her clothes.

‘I’m okay, really. Put me down, I’m fine.’

‘You are far from fine. Your hand … and those cuts, there’s glass everywhere…’ Dylan is appalled at the state of her.

Tilda reaches up and touches his own damaged cheek. ‘It’s nothing. It will heal,’ she says. He looks up at her and she smiles back at him. This time her smile is real. ‘It’s gone. She’s gone. There’s nothing to be afraid of now.’

‘You did it,’ he tells her. ‘You beat her. You were … incredible!’

‘I wasn’t on my own. I had a little help,’ she tells him as she stoops to retrieve pieces of shattered clay from the ground. She turns a portion of the Afanc’s tail over in her hands. It still feels warm, still carries within it the vibration of something vital and at the same time ancient.

‘You could make it again,’ Dylan suggests. ‘I mean, make another one.’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. She did what she came to do. What she needed to do. I think I should leave her where she belongs now.’ She looks up and sees through the clearing rain the lake in the valley far below, the water starting to steam as the sun breaks through the clouds.





EPILOGUE

Tilda stands back and allows herself a moment to admire the completed pieces that now fill the shelves in the workshop. It has been a productive few months. After the dramatic events at the end of last year it had been bliss to sink herself into her art once more. In truth, she cannot remember a more creative time in her life. The connection she has found with the lake and all that it signifies now fires her artistic impulses. Her gleaming pots and wilder one-off ceramic pieces are fine creations. She feels it in her heart.

A tapping on the glass doors makes her turn. Dylan holds up two mugs of tea.

‘Leave those for one minute and come out here. It’s too glorious to miss,’ he says.

She dusts the gritty glaze residue off her hands, brushing down her checked work shirt, causing specks of unborn color to dance in the late-afternoon sunlight that streams into the studio. As she steps outside, she breathes in air heavy with the scent of blossom from the apple tree. It has survived yet another harsh winter and is now a mass of pink-and-white blooms. Dylan hands her the hot drink.