The Silver Witch(121)

‘You’re right,’ she tells him. ‘Glorious. Completely glorious.’

Spring has transformed the landscape. The lake shimmers beneath the warming sun. Flocks of small birds have returned from their winter homes to build nests on the marshy shores. The larger waterbirds are busy gathering reeds and weeds for their own haphazard nurseries. The verdant meadows are dotted with clean white sheep and even whiter lambs, which rush about in unruly groups, leaping and jumping for the sheer fun of doing so. The week has been mild, but there is still a chill in the air, which gives it such a freshness, such a purity that it might be intoxicating.

Dylan slips his arm around Tilda’s shoulders.

‘Temperature’s dropping. Might need a fire tonight.’

Tilda smiles at this. Her relationship with Dylan seemed to have begun in front of the very fire he is talking about, on the very rug on which he will no doubt persuade her to lie again. She knows it is still the place he feels closest to her.

‘Oh, I think it’s going to stay fine. The year is warming up. No need to waste firewood,’ she teases.

A movement catches her eye. In the field below the garden a large brown hare lollops silently into view. Tilda gasps and her hand flies to her mouth. It has been so long since she has seen it, and now that it is here again she is taken aback by how happy she feels. The hare nibbles at the new shoots of grass beside the path. Before she can be stopped, Thistle has bounded over the wall and races toward it.

Dylan sees her. ‘Thistle, no!’ he shouts instinctively.

But Tilda puts a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘It’s okay.’

As they watch, the hound circles the hare before crouching down in front of it, ears flat, tail wagging, an open invitation to play. The hare regards the lurcher thoughtfully for a few seconds and then leans forward. The two sniff, nose to nose, one set of twitching whiskers, one bristly moustache. And then they start to run. They tear around the meadow, this way and that, along the hedgerow and back across the grass, down the steepest part of the hill, and back up alongside the path. The hare easily keeps ahead, but sometimes she twists and jinks back so quickly that Thistle ends up in front and it appears she is the one being chased. It is a sight both comical and marvelous.

Then, as quickly as it started, the game stops. The hare turns to look up the hill, up toward the garden wall, up at Tilda. She looks down into the bottomless depth of the animal’s ancient, knowing eyes, and feels a pang of longing and of love.

Hello Seren. I’ve missed you.

The hare sits a moment longer, then flips around, bounding for the hedge, and is lost from view. Thistle returns to lie panting at her mistress’s feet.

‘Daft dog,’ she says, stooping to stroke the hound’s ears. The wound on her side has healed well, and the fur grown over it once again. Slowly, but in a similar way, the frightening aspects of all that took place over the previous Christmas have faded. Tilda’s broken fingers mended. Dylan’s cut face healed, leaving only a short scar, which he declared manly. The cottage is peaceful now, and full of new beginnings, for all of them. Tilda keeps the torc in a safe place, and often takes it out to hold. To gaze upon. To remember. She allows herself to wear it, to feel the magic it releases in her, but only when she is alone at the cottage. And every time she uses it, she feels more at ease with the gift she has been given. It feels meant. This is where she is meant to be. And every time she runs by the lake she says good morning and thank you to the Afanc, even though the mother-of-the-lake does not show herself, but remains hidden in the deep, mystical waters. Tilda knows she is there, knows that the Afanc is aware of her presence. And that is enough.

She smiles at Dylan and touches the raised mark on his cheek.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘I’m starving. Time to go in.’

Dylan grins, taking her arm as they head up the path. ‘I’ll set the fire in the sitting room.’

‘I’ll sit in front of it.’

‘I’ll make something to eat.’

‘Thistle and I will eat it.’

‘Seems fair,’ he says as they enter the cottage.

Tilda turns, peering back down the garden path, scanning the sloping pasture, but there is no sign of the hare. She feels a stab of sorrow at the thought she might not see it again, but this is swiftly followed by a vision, clear and bright, of Thistle and the hare playing on the shores of the lake, at the edge of the woodland, the ground a vivid pool of bluebells.