‘Does mocking me serve you well, Seren?’
‘I seek only to remind you of what is true. You are my prince,’ I repeat, though now I cannot meet his gaze. ‘I am your shaman, your prophet, your witch. Our destinies are linked in these ways alone. I will be your guide, your most faithful ally, but I can never share your home. Nor your bed.’ I push at his arm, making to stride past him, but in a swift movement he traps me against the tree, his body pressed against mine, his breath hot upon my cheek as he whispers urgently.
‘Then I will meet you in the wildness of the woods, or on the soothing shores of the sacred lake, or under the gentle cloak of darkness. Wherever, whenever you will it, just so long as you do not turn from me again!’
He notices me tilt my head and I know that he, too, has heard the galloping horse that approaches. His own steed pauses in its grazing and whinnies to its stable mate. Prince Brynach wrenches himself from me, cursing as the sturdy figure of his faithful captain, Hywel Gruffydd, rides into view. I stand straight, resisting the impulse to scurry away through the trees, willing my heart to return to a more stable rhythm.
‘My Prince!’ Hywel calls out as his wide-rumped mount slows to a jarring trot. ‘I was not aware you wished to ride out. Forgive me for not being at your service,’ he pants.
‘No matter, Hywel,’ the prince replies with a practiced casualness that belies the turmoil I know him to be suppressing. ‘I had a wish to take in some of this rare sunshine. My route crossed that of our Seer.’ He gestures toward me and his captain nods curtly, grunting a greeting that might have earned him a cuff around the ear had we been in more formal circumstances.
‘I bid you both good day,’ I say, and, without allowing either the time to respond, I march past the prince’s patient horse and walk as quickly as I can away from that scene of such tightly bottled tempers as might cause the lake itself to seethe. It takes me all my wits not to run. Back to my home. Back to my seclusion. Back to the place I belong. Alone.
6
TILDA
Tilda lies awake in her bed, listening to the moaning of the wind that has been gathering strength all night. The temperature in the cottage is noticeably colder now, and she has already been driven to finding extra blankets. There is something snug about being in a warm bed, heavy with covers, in a cool room. Daylight hours have shortened unhelpfully, so that she has been working in the studio more and more by the uneven light of candles or storm lanterns. She has not attempted to fix the electrics in the house again, nor to call back Bob the electrician. In her heart of hearts, she knows there would be no point. She knows that she is the reason behind it. She is somehow triggering surges or splutterings in power that cause the system to overload and fail. The same way she caused the professor’s clock to stop. The same way she disabled the diver’s boat.
Except that I meant to do that one. Pity I can’t decide to fix things. Just break ’em.
From the corner of the room come sounds of Thistle digging at her bedding in an attempt to get comfortable. Tilda had done her best to dissuade the dog from coming upstairs, reasoning that she would be warmer in the kitchen by the Rayburn, but Thistle became distressed at being separated from her mistress, so that in the end she had sacrificed a spare duvet to provide her with somewhere to sleep at the foot of her bed. Outside the last of the clouds have been blown far away, so that the light of the full moon falls through the window. Tilda has long since given up closing the curtains, growing ever more accustomed to making use of what natural light there may be, and increasingly following the rhythm of the short winter days. In the silvery illumination she is shocked to see her own breath forming thin puffs.
If it gets any colder, we shall both be sleeping downstairs.
She peers over at the dog. Even in the half-light she can see the poor hound is shivering.
‘Come on, girl. Get your skinny self up here,’ she says at last, patting the bed beside her.
With surprising ease, and needing no further encouragement, Thistle springs up onto the bed, tail wagging.
‘Well, you certainly seem pretty well healed, don’t you? Want to come for a run with me in the morning, hmm?’ She ruffles the dog’s fur and it settles down next to her, a warm presence and welcome draft excluder. Thistle wriggles deeper into the bedding, and gazes up adoringly at her mistress with a look of such trust that Tilda is moved by it. Never having shared her home with a dog before, she finds she is frequently surprised at the rewards this symbiotic relationship brings. The unexpected velvety softness of the animal’s fuzzy, cocked ears, or her silent but attentive presence as Tilda works in the studio—such things are small but real pleasures.