The Silver Witch(47)

‘Ha!’ Nesta is angry now, fearful, no doubt, of her mistress’s reaction. ‘That is all very well for you to say, sitting here in your lair, distant from the life of the crannog. You will not be the one looking into Princess Wenna’s eyes when she learns her future. You will not be the one to sit up nights with her as her heart breaks. You will not be the one to watch Prince Brynach turn from her.’ She pauses, narrowing her eyes and jutting her chin at me. ‘Or it might be that you will. For when he turns from her, we all know who it is he looks to in her stead!’

‘Have care how you speak to me.’

‘Oh? Would you have the truth buttered like parsnips for you now?’

‘I am my prince’s Seer, nothing more.’

‘Your prince!’ Nesta sneers. ‘That’s what you want, you cannot deny it. You would send me back to the princess to throttle the life from her dreams with your vision, when all you have seen is the future you desire, and my lady’s happiness is not a part of it.’

‘You damn me with every word that comes out of your mouth!’ I leap to my feet, causing dust to kick up into the fire, which spits and sparks. As do I. ‘You call me a cheat and a liar! You question my loyalty to Prince Brynach—and his wife—and more than this, you accuse me of falsifying a vision! You cannot believe I would do such a thing. That I would forsake the sacred trust given me!’

Nesta clambers to her feet. ‘People are wrong about you, after all is said and done. You are a woman like any other, and you will abuse your position to get what you want. To get who you want!’

‘Take yourself from my sight! Do not set one fat foot in my home again. I have told you what I saw, and all that is required of you is that you be messenger. Deliver the truth to Princess Wenna. She, at least, will know it when she hears it, even if you do not.’

But after she has gone I wonder. Will the princess believe me? Or will she, too, see some selfish purpose behind my interpretation? The news I send is the worst she could expect, and carries a harsh future for her. Might she not seek to shine a different light on the scene depicted? Might she not be all too willing to listen to Nesta’s poison words, words that themselves serve another’s purpose? For many is the tale of a messenger bringing bad tidings who does not live long enough to see them come to pass. If Nesta is fervent in her manner and persuasive in her argument, and Wenna wants only to hear a happier version of her life, why then might she not choose to blame me? She knows where her husband’s affection lies. How can she not?

I stamp down the flames of my fire, snatch my cape from its hook by the door, and stride out into the gathering dark. I cannot feel this way, my heart heavy, my head disquieted so, and be confined. I will walk by the shores of the lake and take up some of the tranquility of the waters.


TILDA

The December morning is taking its time waking up, so that even at eight o’clock it is still barely light enough for a run. Though Tilda prefers to go out in the soft focus of dawn or dusk, she still has to be sensible. It would be so easy to twist an ankle or have a fall if the gloom were too heavy. There is another frost today, so that as the darkness begins to lift, the landscape is awash with a curious silver glow. She stands in the garden, mug of tea in hand, watching the world below slowly reveal itself. The lake is not quite frozen, but there is a flatness to the surface that suggests if the temperature were to drop another degree or so it would quickly glaze over again. Into this quiet scene comes the flicker of car headlights through the hedge along the lane, and the sound of an engine laboring up the hill. She watches, and an aged Landrover growls into view. As it makes its noisy progress up the narrow stretch of tarmac that twists in a hairpin bend to climb to the cottage, she can make out Dylan at the wheel. She goes to greet him at the gate. Up close the vehicle is even more dilapidated and battered than she had first thought. Its bodywork is dented in several places, its paintwork dull and scratched, and an alarming amount of smoke trails from its exhaust. Dylan parks up and gets out, cheerful as ever, apparently unbothered by the car’s condition.

‘Post!’ he calls, waving a brown cardboard package. ‘Your books have come,’ he explains as she lets him into the garden.

‘I didn’t expect a personal delivery service, but thanks. ‘She takes them from him. ‘Come inside, the kettle’s hot.’

She leads him not into the kitchen, but to the studio, where the wood burner is still going from the night before, a cast-iron kettle singing softly on top of it. What daylight exists is backed up by a storm lantern. Tilda is aware how odd it must look. Thistle stands up when they enter the room but does not come to greet Dylan.