The Silver Witch(56)

She leans into her run once more, allowing herself to go slowly, taking in the magical landscape around her. The sun is properly up now, the sky a sharp blue worthy of an alpine postcard, with the majestic mountains to the west offering very convincing snow-covered slopes. The water fowl glide serenely across the lake, apparently viewing the new surface of the shore with suspicion. After a short while, Tilda notices that Thistle is no longer with her.

‘Thistle?’ she sings out, her voice absorbed by the snow. She tries again, a little louder. ‘Thistle? Come here, girl!’ She slows to a walk, squinting back into the low sunshine to the east and then turning to scan the fields and the edge of the woodland. She spots her now, by the water’s edge, digging at the ground, sending up a shower of mud-speckled snow behind her. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, jogging over to get a closer look. By the time she reaches Thistle, the dog has unearthed something, which it holds tightly in its mouth. ‘What have you got there? A stick? You want to play fetch?’ But Thistle bounds away, showing an impressive burst of speed, tearing round in a large loop, back legs powering, her hind paws hitting the ground impossibly far forward of her nose with every stride, tail down, ears flat, round and round she goes. Tilda stands, hands on hips in amazement. ‘Well, if you’d run like that after a hare you might have actually caught one. Daft creature. Come on, don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some breakfast.’

As they approach Ty Gwyn, Tilda is cheered to see smoke rising from both chimneys. When she enters the kitchen it is to the sound of the kettle whistling and eggs being fried.

‘Perfect timing,’ says Dylan as she takes off her hat.

‘Perfect houseguest,’ she tells him. ‘Fires lit and breakfast cooked.’

He turns to grin at her and then freezes, staring. For an instant Tilda wonders if he has seen the ghost, such is the look of shock on his face. But no, she realizes, it is not horror, but surprise. And he is looking directly at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, suddenly embarrassed, ‘I didn’t mean to … just wasn’t expecting … I’m really sorry I did that,’ he says, and busies himself with the cooking. ‘Stupid of me. Sit yourself down, eggs are nearly ready.’

Puzzled, Tilda is about to do as he says when she remembers.

My contact lenses! I forgot to put them in this morning.

She closes her eyes, trying to imagine how she must look to Dylan. He has only ever seen her with her colored contact lenses, so her eyes have always appeared a light blue. Without them her irises are revealed in their true state, almost devoid of pigment, just the palest hint of blue tingeing their basic pinkness. With no color to block out the blood vessels in the eye, the irises appear pink in some lights, almost transparent in others. Either way, they are startlingly unusual. She has worn lenses since her teens, in order to appear less different. More normal. But today she went out without them. The light was still winter-daybreak soft so, that even with the snow, there had been no glare to remind her to use them. Only when the sun had properly risen had she begun to squint, yet even then she had not thought about her lenses. This strikes her as odd now. Whilst part of the point of wearing them is cosmetic, and another part to cut out the harshest of the sun’s rays, the lenses also have a prescription in them to help her weak eyesight.

But today I saw everything. I could see everything clearly without them!

She is still trying to take in this fact when Dylan puts the plates on the table. ‘Here you go,’ he says, ‘best local eggs from freest of free range chickens. And crumpets, ’cos you’re out of bread. And tea.’ He looks up at her, grinning, determinedly looking at her but not staring. Tilda is touched by his consideration. She thinks of going to put her lenses in, so that he might be more comfortable sitting opposite her, but now she changes her mind.

No. It’s okay. This is me. Let him see me.

‘This looks fantastic,’ she says, plucking off her gloves and sitting down. ‘I haven’t run in a while. I’m famished.’

‘Was it slippy, running in the snow?’ he asks.

‘Not really. Anyway, it’s so gorgeous out there, it was worth the risk. Thistle loved it too. Went all puppyish, didn’t you, girl? Look, she’s brought a stick home,’ she says, waving her fork in the direction of the dog, who is already warming herself on her cushion by the Rayburn.

‘That’s not a stick.’ Dylan peers over his mug of tea. ‘Looks more like, I dunno…’ He gets up and holds out his hand. ‘Let’s have a look, then, Thistle. Can I have it?’