The Silver Witch(75)

‘Are we talking reincarnation here?’ Dylan looks uncertain.

‘No. At least, I don’t think so. To be honest, the more I think about it, the less sense any of it makes.’

From the open studio door comes the sound of the telephone ringing. Tilda knows before she lifts the handset, which is gritty with clay dust undisturbed by use, that it will be her father. Her postcard might have held her parents off for a few days, but they were worried about her.

‘Is your mountain very snowy, Little Rabbit?’ her father asks.

‘It is. The whole valley is thick with it too. It’s very beautiful.’

‘Are the roads clear? Less than a week until Christmas. Your mother and I thought we might bring it to you this year. Turkey, mince pies, mulled wine, crackers, appalling jumper, carols on tape, DVD of The Sound of Music, the whole festive circus delivered to your door.’

‘Oh, Dad…’

‘It’d be no trouble. Truth is, your mother feels the need for a bit of clucking around her only daughter.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘We got rather used to having you here.’

Tilda can hear the loneliness in his voice and feels bad. While she might happily convince herself that her mother can manage perfectly well without regular contact, she knows her father misses her. But the thought of them coming to stay, with all that is happening to her, fills her with panic.

I can’t do it. I can’t cope with them, not here, not now, not like this.

‘I’m not sure about the roads…’

‘We can check the forecast.’

‘My lane is definitely blocked.’

‘Even your mother can walk a short distance if she’s well motivated.’

‘The power’s unreliable right now too.’

‘Again? I thought you were getting that fixed.’

‘Must be the snow.’

‘How are you managing?’

She pauses, unsure whether telling him about Dylan will make him worry less or more.

‘I built a wood-fired kiln,’ she tells him.

He laughs. ‘That’s my girl. Pots first, domesticity sometime never.’

‘Pots first,’ she agrees.

‘Are you pleased with them?’

‘Haven’t opened the door yet.’

‘Ah,’ he says, sufficiently well-versed in the expectation that hangs on that moment to understand something of Tilda’s nervousness about it.

They agree to watch the weather and leave things undecided beyond that. The idea of a visit is not as scotched as Tilda would like it to be but, as always, her father’s gentle concern fills her with warmth and guilt simultaneously.

When she goes back outside she is struck by how clear the air is, how sharp the colors, how pure the sound of the birdsong. It is a bright day, and the landscape is looking its most beguiling. The lake appears sapphire blue set off by the whiteness around it. Even Thistle’s mood seems to have lightened, and she is allowing Dylan to throw snowballs for her to chase.

‘You’re winning her over,’ she tells him.

‘She’s not keen to share you, but every dog has its price.’

‘A few snowballs? Some might call that cheap. My father would probably woo her with mince pies.’

‘Are your family coming for Christmas?’ It is a perfectly natural question, but it makes Tilda uncomfortable.

‘The roads are blocked.’

‘Only the lanes. The snow’s not that bad.’

‘We might have more.’

He looks at her curiously. ‘We might not.’

‘But, we might.’

‘Okay.’ He thinks for a moment and then says, ‘Of course, if the roads are blocked, if your parents don’t make it up here, well, you’d be welcome to spend Christmas at the Old School House with us.’

This is an entirely different prospect. The coziness of the professor’s home, his unquestioning acceptance of her, Dylan’s company and support, all sound so much more appealing than her parents’ well-meant fussing. She doesn’t have to hide what is happening from Dylan. Having him know, having him understand, means so much to Tilda. And the opportunity to spend time searching though Professor William’s extensive library is an added attraction. The more she delves into the past of the lake, the more likely she is to find out the identity of the body in the grave, and to start making sense of what is happening to her.

‘Won’t your uncle mind?’

‘He’ll be thrilled skinny. Why don’t we go down and tell him now?’

‘Oh, actually, I’d like to spend a bit of time here. You go.’

‘Want rid of me already, huh?’

‘No, of course not, it’s just that…’ She can’t find the words to explain that she is used to being on her own. That now, more than ever, she needs a little solitude. ‘You know, girl stuff. Might crank up the Rayburn, get some hot water together for a bath, wash my hair, shave my legs…’