Could that really have been me? Do I even believe in reincarnation?
Beyond this, any of this, there was something else. Something that both thrilled and frightened her. It was the overwhelming, intoxicating, mind-blowing sense of power that had surged through her. She had never experienced anything like it. The fact that it was out of her control was what made it terrifying. But the energy, the force, whatever it was, that itself was glorious. And though Tilda hardly dares acknowledge the fact, even to herself, she knows that she wants to feel that power again. That she has to. That something about her, something in her, has connected with an amazing force, the like of which she cannot understand but which she cannot turn her back on.
The bracelet still sits on the table beside her. She has not dared put it on again, but she is frequently drawn to it, wanting to touch it, to hold it. Dylan had offered to take it to his uncle to see if he could shed any further light on its possible origins, but Tilda would not hear of it being taken anywhere. She wishes sleep would give her some respite from the turmoil in her head. Different concerns, each one perplexing enough to keep her awake, chase one another round and round in her mind. Dylan. Being with Dylan. Letting go of Mat. The ghost from the grave. The mysterious properties of the bracelet and the way it affects her. And the firing. She decides that, for now, she will concentrate only on the firing. Tomorrow she will open the kiln and see if weeks of work, if her hopes of transforming her ideas into something wonderful, have been successful or come to nothing.
One step at a time. Just like running. First step, the firing. And beyond that, right now, I am too tired to think.
But still, sleep will not come. As the dark hours crawl by Tilda becomes increasingly restless. Increasingly disturbed. She fidgets and moves about so much that Thistle eventually gets off the sofa and curls up on the hearth rug instead. With a sigh of exasperation, Tilda throws back the duvet, pulls on more clothes and lights a candle. She sits on the arm of the sofa, staring at the bracelet, watching the dancing light of the candle flame as it plays upon the warm gold. The flickering illumination appears to animate the drawings, so that the hares and the hound seem to first twitch, and then, gradually, the harder she stares, to start to run. She cannot resist reaching out to touch the bracelet. As her cold fingers connect with the hard metal she experiences something close to an electric shock charging up her arm, causing her to gasp aloud. Thistle wakes up, jumping silently from the rug to come and stand next to her mistress.
‘What do you reckon, girl?’ Tilda asks her, still keeping her hand on the bracelet, realizing that she wants to touch it. That she wants to feel connected to the strange magic it holds.
But is it in this beautiful, ancient thing, or is it in me? Does it affect me, or is it the other way around? How can I know?
It occurs to her that neither Dylan nor the professor felt anything unusual when they held the bracelet. She picks it up, and instantly becomes aware of the distant ringing sound she heard before. Her heart pounds running-hard as she recalls how utterly out of control she felt the last time she wore the heavy gold loop. At the same time she vividly remembers the pure energy that had surged through her body. It had been terrifying, but also intoxicating.
Looks like you’ve got me hooked.
Without allowing herself time for second thoughts, Tilda stands up, pulls off her fleece and slips the bracelet over her hand and onto her arm. This time she does not push it up beyond her elbow, but allows it to rest loosely around her wrist. Again she feels the warmth of the thing; an unnatural, fierce heat. She resists the urge to snatch it off, quells the panic that is rising from the pit of her stomach.
Steady now. No running away. Feet firmly planted. If it’s me that makes the thing work, then I should be able to control it. Stands to reason.
She closes her eyes. Thistle moves even closer, so that she can feel the dog’s tense body pressing against her. She drops her hand to Thistle’s head.
‘You and me together, then,’ she whispers, her own voice sounding oddly echoey and unfamiliar, as if coming from a long way off. She opens her eyes again. Although it is still nighttime, and the room is lit only by the single candle, she is surrounded by a pale glow. It does not come from the bracelet, she realizes, but from herself. It grows stronger, until the whole room is soon brightly lit. So brightly that it makes her squint. Alarmed, she wonders if it will become too harsh for her unprotected eyes to cope with, but she senses a steadying in the pulsating aura.
It’s okay. It’s okay.
As her vision adjusts to the glare she can make out shapes moving on the edge of her sightline. Things blur and jump fractionally beyond the reach of her imperfect eyesight. She turns her head this way and that, trying to focus, to catch one of the phantom shapes more clearly. Thistle’s ears prick up and she, too, turns to look.