The Silver Witch(80)

Not now. Not yet.

She is still giddy from the events of the previous night. Still stunned by her experiences. Still in awe of the wonderful things she was shown. She has not yet had a moment to try to make sense of it, and a part of her does not want to. Does not wish to taint the beauty and power of what she saw, of what she felt, with the application of reason and plain old-fashioned good sense. She holds on tight to the belief that by pressing on with her work, by bringing her art to life, she is strengthening the magical connection that the designs on the bracelet and her pots share. The thought of that connection thrills her. And scares her too, though at this moment she chooses not to dwell on that. She shades her eyes with her hand and squints up at the sky in search of the sun. It is still obscured, but the brightest of the gloom is not yet directly overhead.

Too early to open the kiln yet. And too slippery for a run.

She is about to go back indoors when she notices a figure trudging up the snow-covered path toward the cottage. At first she thinks it is Dylan, but as the walker draws closer she recognizes Lucas.

Lucas? Why would he struggle all the way up here to seek me out?

He looks up, sees her, and waves. She waves back. Thistle pads over to the garden gate to inspect their visitor.

‘Good morning, Lucas.’

He stops, bending forward to catch his breath before speaking. ‘Don’t tell me you actually run up this hill,’ he gasps.

‘Not lately.’

He turns and takes in the view. ‘Okay, I get it. That is spectacular.’

‘The lake is completely frozen over today,’ Tilda points out. ‘Doesn’t happen very often.’

‘When I set out I thought it was cold enough, but now … phew!’ He unbuttons his coat.

‘No work on the dig today, then?’

He shakes his head. ‘Everything is glued together with ice. And we’ve had to sort out the lights.’

‘Ah.’ Tilda cannot meet his eye. There is no reason he should think any of the chaos at the dig site was anything to do with her. No reason beyond her own behavior, which must have looked nothing short of hysterical to Lucas.

‘Actually,’ he says, reaching down to casually pat a compliant Thistle, ‘that’s why I came up here. To tell you that we’ve rescheduled the lifting of the remains for two days after Christmas. I … thought you’d like to know.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘And I wanted to apologize. For getting so … cross. With you.’

Tilda smiles at the quaintly inappropriate word.

‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Everything was a mess … all your hard work. It was understandable.’

‘All the same, I shouldn’t have barked at you like I did. I’m sorry.’

She looks at him carefully. The fact that he has considered her, considered how she feels about the dig, that he has trekked all the way up the hill to talk to her about it, shows a side of him she had not given him credit for before. And now she sees he is looking directly at her, levelly and openly, and she is no longer wearing her tinted lenses.

‘Coffee?’ she offers.

He nods wordlessly and follows her up the path to the kitchen door.

‘I’ve only just got the stove going,’ she tells him. ‘It’ll warm up in a bit.’ She pushes the kettle onto the hottest part of the Rayburn and fetches mugs and coffee. Lucas takes off his coat and scarf and sits at the table.

‘Don’t you feel a little isolated?’ he asks. ‘I mean, all the way up here on your own…’

‘I like solitude.’

‘A true artist, then.’

‘Not a very productive one recently. Until today, actually.’ Tilda is surprised to find herself telling him about the wood-fired kiln and the firing. He accepts her explanation that it was an artistic choice not to use a conventional kiln, and for a while the two talk about art and what it is she does and how she is both nervous and excited about opening the kiln. Eventually, though, the conversation falters and she knows they must return to the subject of the dig.

‘I’m sorry,’ she begins, ‘about … the other day. When you were lifting the stone … I didn’t mean to wreck things for you.’

‘You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault the lights blew out.’ He sips his coffee and then adds, ‘You were very … upset.’

‘I can’t explain. Well, if I do, you’ll think I’m crazy.’

‘Do you care what I think?’

She smiles. ‘In a small place like this gossip spreads really fast. I don’t want to be written off as the mad potter on the mountain just yet.’

‘Ah.’

‘Look, I’m not an academic, I haven’t studied the area for years like you have, I don’t really know anything about anything, it’s just that … well … there is something bad in that grave. Something really bad.’