‘Will you hold your child, my Prince?’
The murmuring and fidgeting behind me stops instantly. The room is filled with such a silence as might be found in an empty tomb. I would swear an oath that Wenna is holding her breath. I can clearly see Rhodri mouthing soundless curses at me. For this is a moment heavy with meaning, and all present know it. Tanwen can never be a titled child in the royal household, but in the absence of a legitimate heir she does have a position, an unassailable place, as the only offspring of the prince. To acknowledge her now would be to underline this, would bestow a measure of status upon this little one that could never be taken from her. Were Brynach to spurn her, however, were he to lose his nerve, to falter in his deep love for her, to be swayed by the vitriol and ambition of his wife and her family, then Tanwen would never know true respect. Would never be able to claim her rightful place. Would be banished to the shadows and margins not only by her physical heritage, but by the bastardy of her birth.
He hesitates. The pause stretches too long and too wide. And I become aware of something else. Of another level of influence at play. At the far edge of my thoughts, where my mind melts into my ancient soul, I hear whispering. Whispered words that are urgent. No, vehement. I pay heed to them, straining to catch their meaning and to discern their origin. And now I have it! A hex! Clear as a full moon in a summer night’s sky. Dark magic, sent to turn my prince from the path of truth, to bend his will and plant black-hearted notions in his mind. Nesta! This is her wicked work!
I put my eyes on her. My eyes and my own sharp-edged will. She does her best to look away, to evade me, but she cannot. Her wavering gaze is locked into mine, and I send to her—into her—such a shock of magic, lake born and nourished, fierce with the ancient enchantments I have been blessed with, that she cannot continue with her loathsome efforts. The whispers cease.
Prince Brynach blinks away his confusion. He smiles. He reaches across the table and takes Tanwen in his arms and the two exchange the sweetest of glances. He bends over her and kisses her tenderly.
‘Hurrah for Tanwen!’ The cheer goes up and others join in the cry. More ale is called for, as Hywel demands a toast to the new babe, and the room is filled with good wishes and merriment. Amid it all Wenna remains still as a standing stone. I pity her. I admire her quiet dignity. Nesta’s face blackens with fury. Rhodri gets to his feet, muttering his refusal to be a part of such outrage. But Brynach notices none of this, for he has eyes only for his beautiful baby daughter.
17
TILDA
For Tilda, the garden feels like the best place to try out the bracelet again. Being outdoors makes sense, feels curiously safer. As if the energy the thing unleashes is too much to manage when confined. Better not to have heavy stone walls boxing her, and it, in. She has kept it with her, in her pocket, or sitting on the worktop in the studio while she works, but has resisted putting it on again. Until now. She feels as if she has been holding back from indulging in a delicious treat, but at the same time she is more than a little apprehensive. Her memory of the strange visions and sensations wearing the bracelet caused is a powerful one; her belief in her own ability to control such a force and stay safe has dwindled somewhat. The recollection of the first time she wore it, of the fire, of Dylan being flung against the wall, of the giddying chaos, lingers in her mind still.
I’m alone up here. If something went wrong … But then, at least I won’t be putting anyone else in danger. Not risking someone I care about. Better this way.
Tilda has also been surprised that there have been no further scary visitations from the ghost from the grave at the dig. At first she thought it might be because the stone had been firmly put back in place, but then she remembered the earlier apparitions happened before it had been moved. Thinking about it, she feels certain now that the bracelet has something to do with it. Or rather, what happens when she puts the bracelet on. And if that is the case, then she needs to learn how to withstand the disturbing force it unleashes. Needs to see if there is some way she can harness it to protect herself and Dylan.
The snow still lies thick and frozen. Everything in the little garden, from the low stone wall, the wooden gate, the flagstoned path, the small lawn and the slumbering flower beds, to the frozen birdbath, is coated in a crisp layer of icing white. The valley below, and even the lake itself, sit snugly beneath their sparkling new coat of frosting. The distant mountains appear almost Alpine. Tilda tugs her beanie lower on her head, does up the toggles of her duffle coat, and moves to stand in the center of the lawn with her back to the house. Thistle watches her quizzically. Under the holly bush, a robin searches for something to eat. In the meadow farther down the hill, sheep bleat as they follow the farmer on his quad bike, eager for the sugar beets he is doling out of sacks into long dark lines on the snow. All is as lovely and as normal and as typical a scene of the countryside in winter as could be. All except for the shiver that travels down Tilda’s spine as she takes the bracelet from her pocket. A shiver not brought about by the cold, but by a thrilling blend of anticipation, excitement, wonder and fear.