The Silver Witch

‘It is not,’ he concedes. ‘So it is a mystery why I cannot stay from you without feeling hungry.’ He grabs me again and nips at my ear, jiggling Tanwen as she sits in the crook of his arm, making us both smile.

He picks a bluebell for her, handing her the pretty flower before he sits our child in his saddle, and we walk side by side as he leads the horse slowly back to my house. When I have rekindled the fire and set the fish to cook, he takes something from his saddlebag and offers it to me. It is a small object, wrapped in a piece of cloth. The wrapping itself is so carefully stitched, worked in patterns of animals with thread of gold and red and blue, that I am content to admire it without giving in to my curiosity over what it conceals.

‘This is beautiful indeed, my prince. There is silk here, is there not?’

He smiles. ‘The cloth is for you, my seer. A token of my love. A keepsake. Its contents are for Tanwen.’

I unfold the silky needlework and take out a smooth, heavy piece of gold, the glint of which causes me to gasp. It is a torc, fashioned with such care and artistry, I have not seen its like in my life. It bears carvings showing two running hares and a hound. Their legs, tails and heads are entwined and twisted, so that they continue on and on, with no beginning or end.

‘Oh.’ I find my voice at last, turning the torc over in my hand, marveling at it. ‘My prince, such a gift…’

‘It pleases you?’

I look up at him and his face is that of a young boy, desperate for praise, so eager to please, his expression moves me more than I dare tell him. I smile and nod, and he leans over me, pointing.

‘Here, this hare, that is you, see the lithe limbs and the look of courage greater than on the face of any warrior? This smaller one, that is our little witch, springing forward into life.’

‘And the hound who would have us for his dinner?’

‘No, he does not seek to catch you, he runs with you. See? He shows no teeth, and his eye looks back, not forward. He is your protector.’

‘So much gold. You could feed an army for the price of this.’

‘My daughter is a princess. She should be adorned as such.’ He takes it from me and kneels in front of Tanwen. He lets her touch the torc, shows her the pictures, talks softly to her, making gentle, cooing noises. He lifts the golden ring and fits it into place with such care and delicacy that our babe does not protest. She puts her fingers to it, exploring the smoothness of the precious metal, picking out the carved lines upon it. But she has a young mind, and her attention is caught by a caterpillar crawling near her foot, so that she forgets what she is wearing, and hastens to catch the little creature instead. Brynach sits back on his heels, gazing at her. ‘I know she is a child of the moonlight,’ he says, the sadness catching in his voice. ‘I understand she must live as you do, making friends of shadows and shade, happiest and safest in the soft hours of cool darkness. I know this.’ He turns to me. ‘But I live my life by day, Seren. And though she is in your image, she has my blood.’ He nods at the golden necklace. ‘Now I know she will forever have a drop of sunshine with her, however deep the night. Forever.’





18

TILDA

By the time Dylan drives Tilda home a sudden thaw has begun, so that the Landrover swishes and slithers through slush. The cottage is dark, but the fire in the kitchen stove has kept in well, so that the house feels welcoming and warm. Even so, Dylan suggests they would be warmer in bed.

Upstairs Tilda is embarrassed to find she is nervous. Their first lovemaking had been spontaneous, without time for awkwardness. Somehow the whole business of undressing and getting into bed together is painfully intimate. She has become so used to wearing her thermals at night and having Thistle curl up on her feet. She is unsure how to behave.

Long Johns and a hairy lurcher could be passion killers. Or should he just see the real me? Whatever that is.

Picking up on her nerves, Dylan takes her hand in his. They stand beside the bed. She is in her T-shirt and underwear. He has stripped to his jeans, his body gleaming in the faltering light of the candle that burns on the bedside table. He gently unclips her silver hairpin and puts it on the bedside locker before running his fingers through her loose hair, following the irregular waves it has gained from being pinned up. ‘It’s been a special day,’ he tells her. ‘Spending Christmas with you…’

‘The food was great,’ she says, aware she is talking to fill any possible silences. ‘And your uncle is so sweet. He’s been such a help.’

‘You saved us from a sad bachelor Christmas.’

‘Thank you for the clock, what you did. Thank you for … everything. Putting up with all the weird stuff. Listening to me going on and on about ghosts and witches and heaven knows what…’

‘Hey, I want to spend time with you, Tilda. I want to be with you.’ He pushes her hair back off her face. ‘But I know things have been tough for you. I don’t want you to feel … pressured.’