The Silver Witch

She feels bad about being secretive. Both Professor Williams and Dylan have been so supportive, so understanding. But that is the other point; the other reason she needs to go alone. If the bracelet (or the torc, as she must now think of it) can cause such mind-blowing reactions in her, what if there is something in the museum collection, some seemingly simple object, that connects with her in a similar way? She needs to allow that link to be made, to pick up on whatever is there. More important, she needs to be able to stay in control of whatever happens. She knows she will be better able to do that if she is on her own.

The journey takes only twenty minutes, but still Tilda is relieved when the bus swings into the line of bays near the main car park that constitutes the bus station. As she steps out through the automatic door she finds her palms are damp with sweat and her knuckles white from being clenched. The short, chilly walk to the museum helps to calm her a little. There is scarcely anyone about, the streets all but empty save for the occasional dog-walker or bleary-eyed holiday maker clutching top-up supplies of bread and milk from the ever-open supermarket. Tilda is only vaguely aware of the curious glances thrown in her direction. Her hair is mostly covered by her warm hat, and her duffle coat and scarf hide her further. Only a person passing close by on the pavement would be able to see the strange paleness of her skin and the startling transparency of her eyes. She is, as she had anticipated, the only visitor to the museum. Mr. Reynolds looks up from behind the reception desk, sees her, reacts minutely, recovers himself and musters a practiced smile.

‘Good morning,’ he says in a tuneful, youthful voice, despite clearly being near retirement age. He is tall, angular, with a lifetime of careful reading etched into his lean face. ‘Miss Fordwells, is it?’

‘Please, call me Tilda.’ She offers her hand and he shakes it briefly, falling into distracted chatter, as many people do to cover their unease on first seeing her.

‘As I mentioned on the telephone, we seldom have visitors so close to Christmas Day. I only open up because, you know, I have things to do, and if I’m here we may as well be available to the public. Now, if I can just ask for ￡3.50 for your admission ticket…?’

‘Of course.’ She fumbles for the money with cold fingers. ‘It’s good of you to give me access to the archive. I really do appreciate it.’

‘We are here to assist in any way we can, and my goodness, if we can’t help a local artist draw inspiration from our heritage then we wouldn’t be doing our job at all well, would we? You say your particular area of interest is Llangors Lake?’

‘That’s right, and the crannog. I’m really keen to find out about the people who lived there right at the end. Just before it was attacked by the army from Mercia.’

‘Ah, Aethelflaed struck a cruel blow. It was never inhabited again after that, you know?’

‘I understand the buildings were destroyed. Everything was burned, wasn’t it?’

‘They could have been rebuilt. And the crannog itself remained intact. As I’m sure you will have seen. No, I think it was the thought of that terrible day. So many slaughtered. There simply wasn’t the desire to live there anymore. Now, I’ll just drop the latch on the door for five minutes while I take you downstairs.’ He picks up a large ring of keys and a clipboard with papers and pen attached. ‘Follow me, please.’

He leads the way briskly through the main exhibition area of the museum. Tilda has to almost trot to keep up. They pass back through history with each exhibit, the Victorian schoolroom, the agricultural implements, the historical mountaineering, the shepherds and the drovers, all a blur of telescoped time as they descend to the basement.

‘Ordinarily,’ Mr Reynolds explains, ‘the artifacts and objects from our early medieval lake exhibit are kept in the blue room, on the second floor, but that is currently being refurbished. We have brought everything down here for safekeeping for the time being. And we’re taking the opportunity to give some items a bit of a once-over.’ He comes to a halt and gestures at a dowdy-looking mannequin dressed in a rough woolen kirtle and cape. ‘Poor old Mair could do with a bit of TLC. I don’t think the real inhabitants of the crannog would have been as troubled by the moth as we are!’

‘No?’

He shakes his head. ‘Much too cold, and their homes far too draughty and damp. Well, here we are.’ He throws numerous switches and now Tilda can see large boards showing artists’ impressions of how the dwellings might have looked on the crannog in the tenth century. There are three other models, all similarly dressed to Mair, sitting or standing in disconcertingly lifelike poses, as if they are patiently waiting to be spruced up and put back on display. There are boxed up, labeled parts of the collection stacked at the end of the room, and several small display cabinets containing fragments of pottery or jewelry or weapons.

‘These might be of special interest to you, I believe,’ the curator tells her, removing a pile of leaflets from the glass lid of one of the displays. ‘Some rather fine examples of Celtic knot-work here. And the fabulous remnant of gold-threaded cloth that was found on the crannog itself. Quite remarkable.’