The Silver Witch

But does that mean she survived the attack on the crannog or not? I still can’t be certain.

Later, she takes Thistle for a walk. She deliberately avoids the lake, mostly because it would be more than a little awkward if Dylan were to see her out and about, but also because, just for a while, she needs a bit of distance between herself and all that the lake signifies. Needs a break from the intensity of it all. She and the dog tramp up through the watery snow, following the sheep track behind the house. They climb for nearly an hour before resting on a crumbled bit of stone wall. The view of the valley is quite magnificent, even as the snow recedes and decays by the minute. The lake looks so much smaller from such a height, giving Tilda just the perspective she needs at this moment. From here the grave at the dig is hardly visible at all. As if it had never been found and disturbed. Or as if it had never been there in the first place. She wishes that were the case. She knows, deep down, that she will have to face whatever lies there. It will not leave her alone unless she does. It will have to be confronted.

But not today. Not now.

She sits and takes in the magical landscape for as long as her woolly layers keep out the cold, and then descends to the cottage to stoke the fires and make something to eat.

Come the night, despite being exhausted, Tilda’s mind is working too fast, trying to make too many connections, for her to be able to rest. An hour before dawn she gives up and gets out of bed. Thistle raises her head and wags her tail.

‘Don’t get up, girl,’ Tilda tells her. ‘It’s silly o’clock. I’m going to make tea.’ But the dog won’t be left behind and pads down the stairs after her. In the kitchen, Tilda puts the kettle on the heat and takes a poker to the Rayburn to ginger it up. The smoldering logs give out more smoke and then splutter into hungry tongues of flame. Staring at the play of orange against gray, Tilda contemplates her next step. She had left the museum disturbed, saddened, and yet encouraged. There was a child. That much is clear. What is equally obvious is that she will get no further tracing the little girl by digging around in the museum archives. She reached the end of that particular trail.

But where else do I search? I’ve tried the records and writing about the Mercian court, but the captives are never mentioned again. There’s a heap of stuff about the queen and what she does, but not a word about the people from the crannog.

A spitting log causes a spark to jump out of the open door. Tilda searches for it on the floor and is surprised not to be able to find it. It was a large, glowing lump of wood, and she is certain it landed by her feet, but it is nowhere to be seen. Following the smell of burning dog hair, she goes to Thistle’s cushion, and is surprised to discover the spark quietly setting fire to the fabric. She picks up the cushion and flicks the little ember back into the fire, musing at how far from the Rayburn it traveled. She rubs at the cloth with her thumb. There is a small hole and a scorch mark but no real damage. Suddenly, something in Tilda’s mind shifts.

Of course! I’m looking in the wrong place! The prisoners aren’t written about by people who documented the life of Queen Aethelflaed because they weren’t with Queen Aethelflaed.

She peers across the gloom of the kitchen. Her laptop is still sitting on the worktop where it has been for weeks.

Could I get that thing to work? I haven’t tried for a while. Could I keep it working? Of course I could. Just an hour or so. Piece of cake.

Before she has a chance to change her mind, Tilda snatches up the laptop, sets it down on the table, opens it and presses the ON button. There is a pause, then a hopeful whirring, and the computer begins to fire up. She backs away, making the tea quietly, as if the slightest sudden sound or movement on her part might shut the laptop down again. By the time she has stirred milk into her drink, the screen is cheerfully displaying her chosen wallpaper; a photograph of the sun setting over the frozen lake.

And now I need Wi-Fi. Which means I have to get the electricity running again.

She goes into the hallway and stands under the fuse box. She has grown accustomed to living in the house without power, and the main switch is still in the off position where she left it weeks ago. She bites her lip, willing herself to stay calm. Stay focused. Holding her breath, she takes hold of the lever and pulls it down. The lights come on. The long-forgotten fridge hums. Next to the telephone socket on the hall table, the Internet router blinks into life. And then there is a sharp snap, and everything goes dark once more.

Dammit!

She stands there in the darkness, quelling the urge to scream.

How can I be so useless? Why can’t I control this thing? The power stayed on at the professor’s house. And I stopped that floodlight falling. This should be easy.