The Silver Witch

‘Lucas! Molly! There is someone here who would very much like to meet you.’


When Lucas lets his gaze fall on Tilda as he shakes her hand, she has the distinct impression she is being studied rather than stared at, as if she, too, were an unexpected find. Introductions are made, during which Tilda learns that the pair are both working on their doctorates at the university, that Molly is married and has left her two small children at home with her husband in order to be part of the dig, and that Lucas is every bit as passionate about the find as the professor. She does her best to take in everything she is being told, but she is feeling increasingly unwell. She is aware of Professor Williams explaining, somewhat sketchily, her interest in the history of the lake, but his voice is growing distant, and her legs feel in danger of buckling beneath her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m not feeling very well. I … I think I probably just need something to eat.’

‘Excellent idea,’ says the professor.

Dylan nods. ‘The Red Lion does the best steak and kidney pudding in Wales. Have you tried it yet?’

‘No, I…’ The idea of a cozy pub, a proper hot meal, and a chance to sit and talk in company is hugely appealing.

Lucas steps in. ‘Well, we’ve had to shut things down here for the day. Temperature is just too low. Can’t risk moving anything while the ground is this frozen. We might try to get some heat into it tomorrow, if there isn’t a thaw. Meantime, lunch sounds like a plan. Happy to fill you in on what we think we’ve found. If you’re interested,’ he tells Tilda.

‘Yes, I am. That’d be great. Oh, can I bring Thistle?’

Lucas regards the dog as if he has only just noticed her. ‘Well, I don’t know if she’ll be allowed in,’ he says.

‘I know the landlord. Mike’ll be cool about it. If I ask him,’ Dylan assures them. The point made, he leads them all in the direction of the village pub, Lucas falling into step behind him, the professor picking up the subject of the skeleton as they make their way along the muddy path.





SEREN


The moment has come. The moon is full, its beams pure and strong, touching the surface of the lake with silver. The night is at its deepest now, and all on the crannog, save the bored watchmen, are sleeping; the cattleman curled around his plump little wife; the blacksmith warm in his forge; young brothers and sisters heaped together like puppies, snuffling and squeaking as they chase sleep; the new mother dozing with her babe at her breast; even the horses slumber, eyelids drooping, resting a hind hoof, heads low, minds slowed and numbed to the world. And my prince, he will be snug beneath his fine cloths, his princess at his side, the two of them private behind the drapery of their princely bed. She will dream of a future filled with children. Their children. Each one a promise of loyalty, of protection, of respect, of continued privilege and position, as they scamper about the great hall carrying his likeness and his blood into the next and future generations.

And will my prince dream? Does he dare to? So great are his responsibilities. So many have put their lives, and their families’ lives, into his strong hands. Dare he let his secret thoughts run free in the haven of his nighttime imaginings? Will he allow himself there, and then, to be a man before he is a prince? To be young? To follow his heart? Or would to do so weaken the prince in his waking hours? Would he yearn for that other, fleeting happiness? Might he risk diminishing himself so?

I know that I must not.