The Silver Witch

‘Take yourself from my sight! Do not set one fat foot in my home again. I have told you what I saw, and all that is required of you is that you be messenger. Deliver the truth to Princess Wenna. She, at least, will know it when she hears it, even if you do not.’


But after she has gone I wonder. Will the princess believe me? Or will she, too, see some selfish purpose behind my interpretation? The news I send is the worst she could expect, and carries a harsh future for her. Might she not seek to shine a different light on the scene depicted? Might she not be all too willing to listen to Nesta’s poison words, words that themselves serve another’s purpose? For many is the tale of a messenger bringing bad tidings who does not live long enough to see them come to pass. If Nesta is fervent in her manner and persuasive in her argument, and Wenna wants only to hear a happier version of her life, why then might she not choose to blame me? She knows where her husband’s affection lies. How can she not?

I stamp down the flames of my fire, snatch my cape from its hook by the door, and stride out into the gathering dark. I cannot feel this way, my heart heavy, my head disquieted so, and be confined. I will walk by the shores of the lake and take up some of the tranquility of the waters.





TILDA


The December morning is taking its time waking up, so that even at eight o’clock it is still barely light enough for a run. Though Tilda prefers to go out in the soft focus of dawn or dusk, she still has to be sensible. It would be so easy to twist an ankle or have a fall if the gloom were too heavy. There is another frost today, so that as the darkness begins to lift, the landscape is awash with a curious silver glow. She stands in the garden, mug of tea in hand, watching the world below slowly reveal itself. The lake is not quite frozen, but there is a flatness to the surface that suggests if the temperature were to drop another degree or so it would quickly glaze over again. Into this quiet scene comes the flicker of car headlights through the hedge along the lane, and the sound of an engine laboring up the hill. She watches, and an aged Landrover growls into view. As it makes its noisy progress up the narrow stretch of tarmac that twists in a hairpin bend to climb to the cottage, she can make out Dylan at the wheel. She goes to greet him at the gate. Up close the vehicle is even more dilapidated and battered than she had first thought. Its bodywork is dented in several places, its paintwork dull and scratched, and an alarming amount of smoke trails from its exhaust. Dylan parks up and gets out, cheerful as ever, apparently unbothered by the car’s condition.

‘Post!’ he calls, waving a brown cardboard package. ‘Your books have come,’ he explains as she lets him into the garden.

‘I didn’t expect a personal delivery service, but thanks. ‘She takes them from him. ‘Come inside, the kettle’s hot.’

She leads him not into the kitchen, but to the studio, where the wood burner is still going from the night before, a cast-iron kettle singing softly on top of it. What daylight exists is backed up by a storm lantern. Tilda is aware how odd it must look. Thistle stands up when they enter the room but does not come to greet Dylan.

‘She’s still a bit shy,’ she tells him. ‘Even without her pink collar.’

‘This place is great,’ he says as he wanders around, taking in her half-made pots, piles of sketch books, pots of glazes and general potter’s paraphernalia. If the lack of lighting strikes him as strange, he does not mention it. ‘You’ve been busy, by the look of it.’

‘Things are stacking up. I’ve gone as far as I can go without a kiln. I’m really pleased to see these books.’

Dylan is now standing in front of what is obviously the large, modern, electric kiln. He looks at it, and then at Tilda. ‘This one not working then?’

She hesitates, turning away from him to add milk to his drink. ‘I want to try something different. Something … older. More in keeping with where the pots have been made, and what inspired them.’

‘Cool.’ He nods, easily accepting her explanation.

She hands him the mug, letting him help himself to the somewhat damp sugar from the bowl. He seems very at ease, and she envies him his ability to relax with someone he scarcely knows, in a place he has never been before, with a less-than-friendly dog watching his every move. She takes the biscuit tin from the workbench and offers one to Thistle in the hope she might thaw a little, but she won’t even take it. Dylan takes two, munching as he talks.

‘So, what’s the plan? Are you going to build the thing in here?’

‘Oh, no. It has to be outside. I think I’m going to use bricks. I’d like to seal it with mud, but the weather’s not exactly conducive to trying to dig at the moment, so I may have to use mortar.’ She unwraps the books and flicks through the first one until she finds an illustration to show him. ‘Here, see? It’s a simple system, but you can get fantastic results if you manage the temperature carefully.’