The Silver Witch

‘Here, girl! Catch!’ she calls out as she throws the snowball high into the air. Thistle leaps after it, snatching at the ball as it passes, shaking her head and pouncing at nothing as it crumbles to flakes in her mouth.

Soon the gaps in Tilda’s running program begin to tell, and she is forced to slow to a walk. A sharp stitch has developed in her left side, so that she stops and bends over, panting, waiting for the spasm to pass. She wonders if Dylan will wake up while she is out. What will he think if he finds her gone?

He knows I run. He’ll figure it out. Hopefully, he’ll relight the stoves.

Tilda is aware of how much she has enjoyed Dylan’s company since he turned up to deliver her books. After her meltdown on the way home from Brecon she had felt so shaken, so defeated, somehow. Working together to build the kiln had been the perfect remedy. She had felt so alone for so long, she had almost forgotten her own need for companionship. For the simple pleasure of a shared objective worked toward with someone it was possible to connect with. When he had suggested staying the night her initial response had been panic, quickly followed by embarrassment at her own assumption.

There was no expectation behind his offer. Nothing manipulative. Just a friend, being a friend.

As promised, he had cooked a meal that consisted mostly of tinned tomatoes and potatoes, which they had eaten by the light of candle stubs and the log fire in the sitting room. It might have been uncomfortably, inappropriately romantic as a setting, but it was really just the most comfortable place to eat. The Rayburn stove in the kitchen was working better, now that she had learned how to get the best out of it, and it cooked food well enough, but the sitting room was cozier in the evenings. The studio became numbingly cold at night since the temperature outside had dropped so far. The sitting room was definitely the warmest part of the cottage. Dylan had once, tentatively, brought up the subject of the lack of electricity. She had found it surprisingly easy to tell him she preferred life in the cottage without a power supply. She realized, as she formed the words, that this was the truth. After her success at restoring the supply in the pub, she was fairly certain that she could do the same at home. But she didn’t want to. She had grown accustomed to living by the rhythm of the winter days—rising with the dawn, working in natural light, sleeping when candlelight became tiring to read by. Since she’d mastered the Rayburn, there was plenty of hot water for showers. And she was genuinely excited at the thought of what her work would look like fired in the wood-burning kiln. It all just seemed to fit, seemed so right, somehow.

She leans into her run once more, allowing herself to go slowly, taking in the magical landscape around her. The sun is properly up now, the sky a sharp blue worthy of an alpine postcard, with the majestic mountains to the west offering very convincing snow-covered slopes. The water fowl glide serenely across the lake, apparently viewing the new surface of the shore with suspicion. After a short while, Tilda notices that Thistle is no longer with her.

‘Thistle?’ she sings out, her voice absorbed by the snow. She tries again, a little louder. ‘Thistle? Come here, girl!’ She slows to a walk, squinting back into the low sunshine to the east and then turning to scan the fields and the edge of the woodland. She spots her now, by the water’s edge, digging at the ground, sending up a shower of mud-speckled snow behind her. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, jogging over to get a closer look. By the time she reaches Thistle, the dog has unearthed something, which it holds tightly in its mouth. ‘What have you got there? A stick? You want to play fetch?’ But Thistle bounds away, showing an impressive burst of speed, tearing round in a large loop, back legs powering, her hind paws hitting the ground impossibly far forward of her nose with every stride, tail down, ears flat, round and round she goes. Tilda stands, hands on hips in amazement. ‘Well, if you’d run like that after a hare you might have actually caught one. Daft creature. Come on, don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some breakfast.’

As they approach Ty Gwyn, Tilda is cheered to see smoke rising from both chimneys. When she enters the kitchen it is to the sound of the kettle whistling and eggs being fried.

‘Perfect timing,’ says Dylan as she takes off her hat.

‘Perfect houseguest,’ she tells him. ‘Fires lit and breakfast cooked.’

He turns to grin at her and then freezes, staring. For an instant Tilda wonders if he has seen the ghost, such is the look of shock on his face. But no, she realizes, it is not horror, but surprise. And he is looking directly at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, suddenly embarrassed, ‘I didn’t mean to … just wasn’t expecting … I’m really sorry I did that,’ he says, and busies himself with the cooking. ‘Stupid of me. Sit yourself down, eggs are nearly ready.’

Puzzled, Tilda is about to do as he says when she remembers.