The Silver Witch

The cottage has warmed up in the hours they have been busy. The Rayburn fills the kitchen with a slightly smoky but welcome heat, so that the freezing temperature outside is kept at bay. In the sitting room, Tilda takes the bracelet from her pocket and puts it carefully on the small table by the window before laying a fire in the hearth and putting a match to it. Dylan fetches what food he can find from the kitchen.

‘Here we are,’ he says, setting down a tray on the coffee table. ‘Bread, passed its best, but still brown rather than blue; cheese, a tub of coleslaw, two packets of crisps, some chocolate biscuits and’—he waves a bottle triumphantly—‘the remains of the brandy.’

‘I’m not sure I can cope with booze,’ says Tilda, settling herself next to Thistle on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire.

‘Yes you can.’ Dylan gets glasses, then sits as close as Thistle will tolerate. ‘It is a known fact that a little alcohol is good for shock and exhaustion.’

‘That is rubbish.’

‘Really? Can all those Saint Bernard dogs with their little barrels be wrong?’

Despite herself Tilda smiles. The events of the day have left her drained, and she is glad not to be alone.

No, more than that; I’m glad Dylan is here.

This realization is comforting and unnerving at the same time. She takes a proffered glass from him and sips it, leaning back against the base of the armchair and gazing into the dancing flames in the hearth.

‘We will need to check the kiln in a few hours,’ she tells him. ‘We have to keep as even a temperature as possible.’

‘For how long?’

‘Well, ideally, twelve hours.’

‘Okay, we can measure that by daylight, given that we can’t reliably keep a clock or watch working around you.’

‘Thanks for reminding me.’

Dylan takes a swig of brandy. ‘No problem. We’ll go by the position of the sun. We must have set the thing going near eleven. Daybreak is about seven-thirty this time of year. As long as there’s not too much cloud we should be able to tell when the sun is directly overhead. What will we do then?’

‘Rake out the fire and let the temperature drop slowly. We should be able to open the kiln about noon the following day.’

‘Wow, that’s a long time to wait. How can you resist having a peek?’

‘Easily, seeing as to do so would wreck the firing. If the temperature inside the kiln drops too quickly the pots could crack or shatter, never mind what it would do to the glazes.’

They sit in peaceful silence for a while, sharing the simple food, gradually letting the alcohol and the warmth of the fire take the tension from them. At last, Tilda can feel her feet again properly and her shoulders start to ache less as she relaxes them. Her eyes are gritty from tiredness, the drying effects of the cold weather and the irritation of the wood smoke. She finds herself rubbing them.

‘Why don’t you take them out?’ Dylan asks.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Your lenses. If your eyes are sore, you should take out your lenses.’ He shrugs. ‘You really don’t need them anymore, do you?’

She opens her mouth to protest, to explain, to make the case for the covering up of her strangeness, but thinks better of it. Instead, she does as he suggests. The relief is instant and she stares at the shiny little discs of plastic in her palm, hesitating only a moment before flinging them into the fire. They hiss and flare, making Thistle start.

‘No more hiding,’ she says.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Dylan, clinking his glass against hers. ‘No more hiding!’

‘It … it’s just the way I’ve been for a long time. The way I deal with … this.’ She flaps a hand in a gesture that encompasses herself, head to toe.

‘If other people have a problem … well, let them handle it. You’re you. You’re…’

‘Please don’t say special.’

‘How about challenging?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘It’s just that, well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. What it’s like … to be looked at like you’re something … weird. Like you don’t fit.’

He raises his eyebrows at her and gives a pointed shake of his shaggy curls, making his hair fall into his green eyes, turning slightly to profile so that the slender straightness of his nose is unmissable, grinning broadly, his teeth startling against his dusky skin in the low light. ‘Yeah, right,’ he agrees with a sarcastic edge to his voice, ‘I have no idea what that might be like.’

Tilda blushes. ‘God, how crass of me. Sorry. No, I’m really sorry.’

‘Like I said, don’t be. Let’s just say we both know what it means to be outsiders.’

‘Professor Williams told me you were born in Barbados. Is that where your mother comes from?’

‘My father was a diver—I have him to thank for what I do—he met her when he was working on a wreck in the Caribbean. They got married over there then tried to live here, but she couldn’t take to it. Dad wanted me to have a British education. God knows why! So, they moved back home, and when I was eleven I came to live term time with Uncle Illtyd.’

‘You don’t look much like your uncle.’

‘That’s because he’s my uncle by marriage. My father was Greta’s brother, not his.’