The Silver Witch

She feels no awkwardness at the blurring of the lines: a gift from Mat, a kiss from Dylan. She mattered to both men, and they both matter to her. She is relieved at how natural that progression feels now. She returns his kiss, the two of them only jumping apart at the sound of Professor Williams’s voice.

‘Ah! Our guest has arrived. Splendid. A very happy Christmas to you, my dear,’ he says, extending a hand and then smiling broadly when Tilda steps up and gives him a peck on his whiskery cheek. When he draws back and looks at her again she sees surprise on his face and remembers her uncovered irises.

‘Happy Christmas, Professor,’ she says, taking off her coat. She hands him the parcel.

‘A present! My dear, we agreed not to. Dylan told me…’

‘I know.’ She smiles. ‘But I wanted to. It’s just a small thing, really.’

The professor looks at Dylan, who gives him an I-knew-nothing-about-it shrug. He takes off the brown wrapping and finds one of Tilda’s earlier works, a little pinch-pot, smooth yet irregular, the finished article still bearing the potter’s thumbprints, glazed in a deep burnt umber, rich and textured.

‘Well! What a truly delightful thing,’ he says, beamimg. ‘Thank you so much. It will take pride of place on my desk. Now do come through to the sitting room, it is warmer in there,’ he tells her. ‘It is so very good for we men to have company today, else we might have let the occasion slip by unmarked. As it is, my brave nephew has risen to the challenge of preparing the feast.’

‘Have you been trawling the shelves of the village shop again?’ she asks Dylan.

‘I’ll have you know I went to the farmer’s market for the turkey and veg, and the best baker’s in town for the pudding.’ He takes her coat and notices her glance at the grandfather clock.

‘It’s not working,’ she says, a note of panic in her voice.

The professor shakes his head. ‘Would you believe Dylan suddenly found himself unable to sleep through the chimes? They were practically the lullaby of his childhood, and yet now he can no longer tolerate the sound. The poor boy begged me to do something about it, so I’ve given the clock a week off over Christmas.’

Tilda silently mouths a thank-you to Dylan, who simply shrugs. She reminds herself that Dylan cannot possibly know how much has changed—how much she has changed—in a few short days. Not so long ago she would have been nervous about causing the power to fail at the Old School House, but not now. Now she knows she is in control. Knows that it is her choice whether or not to influence such things.

‘We’ve put up a tree,’ the professor explains as he leads the way into the sitting room. Thistle makes straight for the hearth rug where she stands and shakes, sending snow and ice from her fur hissing into the fire. There is, indeed, a Christmas tree squashed into a corner, finding a space where previously there was none. It sports an eclectic selection of decorations, some evidently family treasures, others, Tilda suspects, hastily bought additions. Some rather brash tinsel is draped over the lower branches, and the look is finished off with a glitter-encrusted gold star. The effect is wonderfully homely and unpretentious.

‘Not my forte, I fear,’ Professor Williams apologizes. ‘Greta was a whizz with such things, and I’m afraid I haven’t bothered much in recent years.’

‘It’s lovely,’ Tilda tells him. ‘I haven’t even put a sprig of holly up in the cottage. In fact, I think Christmas might have passed me by completely this year if I hadn’t been invited here.’

‘If you want something to eat,’ Dylan tells her, ‘I’m going to have to see to things in the kitchen. And, by the way,’ he adds as he reaches the door, ‘our cooker is an Aga—oil-fueled and gravity fed. Doesn’t need electricity to run. Thought you’d like to know.’

Tilda is touched by his thoughtfulness.

‘We shall manage without you,’ the professor insists, picking up a bottle of sherry from the sideboard. ‘Now then, what can I offer you to drink, and are you keen on games of any sort? I’m afraid I’m a little rusty, but I have been known to play a passable hand of Canasta. And I believe there is a box of Monopoly hiding somewhere in the house…?’ He stops, looking at her more closely, and noticing something more this time, something beyond the naked colorlessness of her eyes, making her wonder just how altered she appears.

Eager to smooth over the moment Tilda says, ‘That book you leant me … the one about the myths and legends of the lake…’