The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston Page B

the wind that has been gathering strength all night. The temperature in the cottage is noticeably colder now, and she has already been driven to finding extra blankets. There is something snug about being in a warm bed, heavy with covers, in a cool room. Daylight hours have shortened unhelpfully, so that she has been working in the studio more and more by the uneven light of candles or storm lanterns. She has not attempted to fix the electrics in the house again, nor to call back Bob the electrician. In her heart of hearts, she knows there would be no point. She knows that she is the reason behind it. She is somehow triggering surges or splutterings in power that cause the system to overload and fail. The same way she caused the professor’s clock to stop. The same way she disabled the diver’s boat.
    Except that I meant to do that one. Pity I can’t decide to fix things. Just break ’em.
    From the corner of the room come sounds of Thistle digging at her bedding in an attempt to get comfortable. Tilda had done her best to dissuade the dog from coming upstairs, reasoning that she would be warmer in the kitchen by the Rayburn, but Thistle became distressed at being separated from her mistress, so that in the end she had sacrificed a spare duvet to provide her with somewhere to sleep at the foot of her bed. Outside the last of the clouds have been blown far away, so that the light of the full moon falls through the window. Tilda has long since given up closing the curtains, growing ever more accustomed to making use of what natural light there may be, and increasingly following the rhythm of the short winter days. In the silvery illumination she is shocked to see her own breath forming thin puffs.
    If it gets any colder, we shall both be sleeping downstairs.
    She peers over at the dog. Even in the half-light she can see the poor hound is shivering.
    â€˜Come on, girl. Get your skinny self up here,’ she says at last, patting the bed beside her.
    With surprising ease, and needing no further encouragement, Thistle springs up onto the bed, tail wagging.
    â€˜Well, you certainly seem pretty well healed, don’t you? Want to come for a run with me in the morning, hmm?’ She ruffles the dog’s fur and it settles down next to her, a warm presence and welcome draft excluder. Thistle wriggles deeper into the bedding, and gazes up adoringly at her mistress with a look of such trust that Tilda is moved by it. Never having shared her home with a dog before, she finds she is frequently surprised at the rewards this symbiotic relationship brings. The unexpected velvety softness of the animal’s fuzzy, cocked ears, or her silent but attentive presence as Tilda works in the studio—such things are small but real pleasures.
    The two manage a fitful sleep. Tilda is disturbed by the raucous wind, and unaccustomed to sharing her bed. Each time she moves, however minutely, Thistle adjusts her position so that the gap between them is closed. Tilda remembers how soundly Mat would sleep, scarcely stirring all night. She notices that the memory no longer causes her physical pain. The customary jolt that has, until this moment, accompanied each and every recollection of him is absent. The realization brings mixed feelings. There is relief, certainly, but also a strange sense of guilt, as if by not hurting she is allowing him to become less important to her.
    And why now? With all this weird stuff going on … Don’t I need him now more than ever?
    She is too sleepy to try to make sense of it all. When she did what she did to the boat motor; when she dared to harness and use the bewildering ability that has come to her seemingly from nowhere, Tilda was briefly frightened, but then, to her own astonishment, she felt exhilarated. Empowered.
    Happy? For heaven’s sake, yes. Happy. Here. Like this.
    She finds she is not fazed by living without electricity, though she knows that when her parents arrive