The Silver Witch

by Paula Brackston

  ‘My God!’ Dylan gasps.

  ‘Yes!’ cries Tilda. ‘Yes!’

  Nesta ceases her screaming and turns to look at the wondrous thing that now swoops and turns about her head. When she recognizes it she shrieks anew, only this time her voice is filled not with anger but with fear.

  Dylan struggles against the workbench. ‘What is that?’

  ‘The Afanc!’ Tilda is smiling now, though she still holds the torc high, still dares not move from the spot where she stands keeping the lethal glass at bay.

  The clay model of the water-horse that Tilda had spent so many hours sculpting is a perfect representation of the Afanc of her visions. Of the Afanc that saved her in the lake. Not yet glazed or fired, it remains the color of the earthenware clay, dark and mottled red, as if seen through storm-churned lake water, deep and muddy, but even in this unfinished state it is glorious. The magic that stirred it has given it a lustrous glow that makes it appear both miraculous and somehow dangerous; its eyes burning bright, its bared teeth gleaming, its body rippling with strength. It flies around Nesta, diving at her, snapping at her, as if it were swimming, its sinuous neck twisting as it turns, its long tail flicking and thrashing at the terrified witch. The effect it has on Nesta is immediate and striking. She is terrified beyond any thought except of escaping from this symbol of the lake witches, this guardian of the ancient magic, this creature she was told to fear all her life, as the only thing whose power was stronger than the power her own ancestors had given her. She spins and shouts oaths and curses, half dissolving once again into a bruise-colored cloud of vitriol and wickedness, but the Afanc’s avatar will not let her go. The glass spikes, no longer under the witch’s control, fall, smashing to the floor.

  Tilda has no way of knowing how long this animated replica of the Afanc will serve to distract the witch. Cautiously, keeping her movements small and stealthy in the hope that they won’t be noticed, she slips her left hand into her pocket. The broken finger bones make her flinch and nausea threatens to overwhelm her, but she forces her hand into her pocket to retrieve the little stone jar. Slowly, haltingly, sweat breaking out down her spine from a mix of pain and sustained effort, she lifts the jar. She holds it close, prying off the stopper with her thumb, gasping as more needle-sharp agony shoots through her damaged hand.

  Must not miss. One chance. I have to get this right.

  She takes a deep, slow, powerful breath, smiles her best and brightest smile and calls out, ‘Hey! Pick on someone your own size!’

  Nesta ceases spinning to scowl at her, searching for the reason for her opponent’s apparent glee.

  Tilda continues to smile as she speaks.

  ‘Seren says hello,’ she states calmly, before flinging the contents of the jar at the ghostly witch.

  The tiny amount of blue liquid seems too harmless and too small a thing to set against such fury and strength. Tilda and Dylan watch, openmouthed, as the potion exits the stoneware bottle and sails across the room in an unnaturally long and steady arc, before it connects with the startled witch on the farside. And the instant it does, Nesta begins to writhe. She tries to turn, to spin, to rid herself of the magic substance, but it has entered her ghostly form. The spell is strong, and there is no escape. The more she fights against it, the more she rages and curses and flings herself about the room, the more the liquid appears to swell and bubble until it entirely encases the hysterical witch. It is a terrible thing to witness, but any sympathy Tilda might have felt for the creature disappears when the ghoul reaches out a misshapen hand to snatch at the Afanc.

  ‘No!’ Tilda cries out, but there is nothing she can do. Nesta’s poisonous grasp sucks the water-horse into the vortex of the spell, so that it merges into the mass of dark blue chaos. Within seconds the witch is reduced to nothing more than a part of a smoldering, arcane chemical reaction that ultimately, only moments later, dissolves her to nothing.

  The instant she is gone, exhaustion overwhelms Tilda and she slumps onto the broken glass, too stunned to even cry out as she sustains more cuts. The workbench returns to its normal weight, so that Dylan is able to push it away and free himself.

  ‘Tilda! Tilda.’ He puts his arms around her and helps her to her feet, carefully removing pieces of broken glass from her hair and her clothes.

  ‘I’m okay, really. Put me down, I’m fine.’

  ‘You are far from fine. Your hand … and those cuts, there’s glass everywhere…’ Dylan is appalled at the state of her.

  Tilda reaches up and touches his own damaged cheek. ‘It’s nothing. It will heal,’ she says. He looks up at her and she smiles back at him. This time her smile is real. ‘It’s gone. She’s gone. There’s nothing to be afraid of now.’

  ‘You did it,’ he tells her. ‘You beat her. You were … incredible!’

  ‘I wasn’t on my own. I had a little help,’ she tells him as she stoops to retrieve pieces of shattered clay from the ground. She turns a portion of the Afanc’s tail over in her hands. It still feels warm, still carries within it the vibration of something vital and at the same time ancient.

  ‘You could make it again,’ Dylan suggests. ‘I mean, make another one.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. She did what she came to do. What she needed to do. I think I should leave her where she belongs now.’ She looks up and sees through the clearing rain the lake in the valley far below, the water starting to steam as the sun breaks through the clouds.

  EPILOGUE

  Tilda stands back and allows herself a moment to admire the completed pieces that now fill the shelves in the workshop. It has been a productive few months. After the dramatic events at the end of last year it had been bliss to sink herself into her art once more. In truth, she cannot remember a more creative time in her life. The connection she has found with the lake and all that it signifies now fires her artistic impulses. Her gleaming pots and wilder one-off ceramic pieces are fine creations. She feels it in her heart.

  A tapping on the glass doors makes her turn. Dylan holds up two mugs of tea.

  ‘Leave those for one minute and come out here. It’s too glorious to miss,’ he says.

  She dusts the gritty glaze residue off her hands, brushing down her checked work shirt, causing specks of unborn color to dance in the late-afternoon sunlight that streams into the studio. As she steps outside, she breathes in air heavy with the scent of blossom from the apple tree. It has survived yet another harsh winter and is now a mass of pink-and-white blooms. Dylan hands her the hot drink.

  ‘You’re right,’ she tells him. ‘Glorious. Completely glorious.’

  Spring has transformed the landscape. The lake shimmers beneath the warming sun. Flocks of small birds have returned from their winter homes to build nests on the marshy shores. The larger waterbirds are busy gathering reeds and weeds for their own haphazard nurseries. The verdant meadows are dotted with clean white sheep and even whiter lambs, which rush about in unruly groups, leaping and jumping for the sheer fun of doing so. The week has been mild, but there is still a chill in the air, which gives it such a freshness, such a purity that it might be intoxicating.

  Dylan slips his arm around Tilda’s shoulders.

  ‘Temperature’s dropping. Might need a fire tonight.’

  Tilda smiles at this. Her relationship with Dylan seemed to have begun in front of the very fire he is talking about, on the very rug on which he will no doubt persuade her to lie again. She knows it is still the place he feels closest to her.

  ‘Oh, I think it’s going to stay fine. The year is warming up. No need to waste firewood,’ she teases.

  A movement catches her eye. In the field below the garden a large brown hare lollops silently into view. Tilda gasps and her hand flies to her mouth. It has been so long since she has seen it, and now that it is here again she is taken aback by how happy she feels. The hare nibbles at the new shoots of grass beside the path. Before she can be stopped, Thistle has bounded over the wall and races toward it.
>
  Dylan sees her. ‘Thistle, no!’ he shouts instinctively.

  But Tilda puts a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘It’s okay.’

  As they watch, the hound circles the hare before crouching down in front of it, ears flat, tail wagging, an open invitation to play. The hare regards the lurcher thoughtfully for a few seconds and then leans forward. The two sniff, nose to nose, one set of twitching whiskers, one bristly moustache. And then they start to run. They tear around the meadow, this way and that, along the hedgerow and back across the grass, down the steepest part of the hill, and back up alongside the path. The hare easily keeps ahead, but sometimes she twists and jinks back so quickly that Thistle ends up in front and it appears she is the one being chased. It is a sight both comical and marvelous.

  Then, as quickly as it started, the game stops. The hare turns to look up the hill, up toward the garden wall, up at Tilda. She looks down into the bottomless depth of the animal’s ancient, knowing eyes, and feels a pang of longing and of love.

  Hello Seren. I’ve missed you.

  The hare sits a moment longer, then flips around, bounding for the hedge, and is lost from view. Thistle returns to lie panting at her mistress’s feet.

  ‘Daft dog,’ she says, stooping to stroke the hound’s ears. The wound on her side has healed well, and the fur grown over it once again. Slowly, but in a similar way, the frightening aspects of all that took place over the previous Christmas have faded. Tilda’s broken fingers mended. Dylan’s cut face healed, leaving only a short scar, which he declared manly. The cottage is peaceful now, and full of new beginnings, for all of them. Tilda keeps the torc in a safe place, and often takes it out to hold. To gaze upon. To remember. She allows herself to wear it, to feel the magic it releases in her, but only when she is alone at the cottage. And every time she uses it, she feels more at ease with the gift she has been given. It feels meant. This is where she is meant to be. And every time she runs by the lake she says good morning and thank you to the Afanc, even though the mother-of-the-lake does not show herself, but remains hidden in the deep, mystical waters. Tilda knows she is there, knows that the Afanc is aware of her presence. And that is enough.

  She smiles at Dylan and touches the raised mark on his cheek.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘I’m starving. Time to go in.’

  Dylan grins, taking her arm as they head up the path. ‘I’ll set the fire in the sitting room.’

  ‘I’ll sit in front of it.’

  ‘I’ll make something to eat.’

  ‘Thistle and I will eat it.’

  ‘Seems fair,’ he says as they enter the cottage.

  Tilda turns, peering back down the garden path, scanning the sloping pasture, but there is no sign of the hare. She feels a stab of sorrow at the thought she might not see it again, but this is swiftly followed by a vision, clear and bright, of Thistle and the hare playing on the shores of the lake, at the edge of the woodland, the ground a vivid pool of bluebells.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks, as ever, to the team at Thomas Dunne Books, and all at SMP who have helped to bring The Silver Witch into being. Particular thanks due to Peter Wolverton and Mary Willems for their enthusiasm for the story, their willingness to be taken on this strange flight of fancy, and their attention to detail that won’t ever let me get away with seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time.

  My gratitude, also, to the designers for such a lovely cover.

  The staff at Brecknock Museum was wonderfully helpful, giving me access to the valuable collection of artifacts discovered on or near the crannog dating back to Seren’s day, despite the museum being closed for major refurbishment. I promise I never sat in that canoe!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PAULA BRACKSTON is the New York Times bestselling author of The Witch’s Daughter, The Winter Witch, and The Midnight Witch. She has a master’s degree in creative writing from Lancaster University in the UK. She lives in Wales with her family. Visit her online at www.paulabrackston.com, or sign up for email updates here.

  ALSO BY PAULA BRACKSTON

  The Witch’s Daughter

  The Witches of the Blue Well

  The Winter Witch

  The Midnight Witch

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Paula Brackston

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  THE SILVER WITCH. Copyright © 2015 by Paula Brackston. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover photograph © Stephanie Frey / Trevillion Images

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Brackston, Paula.

  The silver witch / Paula Brackston.—First edition.

  pages cm

  “Thomas Dunne Books.”

  ISBN 978-1-250-02879-2 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-02880-8 (e-book)

  1. Witches—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6102.R325S55 2015

  823'.92—dc23

  2014041146

  e-ISBN 9781250028808

  First Edition: April 2015