Free The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston

little family moves on with their day, the child turning to wave at Thistle. Tilda sighs and returns her attention to the lake. The archeologists are pushing a small boat out onto the water and placing some sort of floats or buoys at measured distances. Looking to the north, in the space between their camp and the car park, now Tilda can clearly see the original crannog. It is a small island, with little to give away its unique origins; the fact that it is the only such man-made island in the country, and is still there, settled onto the silky waters of the lake, over one thousand years after its construction. Now it is almost completely covered in trees, and is inhabited only by some of the more timid waterbirds that benefit from its protected status. The oaks and willows, their branches just patchily leaved now, are reflected prettily in the water, and Tilda at once finds herself thinking how she might use such shapes and patterns in her work. It has been a while since she felt inspired to try something new, and a tiny spark of hope inside her lifts her mood.
    Maybe now. Maybe here. Those twisted boughs and shadowy trunks … soft grays mingled with the fading gold leaves. I could do something with that.
    A nearby mallard quacks loudly for no apparent reason, causing Thistle to jump. Tilda notices that the hound is shivering a little.
    â€˜You’re still not properly better, are you, poor thing? Come on, we’ll buy some chips in the caf é on our way home.’
    Their route takes them past a shop selling camping equipment, fishing rods, and similar leisure supplies. There is no sign on the door barring dogs, so Tilda is able to take Thistle inside in search of a collar and lead. Minutes later the pair emerge with the dog sporting a rather bright pink-with-blue-paw-prints ensemble.
    â€˜Sorry about the color,’ Tilda tells her, ‘but that must be a bit more comfortable, at least.’
    Thistle regards her new mistress with a quizzical expression, her ears cocked and her head a little to one side, but otherwise keeps her opinion to herself. Together, they head for home.
    SEREN
    It is restful here, inside the single room that is my house. I do not have ornately carved chairs, nor costly tapestries, nor silver goblets. Mine is a simple existence, but I have all I need, and I am content. No man tells me what I should do or how I should be. I choose to live alone. To live separate. Some wonder that I do not crave the protection or the company life on the crannog offers, but what need have I of protection? True, there are those who wish me gone, but they are too afraid of me to act upon those wishes. And if they were to conquer their fear, still they would hold back, for in their hearts they know they need me to be here. For am I not, after all, their protector?
    And as for company … I do not crave the companionship of other women, for I have never found one who did not judge me against herself and find me either to be envied or pitied. As for the friendship of men … well, when the day comes when one is man enough to treat me as his equal, then, only then, will I allow desire to be my guide.
    And beyond all this, I have the company of my visions. When I see, when I travel to those places others cannot, I am surrounded by all manner of wondrous beings, from times past and yet to come. They welcome me, and offer me their friendship and their counsel. How then, could I be lonely? How could I feel a lack of solace and kinship? What use have I for love? I have witnessed the foolishness it engenders in the most steadfast of people. I have seen sensible women lose their wits to a handsome stranger. I have marveled at good men debased by their passion for an unsuitable woman. I would rather keep my own company than permit myself to be so unraveled by another.
    My little house is cozy on these cold nights. The walls are thick wattle and daub, darkened by woodsmoke inside and weather outside. The