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him to the fuse box. Thistle slinks in from the kitchen to inspect the visitor, decides he is not a threat, and returns to her cushion by the Rayburn. Tilda fetches Bob a cup of tea and hands it to him when he has finished checking the system.
    â€˜Well? Is it hopeless?’ she asks. ‘It’s bound to be ancient, but we had a survey done when we bought the place, and I don’t remember reading that it would need replacing.’
    Bob shakes his head. ‘It’s not in bad shape, really. Must have been rewired fairly recently. Someone did a pretty good job of it.’ To make his point he throws the main power switch and light is restored.
    â€˜So why does it keep tripping out?’ Tilda finds herself blinking, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the new level of brightness.
    Bob shrugs. ‘Must be something you’ve got plugged in. Something you’ve installed.’
    â€˜There isn’t anything I can think of. Only my kiln, but I haven’t switched that on yet.’
    â€˜Be careful when you do. Have you got it on the right circuit? Those things are pretty heavy on power.’
    â€˜Yes, the manufacturer sent someone to set it up.’
    They both stand in the hall, waiting. Tilda finds herself almost wanting the fuses to blow again, just so there is something for Bob to actually fix.
    â€˜Now I feel stupid,’ she says. ‘Seems like I dragged you up here for nothing.’
    â€˜No problem.’ Bob finishes his tea in a few gulps. ‘The ride down that hill will be worth it.’
    â€˜What do I owe you?’
    â€˜Nothing too terrible. I’ll pop an invoice in the post. Call me if you have any more trouble.’
    She watches him descend the lane with increasing speed. It is still early, and there is a fluffy mist sitting over the lake today. The mountains beyond rise up through the froth of white, their peaks dark and sharp against the lightening sky. Thistle pads out to join her in the front garden. She wonders if the dog will be well enough for at least a walk in a couple of days.
    â€˜Well, if either of us is going to be up to exercise, we are going to need some proper food. Come on, let’s see if I can’t magic up groceries on the Internet.’
    Back in the kitchen Tilda switches on her laptop and starts to feel quite excited at the prospect of fresh fruit, meat, interesting salad, perhaps some sinful puddings, and a bottle of her favorite wine. The computer chirrup s encouragingly, displaying the home page so brightly she is forced to dim the screen a little. She is just on the point of selecting a supermarket offering deliveries in the area when the screen goes blue, then gray, then, with a pathetic whirring sound, darkens completely and falls silent.
    â€˜Damn.’ Tilda slumps back in her chair with a sigh. Before she has time to do more than shake her head there is a sharp bang and all the lights fail again. Seconds later she feels her leg being nudged and looks down to see Thistle, who has tiptoed over to stand beside her. The dog nuzzles her and wags its tail anxiously. That the animal should be so sensitive to her emotional state touches Tilda.
    â€˜What a pair we are,’ she says, gently stroking the dog’s velvety ears. ‘You all lame and creaky, me unable to get on with the simplest things. And both of us living in a house that doesn’t seem to want to have electricity in it anymore.’ She takes a deep breath and snaps shut the lifeless laptop. ‘Okay, we can’t go on like this,’ she tells Thistle. ‘You stay here and … well, get better. I’m going for a late run that’ll take in the village shop. I promise I’ll return with food. We can have a proper meal, and then I’m going into the studio to do some work. That sound like a plan to you?’
    Thistle answers by padding back to her bed and curling up, nose on paws, tail on nose, clearly settling for a