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spirit.’
    When he had gone, Llinos looked round at the crowded shelves, wondering what she could do to pass the hours until bedtime. She did not feel like working, she did not want to mix up fresh glaze or paint a pattern into the fresh clay. She was tired and dispirited. She wanted to curl up and fall asleep and never wake again until Mr Cimla had gone from her life. But he would never be gone, he was there for ever.
    She walked across the yard to one of the sheds and lit a candle. She sat on her seat before the wheel and stared down at the dried bits of clay and began to pick at them with her fingernail.
    On an impulse, she pulled a chunk of clay from under a damp sack and began to pound it on the table. She kneaded with her fists, expelling the air from it with such venom that it might well have been Mr Cimla’s head she was pounding.
    She threw it onto the wheel and her feet worked swiftly, spinning the wheel around. She turned the ball of clay, dampening it from the basin of water at her side, revelling in the feel of the wet clay beneath her fingers. She worked surely, shaping the clay, developing a curved pot on the wheel before her. She dug in her nail and a groove formed at the neck of the pot.
    The candlelight flickered above her head and Llinos tried not to think of the future. How could the pottery survive? Gradually, the workers had left, sales had dropped, profit was a thing of the past.
    She cut the pot from the base and began another. She had to work, to keep her hands occupied, or she would go mad. It was only when she became aware of the ache in her back and arms that she realized she had been at the wheel for several hours.
    The candle was only a stump, the flame wavering in one last glow before it died. The clay beneath her hands wobbled into a flat nothing on the wheel. Llinos rested her head on her forearms; her fingers were numb, she could not feel her feet.
    At last, she climbed down from the stool. She could not delay any longer, she must go back into the house. She looked up at the brightness of the sky; the stars appeared low, almost touching the horizon. It was a crisp, clear night and it was cold.
    Slowly, she let herself into the house. It was silent and dark, her mother had not waited up for her. But then she probably had no choice in the matter, not now that she had Mr Cimla to consider.
    Llinos washed and undressed as quickly as she could and climbed gratefully into the bed. She pulled the blankets over her shoulders and tucked them under her neck.
    From the next bedroom, she heard the creak of springs. She heard her mother’s voice low, pleading. She heard what sounded like a slap and then there was nothing but the rhythm of the springs and the sighing of the wind in the tree outside her window.

CHAPTER THREE
    Market day was a busy one for the inhabitants of the row. It was the day when most of the housewives did their shopping for fish and vegetables and meat. It was a day when Mr Cimla in his wisdom had suggested Llinos, accompanied by Watt, should drive into town with a cart full of china and sell it in the market place.
    â€˜But,’ Gwen had protested, ‘my daughter can’t go to market! Good heavens, the Savage family are above that sort of thing.’
    When Mr Cimla insisted, Gwen had meekly submitted to his wishes. Her eyes had been filled with tears and she mouthed the word ‘sorry’ behind her husband’s back. But far from being offended, Llinos was happy to go to market, relieved that she would have a few hours of freedom from the brooding presence of her stepfather.
    She stood in the early spring sunshine oblivious of the cold, and though self-conscious at first soon became engaged in a brisk trade. After only a few hours, the supply of jugs and bowls was almost gone. Llinos arranged a few of the flat plates to better advantage at the front of the stall and smiled down at Watt, liking the feeling of being in charge.
    â€˜We doin’ all