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the lovers who had been apart for so long and placed her next to the young shepherd. Let them enjoy some time together whilst they could, before the house clearance guys turned up and separated them for good.
    Closing the front door behind him, he took a deep breath of fresh air, noting that, yes, it really was warmer outside. Ready for sleep at last, he made his way back down the hill, the beam of the torch Alys had thoughtfully left for her guests picking out diamante clusters of snow. In his opinion, the holiday cottage’s hotel-style makeover had wiped it of all personality, but it was clean, warm and the double bed was comfortable. All he had to remember was the sloping ceiling above it.
    A shaft of yellow light shining into the lane from his neighbour’s bedroom window reminded him that he wasn’t quite alone. The village’s isolated position created the worst of all worlds; long-term residents with a deeply ingrained way of doing business and all kinds of eccentric outsiders desperately seeking some rural nirvana. Wind farms, wind-chimes, woolly jumpers and crazy cat ladies – who needed it?
    Before he could get to his front door, there was movement at his neighbour’s bedroom window and there she was, dressed for bed, in something sleeveless and mint-green that flared from her shoulders, billowing to somewhere just below her bottom. It was also, Gethin noticed, as she bent forward and came up with her cat, very sheer. He froze, wary of doing anything that might alert her to his presence and give her completely the wrong idea. ‘Samba Artist’s Sordid Secret’ was exactly the kind of story the British red tops would relish and whilst the New York press barely acknowledged the UK’s existence, he didn’t feel like putting his theory to the test.
    Nevertheless he couldn’t quite drag his eyes away as his neighbour kissed the cat’s head and did a little twirl with it before putting it down again. With her curls loosened and touched with flame by the light behind her, she looked like a wayward angel, and when she finally reached up and drew the curtains, Gethin didn’t know whether he was disappointed or relieved. Except that this wasn’t Heaven, he remembered, this was Penmorfa.
    ‘It’s out of the question. The chairman of the Local Business Association has always drawn the Penmorfa Valentine’s charity raffle,’ insisted Delyth Morgan, clearly unable to support anything that would deprive her creepy husband, Hefin, of his moment of glory. The couple ran The Foundered Ship, and were responsible for more evil Sunday roasts of shrivelled meat and overcooked vegetables swimming in grey gloop than Kitty could bear to imagine.
    Staring at the grandfather clock in the Vicar’s front room, Kitty longed for an end to her evening with the Merched y Wawr , especially since her numb backside was making her regret her choice of a straight-back chair in the corner of the room. Her knitted tunic fell in soft folds that hid the swell of her stomach, but for all the notice anyone was taking of her, she might just as well have stretched on the sofa, sporting a ‘Baby on Board’ slogan tee shirt. Except that she would have been stuck between Delyth and Mair, the double act of doom. There were many good women in the room, all trying to do their best for each other, she thought, but not Delyth and Mair, who were only interested in themselves. They had been trying to stamp their collective authority on the meeting all evening, but it was Alys, Kitty noticed, who drew most of their scowls.
    ‘But we’re talking about an internationally acclaimed artist,’ Alys said, looking shocked. ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous publicity for the village if he could do it instead?’
    ‘We’re talking about Gethin Lewis,’ said Mair, folding her skinny arms. ‘I had to give him more than one smack when he started Sunday school. I’ll never forget the time he tried to bite me when I prised him away from his mother. She was always