Chapter 11
“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Leah’s gaze swept over the cottage, her index finger tapping against her lips in assessment.
Meanwhile, Maisie bounced on Erica’s bed, her socked feet ruffling the terracotta sheets. Erica flinched but said nothing, biting back the urge to tell her niece to stop. It wasn’t Maisie’s fault she wasn’t used to children rampaging through her space.
“I think I have everything,” Erica said. “And if not, there are shops in town.”
“Well, I know you’re used to ordering everything online, sis, but I doubt the delivery vans would make it up this road. It’s positively an accident waiting to happen, with crumbling edges and sheer drops.” Leah shuddered. “I’m surprised you’d want to be here. Don’t you feel … cut off?”
Erica shrugged. “Exactly.”
Leah’s face softened. “Look, I know things didn’t work out with—”
“Don’t say his name.” Erica cut in, she heard the edge in her own voice.
Leah hesitated, then continued more carefully. “I just mean … you don’t have to hide away. You’re still young, still attractive. You still have so much ahead of you.”
“Oh, sure. Marriage? Kids? A white picket fence?” Erica scoffed. “That’s not everything in life, Leah. No offence.”
Maisie, oblivious, yanked open the wardrobe and gasped. “Wow! Auntie Erica, you have so many clothes!”
Erica’s stomach twisted as she caught sight of the neatly folded designer pieces she’d shipped from storage. Ghosts of a different life, one where every outfit was curated and every item tagged for strangers to buy.
Leah lifted a brow, sensing the shift. “You know I didn’t mean a husband and kids.” She sighed. “This isn’t the nineteenth century. Unmarried women aren’t suspicious outcasts.”
“Amen to that.” Erica let out a dry laugh. “Though I’m fairly certain I’ve been disowned by society.”
Leah’s smile was indulgent. “Oh, Eri. You haven’t been disowned.”
Erica swallowed. “Millions of people, Leah. They think they hate me.”
Leah waved a hand. “No one hates you.”
“You didn’t see what they wrote. What I said. What they still say about me.”
She hadn’t told Leah about the threats, the messages, the way every platform she’d once lived on had turned poisonous. Some things were too exhausting to explain.
Before Leah could reply, Maisie reappeared, wobbling under one of Erica’s hats.
“Mum! Look at me!”
“Maisie, take Auntie Erica’s hat off.” Leah sighed, rescuing it.
Maisie was already distracted again, darting next to the wardrobe. “Mum! There’s a secret door!”
“What?” Leah frowned.
Erica crouched beside her. Sure enough, Maisie was tugging at a small wooden panel built into the wall, almost invisible against the panelling.
“That’s not a door,” Erica said slowly. “It’s just … a little cubby.”
Maisie beamed. “That’s where witches keep their potions!”
Leah rolled her eyes. “Not everything is about witches.”
But Erica felt a faint prickle she couldn’t quite explain. Gabriel’s odd keychain, the cottage’s quietness … it all added up to something she couldn’t quite name.
Maisie managed to pry open a small tin box hidden inside.
“Careful!” Leah reached for her.
Erica leaned in, heart ticking a little faster than it should. For a moment it felt as though something was about to be revealed.
Maisie peered inside, then frowned. “It’s empty.”
She tipped it upside down to prove it.
Leah let out a breath. “Well, that’s disappointing. Though I suppose finding a secret box at all is something.”
“Maybe whoever renovated the place found whatever was inside,” Erica said. “It looks old – eighteenth century, maybe?”
Leah shrugged. “It’s an old house on a cliff, not a museum. And I’m not the local historian. That was always you. Remember Dad’s family tree?”
“Which was basically a list of names.”
“And you were meant to finish it.”
Erica smiled faintly. “I was busy trying not to be broke.”
Leah softened. “You could always start again. Might be good to have something to focus on.”
“I’m not retired,” Erica said lightly, though her gaze drifted back to the empty tin. Her father hadn’t had that luxury either.
Ten years, she realised suddenly. Ten years of chasing work, image, approval. What had she missed in all that time?
Leah stretched. “Right. Come on, Maisie Moo. Daddy’s cooking. You joining us, Eri?”
Erica hesitated, eyes lingering on the small hidden space now closed again. The cottage felt quietly attentive, like it was settling around her.
“You go enjoy your family dinner,” she said at last. “I think I’ll stay here. Maybe have a bath. Get to know the place.”
Leah smiled. “You do that.”
She paused, then dug something from her coat pocket and plopped it into Erica’s hand – a bundled knot of dried herbs tied with twine.
Erica blinked. “What … is this?”
Leah eyed it as if it might sprout legs. “A moving-in gift. From Margery. The herbalist.”
“Right … thoughtful.” Erica turned it over. “Who’s Margery?”
“She’s the local witch!” Maisie announced brightly, bouncing again.
Erica winced.
“She is not a witch,” Leah said.
“She has a massive cat in her window and sells wands!”
“That does not make her a witch.”
“I met her,” Erica said slowly. “She seemed … nice.” Unsettlingly perceptive, but nice. She lifted the bundle. “And what exactly am I meant to do with this?”
“It’s sage,” Leah said. “Margery said you should burn it.”
Maisie nodded solemnly. “It gets rid of evil spirits.”
Erica and Leah exchanged a look. Neither of them had been raised to take spiritual advice from small children or eccentric herbalists.
“Well,” Erica said lightly, “good to know.” She smiled at Maisie, then shot Leah a silent Really? when her niece turned away.
Leah only shrugged, ushering Maisie towards the door. “Call if you need anything.”
And then they were gone.
Erica stood there for a moment, then let out a breath. “Evil spirits,” she muttered. “Sure.”
The cottage fell quiet. Settling after the rush of people.
She poured herself a glass of wine, found a forgotten slice of cake in the fridge, and leaned against the counter, balancing the plate on one hip.
Chocolate and red wine – her idea of a balanced dinner.
The old version of her, the one who measured everything in macros, mood boards and public image, would have had something sharp to say about that.
She imagined that voice, clipped and smug, and then deliberately turned it down.
Tonight wasn’t for that woman.
Tonight was for quiet, for no one watching and no one needing her to be anything at all.
She took a slow bite of cake, letting the sweetness melt on her tongue, and for the first time in days she didn’t feel the urge to rush through it.
A bath next.
A door she could close.
A little pocket of the world that belonged only to her.
The water steamed, filling the small bathroom with a warm, misty haze.
Erica slid into it with a sigh, her shoulders sinking beneath the surface as the heat worked its way into her tired muscles.
Outside, the wind rattled the old windows, a restless, lonely sound she would have to get used to, living on a cliff.
Then, for no reason at all—
She shivered.
Not from the water. From something else.
A soft creak sounded down the hall.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Erica shot upright, splashing water everywhere, and grabbed her robe, yanking it on with shaking hands. Her heart was racing, which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
Her gaze landed on the sage bundle sitting on the counter.
She stared at it.
Then, with a muttered curse, she picked it up.
Just in case.
A match flared. Smoke curled upward, sharp and herbal.
Taking a breath, Erica stepped into the hall.
“Alright,” she said quietly, waving the sage. “Any ghosts, spirits, or … whatever. Time’s up.”
The cottage did not reply.
“Good,” she added. “Because this is my house now.”
She moved from room to room, a little less dignified now. “I am not accepting any more emotional baggage, supernatural or otherwise.”
The bedroom. The sitting room. The kitchen.
She flung open the back door and dramatically wafted the last of the smoke into the night. “Go haunt a lighthouse or something.”
Only wind answered her.
Erica nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
She shut the door, picked up her wine glass, grabbed the bottle for good measure, and locked it.
Then checked it.
Then checked it again.
Just in case.