Ivy
Conall is asleep. His deep breathing has become so normal to me, it's almost white noise at this point. Apparently, my lumpy couch was the source of most of his snoring.
Yet something woke me.
At first, I'm not sure what. I look around the room and am surprised to find it faintly illuminated despite the moon being hidden behind dense rainclouds.
I follow the source with my eyes until I find that the light is coming from the hall.
Not from any lamp or bulb, but from a small, floating orb.
I immediately think of the will-o'-the-wisps Conall warned me about.
But as the light bobs closer, it looks nothing like the wispy, blue smoke lights. Instead, it's a round, white, floating ball almost as big as my head.
This could be another monster that’s come to eat me, but it doesn't feel like that. The light feels warm. The whole thing gives off a calm vibe. It begins floating away down the hall, and I have a choice. I could wake Conall, who'd likely just munch it to death. Or I can follow it.
I get up and pad down the hall barefoot. If all else fails, I can just scream him awake.
Following it down to the main level of the cottage, I watch as it floats through the hardwood cellar door. The cellar I only glanced at when I first got here and never looked at again.
My gaze drifts longingly back up the stairs toward bed. The glowing ball of light phases through the door again, blinks, and then proceeds back through and presumably down to the cellar.
I'm too curious. Where is it taking me and why? It leaves behind the faint smell of chamomile.
The door squeals open, rusty hinges protesting the use. The stairs are rough wood and sagging in precarious places. The orb has floated into a far corner, casting more shadow than light. I creep down.
Every step makes me feel like my foot's going to punch straight through.
But it doesn't, and I finally reach the bottom.
Packed dirt scratches my bare feet, and I have to hunch to keep from bumping my head on the ceiling.
Turning, I find the glowing orb hovering above a trunk tucked into the corner.
It's worn with age, paint peeling, wood splintered in places, and the whole thing has a mildew smell.
I carefully approach, but the orb neither backs away nor makes any hostile moves. My fingers tremble as I grasp the lid and swing it open.
It's empty.
I lean closer. No, not empty but nearly.
It's a big steamer trunk meant to carry all of someone's possessions across the sea, and at the bottom, there's only a very battered, very old book.
Wide and thick with a leather cover that is absolutely blank.
No markings at all. My fingers brush the cover gently, and the orb blinks off.
"Shit," I whisper into the dark.
I grab the book and squeeze it to my chest, just to keep my breathing from tipping into hyperventilating.
I can't see anything. Not even my own hand directly in front of my face.
I try to move cautiously. I really do. But I couldn't be called graceful on the best of days, and this is not one of them.
I immediately hit a little divot in the dirt and twist, tumbling to the ground and crying out as I catch myself with one hand, the other holding steadily onto the book.
From upstairs, I hear noise, then the pounding of feet as footsteps race overhead.
"Ivy?" Conall roars, and the thread of panic in his voice has me moving, trying to find my footing.
"I'm here," I call out half-heartedly. Having him find me in the dirt in the cellar isn't exactly my finest moment.
The door swings back open, and his steps pound down the stairs.
I can see the green pinpricks that are his eyes before I hear his knees hit the dirt in front of me.
Gentle hands find my face. A thumb trails over my chin.
"Why are you down here? Are you hurt?"
I hadn't realized how cold it was until his warm skin found mine. "I just fell. I saw… God, can we go upstairs first? I'm freezing."
His hands find my arm, one palm drifting from my ankle up my thigh.
"What are you—" I squeal as his arms come under my shoulders and knees, and I'm lifted. "I can walk," I protest, huffing.
"You can, but why should you when I'm here, mate?" He carries us up one set of stairs, then the other. He's only in the boxers he'd gone to sleep in. His broad chest beneath me is hard, and I can feel the pounding of his heart.
He sets me on the sofa in the living room. The leather-bound book is still clutched tightly in my hands. Conall gently sits next to me, sliding an arm over the back of the sofa behind me. "So, what is that?"
I carefully pull open the cover. Inside, the pages are all handwritten. Dates and names, then entire journal-type entries. It's not hard to figure out who kept it since Ursula Shipton has signed every single one of them.
"My aunt's journal," I breathe, scanning the pages. It's only three in the morning, but I know I won't fall asleep after this. Instead of going back to bed himself, Conall makes us both a snack and a cup of tea and sits beside me, reading along all through the rest of the dark early morning.