Chapter 29
Clementine
I Take Care of You. I Want You to Stay.
Ailsa and I have been sorting through the manor’s belongings for two hours, which seems like a perfectly reasonable activity when you absolutely do not want to think about the man you love who broke your heart.
I am not thinking about Cameron.
Not at all.
I’m focusing on the boxes, on the methodical inventory of the first-floor cupboards, on the fact that this manor needs to be organized, structured, put in order.
I’m not packing things away to sell them.
I’m packing things away to organize them, to make the space my own, to make this place feel like somewhere that could actually belong to a responsible adult who has control over her life.
“Are you sure you want to keep this?” Ailsa asks, holding up a vase of truly spectacular ugliness.
I look at it.
It’s a greenish ceramic thing covered in floral patterns that make it look as though a gardener threw up on a piece of porcelain.
“No. Donation box.”
Ailsa carefully places it in the appropriate box.
I’ve created a system:
Keep box.
Donation box.
Trash box.
It’s organized.
Logical.
Exactly the kind of concrete task that prevents me from thinking about the fact that Cameron McGregor ruined our relationship.
Or the fact that he deleted me from his Instagram posts.
Or the fact that the villagers look at me with sympathy even while supporting me.
Or the fact that I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do with my life now.
“Clem,” Ailsa says gently.
“What?”
“You just put a perfectly normal plate into the trash box.”
I look down at the plate.
White.
Simple.
Perfect condition.
“Oh. Right. Oops.”
I retrieve it and move it into the keep box.
Ailsa gives me a look that I choose to ignore.
She showed up this morning without being asked, carrying coffee and scones, and she hasn’t asked a single question about Cameron.
Which officially makes her the best friend in the world.
But her compassionate silence is starting to weigh on me almost as much as the questions would have.
“I’m fine,” I declare.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking very loudly.”
She smiles.
“Fair. I think you’re sorting cupboards with the energy of someone running away from her feelings.”
“I’m not running away from anything. I’m organizing.”
“Of course you are.”
I return to my box with renewed determination.
The next cupboard contains tablecloths.
A lot of tablecloths.
Some are beautiful—embroidered, antique, elegant.
Others look like textile accidents from the early twentieth century.
I’m folding a tablecloth that has definitely seen better days when I notice movement outside the window.
A small dog I’ve never seen before is crossing the garden with the determined expression of someone carrying out a very important mission.
I frown.
“Ailsa?”
“What?”
“There’s a dog in the garden.”
“And?”
“I don’t own a dog.”
Ailsa joins me at the window and looks outside.
“Oh. That’s Courage.”
“What?”
She turns toward me.
“His name is Courage. He belongs to Ragnar.”
“Ragnar... the sheep?”
I frown, and Ailsa smiles at my confusion.
“It’s a long story. Looks like he’s heading for the front door,” she adds after another glance outside.
Without even discussing it, we head into the hall.
I open the front door and watch the little dog approach the steps.
He’s carrying something in his mouth.
The dog places the object on the first step, backs away two paces as if checking that it’s positioned correctly, then turns around and trots off as though nothing unusual has happened.
I stand frozen.
“What the hell is this?” Ailsa whispers.
Sitting perfectly centered on the second step is a brass candlestick.
Not just any candlestick.
Before I even pick it up, I know exactly which one it is.
The manor’s candlestick.
The one I held like a pathetic weapon the first day Cameron walked in here.
The one that rolled across the hall when I fell at the foot of the staircase.
I pick it up slowly.
Cold.
Heavy.
Exactly as I remember.
“Clem,” Ailsa says behind me. “Is it yours?”
I look up at her.
“It’s from my first meeting with Cameron.”
Now she’s the one who looks surprised.
She tilts her head thoughtfully.
“Why would a dog bring it to you?”
I shrug.
“No idea.”
I go back inside carrying the candlestick.
Ailsa closes the door behind us.
I place it on the hall table and stare at it as if it might offer an explanation.
“Weird,” Ailsa mutters.
“Very weird.”
She heads back to the dining room to continue sorting.
I stay where I am, unable to look away from the candlestick.
It’s just a coincidence.
A dog found an object and brought it back.
Dogs do that.
Except this isn’t just any object.
And that dog looked very determined.
And no.
Dogs do not do this.
I shake my head.
I’m losing my mind.
What’s next?
Am I going to start believing the manor is actually haunted and that Brodie Fraser is sending me coded messages through village animals?
I return to Ailsa.
We continue sorting in silence for another hour.
I try to focus on tablecloths, old curtains, mismatched dishes.
Ailsa hums softly while folding sheets.
Every now and then I catch myself looking out the window, as though expecting the dog to come back.
But instead, I see Ragnar.
The McGregor family’s black sheep is crossing the garden with exactly the same determined purpose.
I stop folding.
“Ailsa.”
“Mmh?”
“Ragnar’s here.”
“What?”
“He’s coming toward the manor.”
She glances up.
“No, he isn’t. Sheep wander around.”
“Ragnar always has a purpose.”
I move closer to the window.
Ailsa joins me a second later.
We watch the sheep approach.
He’s carrying something in his mouth.
Something long and narrow.
My heart starts beating faster.
“It’s happening again,” I mutter before heading for the front door.
Ragnar climbs the steps, places the object in exactly the same spot as the candlestick, and leaves as calmly as he arrived.
Ailsa and I rush down to the porch.
A wooden spoon lies on the step.
Its handle is worn smooth with years of use.
I pick it up.
Turn it over in my hands.
“Moira’s spoon!” I exclaim as the memory comes rushing back. “The one she uses to bang on the bar during trivia night.”
Ailsa stares at the spoon as if it might suddenly transform into a venomous snake.
“The trivia night where Cameron and I started our plan,” I whisper.
I go back inside and place the spoon beside the candlestick on the hall table.
Two animals.
Two objects.
Ailsa looks at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher.
“Okay, now it’s official. Glenfield has completely lost its mind.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Clem, a dog and a sheep just delivered objects connected to your history with Cameron. This is not normal.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
I’m not calm.
My heart is racing.
My hands are trembling.
But part of me is beginning to understand something I’m not ready to say out loud.
“Because it feels like...”
“Like what?”
“Like someone is telling a story in chronological order.”
Ailsa frowns.
Then her expression changes as she looks at the two objects.
“The candlestick. Your first meeting.”
“Yes.”
“The spoon. The trivia night. When the two of you became partners.”
“Yes.”
We look at each other.
“Something’s missing,” I say slowly.
“What?”
“I don’t know yet. But something’s missing.”
Ailsa shakes her head.
“You know what? I’m going into the village for wine. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
She grabs her keys and leaves before I can protest.
I’m left alone with two objects telling a story I don’t want to remember because it hurts too much.
The candlestick.
The spoon.
Meeting.
Connection.
What comes next?
I look out the window.
The garden is empty.
The distant hills are gray beneath the overcast sky.
It’s going to rain.
And then I see Rosita.
The McGregor family’s white ewe. Hamish’s companion.
She crosses the garden slowly, swaying gracefully as she walks.
Like a lovestruck sheep in a fairy tale written for sheep.
My breath catches.
I step outside onto the porch.
Rosita stops in front of me.
In her mouth is a key.
A small tarnished brass key tied to a ribbon that must once have been red.
The key to Brodie and Mairenn’s room.
The one Cameron and I found hidden behind a picture frame before using it to unlock the mysterious bedroom.
The key that changed everything.
Rosita gently places it at my feet.
Almost ceremonially.
Then she looks at me with those large sheep eyes as though she’s trying to communicate something important.
A moment later, she turns and walks away.
I pick up the key.
My hands are shaking.
I go inside.
Place it beside the candlestick and the spoon.
Then I stare at the three objects lined up on the table.
Three objects.
Three moments.
Meeting.
Connection.
Truth.
Someone is telling our story in chronological order.
The candlestick from the day everything began.
The spoon from the night we became partners in front of the whole village.
The key from the moment we discovered that Brodie and Mairenn weren’t a local legend but two real people who had loved each other.
Tears sting my eyes because I know who’s doing this.
I know what it means.
He’s using Glenfield’s animals to tell me what words failed to say.
The front door opens.
Ailsa returns carrying two bottles of wine and the expression of someone expecting to find me in the middle of an emotional breakdown.
She sees the three objects on the table and stops dead.
“Rosita,” I say simply.
“Of course.”
Ailsa sets down the wine.
Together we stare at the objects in silence.
Wind rattles the branches outside the window.
The manor creaks softly around us.
“What are you going to do?” she finally asks.
“I don’t know.”
“You know who’s doing this, don’t you?”
I nod without answering.
Ailsa stands and puts the wine in the refrigerator.
“I think we’re going to wait,” she says quietly.
“Wait for what?”
“For you to feel better.”
“Wasn’t that supposed to be the wine’s job?”
“No. Listen, I don’t know what’s happening, but I think you need to stay sober for whatever comes next.”
“What makes you think there’s going to be something else?”
She shrugs.
“My intuition. It’s rarely wrong.”