Chapter 1
Heather—Present Day
T he morning air was cool and sharp, mist drifting low over the hills beyond Glenoran.
Heather cradled her mug of tea between both hands, soaking in the warmth as she stood by the library window.
The glass fogged slightly where her breath touched it, blurring the gorse-strewn land stretching out before her.
At her feet, Byrdie twined lazily between her ankles, tail flicking before hopping onto the armchair by the fire. The little cat circled twice, then perched like a queen surveying her domain.
Heather dragged a fingertip through the condensation, tracing an idle curve. Her mom had stood at this very window once, long before Heather ever set foot here. The thought nudged something in her chest—a mix of curiosity and that familiar, quiet ache.
She wondered if Eilidh had ever stood here on a morning like this, tea in hand, taking in the same stretch of wild land.
Her mind drifted to the memory of her mother in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove. A tune without words, just a lilting melody Heather had never placed. She’d always assumed her mom made it up.
Without thinking, Heather hummed it now. The sound filled the quiet library, soft and low, vibrating against the stone walls.
Flynn’s voice broke through.
“That’s new. Didn’t know ye sang before breakfast.”
Heather startled, spinning to find him leaning in the doorway, hair tousled, arms crossed. He wore that half-smile she knew so well—equal parts teasing and tenderness.
“I don’t sing,” she blurted. “It’s just… a tune my mom used to hum.”
Flynn tilted his head. “Sounds familiar. What’s it called?”
“No idea.” Heather shrugged. “It’s just stuck in my head.”
He crossed the room in a few strides and slipped a warm hand against the small of her back. “Well… maybe it’ll come back to you when it wants to.”
Before she could respond, Byrdie hopped down and padded toward the door, glancing back with a short, imperious meow , clearly impatient for them to get on with the day.
Heather let out a soft breath and looked out the window once more as the mist thickened over the fields.
“We should get started.”
Flynn kissed her temple. “Then today’s the day. Where to first, Campbell? Ghosts? Treasure? Breakfast?”
She laughed. “I suppose you’d like me to say treasure.”
“I’d settle for breakfast.” He brushed her side with his hand and nodded toward the kitchen. “C’mon. Tea alone can’t fuel a full-blown mystery.”
Heather followed him, the melody she’d been humming still looping in her mind. Byrdie trotted ahead, tail high like she was leading the expedition.
The kitchen was warm, sunlight pushing through the clouds as Flynn rummaged through cupboards with the ease of someone who had long since claimed the space as his own. He pulled out bread, eggs, and a skillet, moving with a casual competence that made Heather’s chest warm.
She perched on a stool, chin in her hand, watching him.
“You’re awfully cheerful for a man about to dive into a centuries-old secret.”
Flynn cracked an egg with one hand, smirking over his shoulder. “That’s because you’ll be doing the thinking. I’m just here for the heavy lifting.”
Heather rolled her eyes with a smile, “Good to know you’ve resigned yourself to an appropriate role.”
He slid a plate toward her displaying toast, eggs, and berries he’d unearthed from the fridge.
“Fuel first,” he said, before settling across from her.
Byrdie sniffed at Heather’s toast, decided she disapproved, and accepted a berry instead.
Heather toyed with her fork for a moment, then finally spoke.
“We should start in Inverness. There’s a woman, Eleanor I think was her name, who reacted when I mentioned Glenoran… Like she knew something.”
Flynn raised a brow. “So we’re wandering the town until we find her?”
Heather shrugged. “Something like that. It’s called a lead , Flynn.”
A flicker of anticipation passed through her. “She might know things about my family; she seemed to know a fair bit about the house. More than she let on.”
Flynn’s expression softened, his grin easing into something gentler. He reached across the table, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.
“Then we’ll find her.”
Heather’s shoulders loosened at his certainty. She nodded.
They finished breakfast in an easy rhythm. When Heather stood to clear her plate, the tune returned unbidden, crooning softly past her lips.
Flynn paused mid-drying, head tilted.
“There it is again.”
Heather flushed, embarrassment painting her cheeks crimson. “Get outta my head, song.”
As they gathered their coats and stepped toward the foyer, the melody lingered—familiar, bittersweet, like a memory stretching its legs.
Byrdie darted ahead, clearly expecting an invitation. Heather scooped her up, pressing her cheek to the warm fur.
“Not this time, Byrdie-girl. You’ve got mice to bully in the cellar. Very important job.”
Byrdie blinked, utterly unconvinced, before offering a soft mrrow of protest.
Heather laughed, setting her down. “Hold the fort.”
Flynn smirked from the door. “She’s absolutely plotting revenge.”
“Oh, definitely .” Heather slipped on her coat with a sly grin, the chill outside no match for the spark of excitement running through her.