Chapter 40
Heather—Present Day
T he coffee had gone cold on the counter, but Heather barely noticed.
She knelt at the hearth again, fingertips pressed to the carved stone: the twin hearts woven through the thistle’s bloom. Pale light seeped through the windows, turning the carvings gold.
Flynn crouched beside her, a shadow against the rising sun.
“Still there,” he murmured.
“It’s them,” she whispered. “Harris and Fiona. I’m sure of it.”
He brushed soot from her cheek. “We’ll look closer once the day’s up proper. Right now, you need food.”
She gave a distracted nod, eyes still on the hearth. “If the thistle endures…” she said softly, “then maybe it led me here.”
Flynn kissed her temple, the gesture quiet as breath. “Aye. But no more diggin’ on an empty stomach.”
He strode to the refrigerator, rummaged for a packet of back bacon, then reached for the bread box atop the counter. “Bacon morning rolls it is, then,” he crooned.
The domestic normalcy of it nearly undid her; it all belonged to a world that hadn’t yet shattered.
Heather rose, rubbing her hands on a dish towel that had seen better days. “You really think I can eat?”
“Aye. You’ll eat, I’ll cook, and we’ll pretend we’re ordinary folk for five blessed minutes.”
The pop of grease punctuated his words. She smiled despite herself and began setting the table: the obligatory brown sauce, two mismatched mugs, the sugar tin dented from use.
A sound outside broke the quiet—tires crunching over gravel.
Heather stiffened. Flynn appeared in the doorway, every muscle coiled. “Expectin’ someone?”
Before she could answer, a knock rattled the front door.
Flynn’s hand went automatically to the pry bar leaning against the wall, but a familiar voice called through the wood.
“Heather? It’s Eleanor! Are you all right?”
Relief cracked the tension. Heather practically ran to the door.
Eleanor stood on the porch, cheeks pink from the cold, hair whipped wild by the wind. She clutched a grocery bag and a thermos.
“I heard someone broke in,” she said breathlessly. “The attack—God, Heather, why didn’t you call me?”
“I… there wasn’t time. We’re okay.” Heather stepped back to let her in. “Come inside.”
The warmth of the house seemed to collapse around the three of them. Eleanor set down her bag, eyes scanning the disarray: the scattered papers, the mud, the faint scent of coffee.
“I brought supplies. Thought I could help clean up,” she remarked.
Flynn nodded gratefully. “Appreciated. Police just cleared the place yesterday.”
Eleanor took in their faces, noting the bruises, exhaustion, the edge that hadn’t dulled yet.
“Sit, Heather.” Flynn said, setting plates on the table with a clatter that felt comfortingly ordinary. “Doctor’s orders.”
The smell of bacon and buttered baps filled the kitchen, rich and grounding. Heather hadn’t realized how empty she was until she took the first bite; salt and smoke and warmth chased away the cold that had settled in her chest with a fierceness.
Eleanor wrapped her hands around her mug, eyes softening as she watched them. “You lot are ridiculous,” she said, but her voice carried more fondness than scolding. “Saving each other one minute, feeding each other the next.”
“Breakfast fixes what ails ye,” Flynn said around a mouthful. “Old Scottish proverb.”
Eleanor snorted. “That’s not an actual proverb.”
“Should be,” he said, giving an unapologetic shrug.
For a brief, fragile stretch of time, the house felt almost normal—three people sharing food, the hum of the kettle in the background, the wind brushing at the windows. Heather caught Flynn’s eye over her mug, and something akin to peace flickered between them.
When the plates were empty and the warmth began to fade, Eleanor pushed back her chair.
“All right,” she said briskly. “Now that we’re fed and fortified, let’s see what kind of chaos we’re dealing with.” She looked at them both expectantly.
They worked in quiet companionship—picking up books, righting chairs, sweeping the stone floor. Eleanor insisted on scrubbing the blood from near the door herself. “Closure,” she said when Heather protested.
When the worst of the mess was gone, they collapsed at the kitchen table. Eleanor poured everyone hot cocoa from her thermos.
Heather told her everything.
Kerr’s break-in. The fight. His confession.
When she spoke Eilidh’s name, Eleanor’s hands trembled around the cup.
“He said… he drowned her?” she whispered in horror.
Heather nodded grimly. “Because she found something he wanted.”
Eleanor sat very still, clearing her throat. “That bastard.” she hissed. Then, quieter: “And Flora Henderson—?”
“Claims she knew nothing.” Flynn’s tone was flat.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Flora always knows more than she says. She called me this morning, actually. Wanted me to ‘check on you.’ Haven’t heard from her in years. Asked if you’d recovered any items of historical significance from the property.”
Heather froze. “She knows.”
Eleanor met her eyes. “Then whatever you found, you keep it hidden. Kerr must’ve gotten word to her before you came home.”
Flynn crossed his arms, jaw set. “He’d have called or texted before we got home. She’ll have people watchin’ us already.” he grated out.
Heather’s pulse thudded. She glanced toward the library door, where sunlight spilled across the floorboards in living tendrils. “We found something last night. Under the old floor. Fiona’s box.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Fiona Mackenzie? From Eilidh’s research?”
Heather nodded. “Her diary, some keepsakes, a letter from the Crown. Everything leads back here, to the hearth.”
Eleanor whispered, “If the thistle endures…”
“You read her notes too?” Heather asked, eyes widening in surprise.
Eleanor nodded. “Eilidh showed me years ago. Said the phrase haunted her.”
They fell silent, each lost in thought. The kettle clicked, forgotten. Outside, the wind scraped over the eaves.
Finally, Flynn spoke. “We keep it quiet. Let Henderson think the trail’s gone cold.”
Heather met his gaze. “And we wait. Watch. She’ll slip.”
Eleanor rose, but her shoulders didn’t square this time; they folded. Her composure wavered.
She crossed the small space between them and, without a word, pulled Heather into her arms.
For a heartbeat, Heather just stood there, stunned. Then she let herself be held.
Eleanor smelled faintly of rain and Earl Grey, the kind of comfort that had been missing since her mother died.
When Eleanor finally spoke, her voice was thick. “You really do look just like her, you know.”
Heather’s throat went tight. “Everyone says that.”
“No,” Eleanor said softly, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “They see her face. I see her spirit. The way she threw herself into something she believed in. Heart first, sense later.” She gave a watery laugh. “Seems to run in the family.”
Heather smiled faintly, tears gathering on her lashes. “I hope so.”
Eleanor brushed a thumb across her cheek, the gesture tender. “She’d be proud of you, lass. She really would.”
They moved back into the library as the morning brightened. The air smelled of dust and soap. Eleanor brushed her fingers along the shelves.
“Funny how a house can hold its breath for centuries,” she mused.
Heather looked toward the hearth, the faint carvings glinting in the light.
“It’s still holding,” she said.
Flynn slipped an arm around her waist. “Then we stay a bit longer. Make sure it knows we’re listenin’.”
Eleanor smiled faintly. “I’ll put the kettle back on.”
But as she turned toward the kitchen, Heather caught movement through the window—just a shadow, fleeting, by the treeline at the edge of the drive. Her heart jumped.
Maybe only the wind.
Maybe not.
The house, it seemed, wasn’t the only thing holding its breath.