Epilogue
Deli woke up alone to the sound of Scottish rain falling gently on the roof of the old cottage.
There, in the space between waking and sleeping, she wondered about all the other people who had ever woken up in that room.
She wondered about the lives they had lived and the people they had loved—the things that they had lost.
She squeezed her eyes shut and took a long, deep breath.
She could just smell the sweet smoke of the fireplace.
Lachlan must have left it burning for her before he left.
The thought of him stacking the logs as quietly as he could—blowing gently into the kindling so Deli would wake up to a cozy house—fell over her like a winter quilt.
She still couldn’t believe Lachlan was real sometimes. And that he was choosing to be hers.
Deli stretched across the bed and made a morning squeak-yawn sound as she rotated her wrists and ankles.
She swung her legs over the side and threw back the duvet with a little flair for no reason other than for flair’s sake, which she thought was reason enough.
The knotted, old wood floor creaked under her socked feet as she shuffled into the kitchen.
In the center of the table there was a simple cream paper folded once in half. A dried and pressed stalk of heather, a stem of lily of the valley, and an inside-out bluebell were tucked inside. All still vibrant, though they hadn’t been young for a long time.
Deli closed her eyes and privately thanked the strange pulse of magic that had called her to Fearnhall and still gave her endless flowers—the magic that had given Aunt Mo a home and a dream about Deli on her twenty-ninth birthday.
And, of course, the magic that had filled the life of a boy named Lachlan and kept him safe until Deli could catch up.
She opened the card. Written in black ink with bold strokes, it read:
Good morning. The kettle should still be warm, and your favorite mug is clean.
Peevie asked me to leave you a matching daisy crown, so check her stable. Don’t forget to eat the cheese Cairn brought over—it’s in the fridge beside Blair’s cake.
I spoke to Beans about behaving, but I can’t guarantee it took. Godspeed.
Have a particularly excellent day. Let me know if you fancy a wee bit of company.
P. S. 30 looks good on you, Delilah.
Deli lifted the note to her nose and breathed in. Smoke and cinnamon, like she expected. She imagined Lachlan’s hands and the particularly excellent company they would offer her later. She thought of his eyes and wondered if she’d ever feel cold again.
She held the paper to her chest as she went to the robin’s-egg blue refrigerator covered in a thick layer of postcards and magnets that made up the story of Aunt Mo’s life.
Deli paused at a postcard from Aunt Mo and Hannah.
Hannah had packed for a longer trip than the rest when she’d flown to California in December.
She’d found a clue about the disappearance of her daughter and fiancé, and she intended to follow it.
Apparently, Beth was an investigative journalist, and she had agreed on the spot to help Hannah find answers.
Deli carefully plucked a magnet from the cluster and pinned the note from Lachlan against the freezer door. As she opened the fridge for a bit of breakfast cheese, Beans launched a full assault and tried to throw his round body into the dairy drawer.
“Greedy legume!” Deli removed him while he half purred, half protested.
She braced against the fridge to shoo him away with a foot, and the impact sent magnets and photos clattering to the ground. One picture wedged under her right sock. Beans assumed the role of perfect angel and rushed to curl up on the bit of glossy paper he had no idea was a photograph.
She earned another meow-scolding as she pulled it out from under him.
And Deli saw a little girl, nine years old, standing ankle deep in lavender heather on the path to a bright red door.
Her shorts were bunched up where her thighs had gathered them, and her lopsided pigtails blew in the Highland wind.
Her arms were stretched out wide, and her pale stomach was just poking out under the too-small T-shirt, and a trickle of something dark was running from her knees down her legs, but she didn’t look scared.
Instead, her eyes were squinted shut and her head was thrown back—mouth open wide with the wild call of a girl crying freedom.
Deli wiped her tear away tenderly and watched the morning’s light catch in the drop clinging to her finger.
As she pinned the photo back to the refrigerator, she was overwhelmed with a fierce and unfamiliar love. One that stood tall and proud, and promised to keep that little girl little. One that promised to keep her wild. One that promised to keep her free.
Deli touched the picture to softly trace the outline of her younger body. She pressed two fingers to her lips and then against the portrait of that wild-hearted daughter, and she whispered, “Happy birthday, Delilah.”
Then she turned to pour a cup of tea as the rain carried on washing away the marks of the day before—the way it always had and always would—and the smoke curled up from the chimney, vanishing into the sky.