Chapter 15
Erica may have been many things, but once something caught hold of her, she didn’t shake it easily.
When Gabriel left, his cryptic mention of the witch stayed with her, tugging at her thoughts like an unsolved riddle. She couldn’t leave it alone. Instead of going back inside, she pulled on her wool gloves and headed straight into the garden.
She started close to the cottage, tugging away creeping weeds, brushing aside damp leaves, running her hands over the rough, weathered stone.
The sheltered space along the side of the house drew her in.
Brambles and wild shrubs had taken over, thorny and tangled, but she could almost see past them.
In her mind, the mess fell away, replaced by neat raised beds and soft earth.
In spring she could plant seedlings here – carrots, herbs, maybe even strawberries.
And lavender. She smiled at the thought of it, purple heads swaying in the sea breeze, the scent drifting through open windows as she sat at a small wooden table with a mug of tea.
For now, though, the garden was stubborn and overgrown. It would take time. Care.
She could do that.
The afternoon sun slipped behind thin clouds, casting everything in a dull, grey light. For a moment a chill settled into the air, enough to make her think about Lucky inside, warm by the Rayburn, about curling up with him and pretending this could all wait.
No. Not this time.
Erica pulled on the waterproof coat she’d bought in town and went back to work.
She moved slowly now, carefully, brushing her palm over the grass, pressing gently against loose stones, checking every inch of the wall.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for – only that she would know it when she found it.
Nothing.
Dusk slipped in around her, the garden growing dim and blue-grey.
The first rain came as a fine mist, barely more than a whisper, but soon it thickened, dampening her hair and darkening the fabric of her coat.
She barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on the old stone wall at the edge of the garden.
Her fingers slid along the uneven surface, until they caught.
A rock jutted slightly from the wall, half buried beneath ivy and windblown leaves. The ivy clung tight, as though it had been growing there on purpose. Erica grabbed hold of the slick vines and pulled. They came away in her hands, leaving the stone bare.
She stilled.
There was something there.
A shallow dent. A mark that didn’t belong to nature.
She ran back inside, rain streaking down the windows as she grabbed the nearest scrap of paper and a pencil from the kitchen drawer. Lucky lifted his head from beside the stove, watching her with sleepy curiosity as she hurried out again.
Kneeling in the wet grass, Erica pressed the paper against the stone and rubbed the pencil gently over it, just as she’d been taught at school. The rain pattered against her hood as she worked, careful not to tear the thin sheet.
At first, nothing showed. Just pale smudges.
Then, slowly lines began to form, faint shapes, edges and curves.
Her heart picked up as the marks darkened.
Letters.
Two of them, side by side.
I. G.
Isobel Grant.
Her breath caught, a quiet, startled sound in her throat.
She stared at the paper, then at the stone beneath it. Margery hadn’t mentioned initials. Only stories. Only rumours.
And yet—
Something else was there.
Not as clear. Not as deep. But beneath the first marks, just enough to catch the pencil again … more lines began to appear.
Another shape.
Another curve.
Erica leaned closer, shielding the paper from the wind as the graphite revealed it.
C. G.
She stared.
Slowly, she pulled off her gloves and traced the grooves with her bare fingertips. The stone was cold and slick beneath her skin, the cuts softened by years of weather and moss – but still deliberate.
Someone had carved these, carefully and intentionally.
Two names, bound together in a place no one was meant to notice.
Her lover? Her husband? Someone who had stood beside Isobel … or someone who had betrayed her?
Don’t romanticise the past, a voice in her head warned – her old university lecturer, brisk and unimpressed. Look at the evidence first.
Erica swallowed. The stone was cold beneath her fingers, the grooves shallow but unmistakeable.
Even he wouldn’t have dismissed this.
A gust of wind rushed up from the cliffs, rattling the trees and pressing the rain hard against her back. Drops dripped from her sleeves, darkening the paper she still held, the faint outline of the letters blurred but visible.
Isobel Grant had lived here.
So why was she remembered as a witch?
Who was C.G.?
The rain began to fall harder now, fat drops spotting the ground, soaking into her hair and collar. She lifted her phone and took a photo, the flash lighting the stone for a split second – white, harsh, revealing the marks as they really were: not decorative, not random, but deliberate.
Someone had wanted to be remembered.
Isobel Grant had carved her name here.
So had C. G.
But why?
And why was Isobel’s name twisted into something dark?
Who had accused her?
Who had decided her fate?
And what had really happened to her?
The questions crowded in, fast and urgent, until they felt like a pressure inside her chest. A pulse of energy ran through her, not fear, but something fierce and bright.
She wasn’t leaving it like this.
Erica didn’t bother changing out of her damp clothes.
She hesitated only long enough to grab a flask of tea and her keys, and scoop up Lucky.
The kitten barely stirred as she settled him into his box on the passenger seat, rain drumming steadily against the roof as she drove down the narrow road to town.
The wipers swept back and forth, smearing the dark. When she reached the bottom of the hill, her phone buzzed back to life, signal returning like a small jolt of relief. She pulled in beneath a lonely streetlamp, its pale light reflecting off the wet tarmac.
The heater hummed. Lucky climbed into her lap, warm and solid, grounding her as she balanced her phone in one hand and her tea in the other.
She typed quickly.
Isobel Grant, Rock Cove.
Nothing.
She scrolled, frowned, tried again. The only Isobel Grant she could find was a folk singer from the 1970s, all tartan skirts and bagpipes.
Not her.
She tried a different search.
Rock Cove witch trials.
The results were worse. Page after page of vague history. More than two thousand accused, mostly women. No details. No names. Just words like hysteria and fear and justice used far too lightly.
But nothing about Isobel.
Nothing about the woman who had carved her name into the stone.
She exhaled sharply and hit the steering wheel, making Lucky jump, and she immediately murmured an apology, stroking his fur. Outside, the trees leaned into the wind, their branches casting long, spidery shadows across the road.
Night had fully settled.
She’d lost track of time.
She should go home.
She should feed Lucky.
She should eat something herself.
And yet …
She couldn’t let it go. Isobel’s story was still buried, still ignored, as if it didn’t matter.
But it did.
Erica stared out into the dark and felt her resolve settle, calm and unshakeable.
One failed internet search wasn’t the end of this.
She was going to find out the truth.
Erica left early the next morning, making sure Lucky had plenty of milk and the heating was turned up before she locked the door behind her.
One of her late-night searches had mentioned a nearby town, just some miles west. Something vague about witch trials. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pull at her.
The road dipped gently as she drove, mist still clinging to the fields. Soon the houses appeared – a broad, elegant street lined with tall autumn trees, their gold and russet leaves drifting down in slow, lazy spirals.
Beyond them stood grand old mansions of weathered grey stone, each showing off their own distinct character.
Some had turrets like miniature castles; others, sweeping bay windows and pillared entrances.
The remnants of old money. Some were still immaculate – clipped hedges, neat gravel drives, wrought-iron gates.
Others had softened with age, ivy creeping up their walls, slate roofs darkened by years of rain.
Further down, the street changed. Squatter, practical bungalows from the 1980s huddled in the shadows of the older houses, their small gardens tidy but unremarkable. The contrast was impossible to miss.
Erica glanced at her phone.
According to the map, she had already passed what she was looking for.
That couldn’t be right.
She slowed the car and drove back up the street, eyes scanning the pavements, the walls, the edges of the park. The GPS insisted she was right on top of it, and yet there was nothing obvious. No sign. No marker.
She turned again and crept along once more. A few curtains twitched. Someone let a dog out into a frost-damp garden. The morning still felt hushed, as if the town hadn’t quite woken yet.
Her wipers brushed away the fine mist as she checked her phone.
She’d passed it again.
With a frustrated sigh, she pulled over beside a small park.
At its centre stood a tall stone statue of a man in a curly wig and long robes, gazing out over neatly tended flower beds.
A few stubborn blue and pink blooms clung on, defying the cold.
Erica imagined how it must blaze with colour in summer.
She grabbed her jacket and stepped out into the chill, walking slowly now, really looking.
And then she saw it.
Right at the edge of the road.
A small, low stone, almost hidden beneath fallen leaves.
Her heart gave a small, sharp beat as she crossed the street.
It was so easy to miss. That was the worst part of it.
She knelt and brushed the damp leaves aside. The writing was faint and worn, as if it had been trying not to draw attention to itself. How many people had walked past it every day without ever knowing?
Behind her, the statue of the grand man rose tall and certain, his name cut deep into the stone for all to see. His life – whatever it had been – declared worthy of being remembered.
And here, by the roadside, were the women.
The plaque was small. The words brief.
Near this spot, those accused of witchcraft met their fate.
That was all. No names. No stories. No acknowledgement of who they had been before fear had taken them.
A dog barked somewhere behind her, sharp and impatient.
Life, carrying on as if none of this had ever happened.
Erica focused back on the plaque.
It wasn’t just that they had suffered – it was that they had been forgotten. Reduced to a single, careful sentence, tucked out of the way where no one had to think about it for too long.
Her hands curled into fists.
They deserved more than this.
More than a quiet stone that no one noticed.
The morning suddenly brightened, sunlight pushing through the thinning mist, but the weight inside her didn’t lift.
She stood slowly, looking once more at the plaque and then at the towering statue beyond it.
Something inside her had settled.
No one cared. Even now, no one cared.
Well. That could change.