Chapter 21
Gabriel dropped into the chair by the fire and scrubbed a hand over his face. Chep curled at his feet, tail thumping once before settling. The hearth ticked and popped, and outside the wind shoved against the windows like it wanted in.
It had been hours since he’d walked out of Erica’s cottage.
He’d worked until his shoulders burned, herding sheep through driving rain, fixing a broken gate, keeping busy because stopping felt worse. But none of it had shaken what sat in his chest. The anger had faded, but what replaced it was harder to ignore.
Why had he snapped like that?
He leaned back, staring into the fire. A part of him wanted to go back up there now, knock on her door, say he was sorry. But the idea made something tighten in his gut. How would that look? Turning up again, uninvited. Landlord or not, it would feel like too much.
His gaze slid to the laptop on the side table. It sat there like a challenge.
He wasn’t a man who spent his evenings scrolling through nonsense. If he went online, it was for feed orders, weather reports, or a tractor part. But right now, something wouldn’t let him leave it alone.
He picked it up.
The screen glowed to life, and after a moment’s hesitation, he typed: Witches Rock Cove
He didn’t expect much. A few daft blogs, maybe. Some nonsense about crystals.
Instead, her name came up.
Erica.
A post. Recent.
He clicked.
I moved to an old fishing town, into a cottage that dates back to the 18th century. Some say it was a weaver’s home, others say it was a farm. But when I uncovered who lived here – a woman accused of witchcraft – I knew there was more to this place than I first thought.
Join me in uncovering her history, and the stories of other so-called ‘witches’—women who were punished and never acknowledged for their innocence.
Because, of course, they were innocent.
I will research and share their names, their fates, and the lives they led before history erased them.
Lost in history, they will be no more.
Say their names. Let them be heard.
He read, leaning forward without meaning to.
About the cottage. The woman who had lived there. About women accused, erased. About names that had never been spoken out loud again.
Say their names. Let them be heard.
Gabriel swallowed.
He scrolled.
The screen filled with photographs of worn headstones, crumbling walls, coastal paths swallowed by grass. Names written carefully beneath them. Dates. Lives.
His throat tightened.
She had been busy in this. Throwing herself into far more than just finding Isobel.
This wasn’t someone chasing attention, or playing at history for clicks.
This was someone paying attention.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Chep lifted his head, then dropped it again with a huff.
Gabriel stared into the fire. He’d called her selfish. Accused her of barging in and changing things. But everything she’d written … it was the opposite of that. It was careful. Thoughtful. Respectful.
Gabriel shut the laptop with a quiet click, staring at the fire’s glow. His hands rested on the closed lid, fingers flexing slightly, like his body wasn’t sure what to do with itself.
Chep shifted at his feet, letting out a contented sigh. Gabriel envied the dog’s ability to simply exist, to not dwell on things that couldn’t be changed.
His phone lay on the table. He could message her. Apologise. But the words wouldn’t line up in his head. Sorry I shouted didn’t cover it. Neither did I was wrong.
He thought about calling Sorcha. His sister would have an opinion – she always did.
He could already hear her: Since when do you care what some lassie does in your cottage?
And worse – she’d hear what he wasn’t saying.
No. He wasn’t ready for that.
He had let his own history cloud his judgement. His own superstitions, better or worse to have them, even so they were woven into him as tightly as blood.
Don’t whistle inside.
Don’t turn your back on the sea.
Don’t go digging where you shouldn’t.
His parents’ accident had been an accident.
Hadn’t it?
He clenched his jaw.
Erica believed in records. Evidence. Proof. But some things weren’t written down. They were carried. Passed from hand to hand, bone to bone.
Still …
He glanced at the laptop again.
Erica wasn’t toying with something dangerous. She wasn’t treating it like a story. She was honouring them. The forgotten. The silenced.
Gabriel dragged a hand down his face.
“I’m making a mess of this,” he murmured.
Chep shifted closer, warm and solid against his shin. Gabriel scratched behind his ear, and the dog sighed, heavy and content.
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the firelight climbing the stone.
He didn’t know what he’d do yet.
But he knew one thing.
He owed her an apology.
When morning came, the storm had passed.
Light slipped through the thin gap in the curtains and brushed across Gabriel’s face, but he had already been awake, staring at the ceiling.
Say their names. Let them be heard.
The words came back without effort, as if they had settled somewhere deep and refused to move. He let out a slow breath.
And with the words came another thought. A quiet shame following.
How had he left her there all night, alone in the middle of a storm?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards.
What kind of man did that?
He hadn’t meant to be cruel. He never wanted to turn away when someone was trying to do something decent. That was the thing his mother had never let him forget.
Some people listen, Gabriel. Some people notice. That’s a kindness that matters.
A slow realisation unfurled in him.
Erica was meant to be here. Meant to do this.
And maybe he was meant to help her.
He stood abruptly, nearly stepping on Chep, who lifted his head with a sleepy grunt.
“Sorry, lad.”
The decision was already made. He just hadn’t realised it yet.
By the time he was dressed, shaved, and pulling on his jacket, the restlessness in him had sharpened into purpose.
He didn’t go straight to the cottage.
He went into town.
The flower shop was warm and smelled like damp leaves and clean water. Buckets of flowers lined the walls, bright and busy and far too cheerful for how he felt. He barely glanced at the roses or lilies.
It was the foxglove that stopped him.
Tucked among the autumn shrubs by the window stood a single potted plant, its tall stems crowned with dusky purple bells.
Witch's gloves, his mother used to call them.
They used to grow wild at the edges of the old stone dykes, tangled through bramble and nettle, rising up beneath the yew trees behind their house. As a boy he’d been warned not to touch them – too beautiful, too dangerous.
He lifted the pot from the display before he could talk himself out of it.
Erica answered the door looking wary.
He didn’t blame her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, holding the terracotta pot between them like a peace offering. “I was out of line. Properly.” He paused. “Stupid.”
Her face warmed, and after a brief hesitation, she stepped aside to let him in. “It’s fine.”
“What? Just like that?” He shook his head. “I was awful to you. You didn’t deserve it. I can see now that you only meant well.”
She smiled, a little awkwardly, and set the foxglove carefully on the windowsill above the sink, tilting it slightly until it looked at home.
“It's beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”
He watched her at the sink, the way she moved – quick, precise, like she was trying not to think too much.
“I read your blog,” he said.
She turned to face him, her sleek hair catching the light. “And?”
“It’s good,” he added. “What you’re doing. It matters.”
She pressed her lips together, her expression unreadable. Then her gaze shifted back to the windowsill. “I think I’ve hit a wall. I’ve reached out to experts, but I can’t find Isobel.”
“Do you need to find her?” he asked. “Isn’t it enough to uncover other names, to make them known?”
She shrugged. “Yes. But I got here because of Isobel.”
Gabriel studied her. Really studied her. The way she rubbed her wrists together, like an irritation she couldn’t quite shake. The quick scratch at her scalp before smoothing her sleek hair back into place.
She looked different today, polished and put-together. And he found himself missing the wildness. The wind-tangled curls, the damp strands sticking to her cheek that first day on the cliffs. There was something freer about her then. And yet, even now, he was captivated.
“I might be able to help,” he said.
She lifted her head sharply, her dark eyes locking on to his. His heart kicked at the sudden attention, but he pushed past it, focused on why he was here.
“I’ll pick you up later?”
Before she could question him, he turned. “Wear something warm. I’m told it gets cold.”
Chep bounded ahead as he stepped outside, the damp air cool against his face. Behind him, Erica lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But he could feel her curiosity, hear the quiet churn of her thoughts.
He laughed despite himself. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain later, okay?”
He pulled up his hood and headed back down the path, aware of her eyes on his back.
When he found her later, she was bundled up beyond recognition – thick coat, scarf wrapped twice around her neck, another one draped over her head like a hood.
“You really took what I said to heart,” he said, biting back a grin as he held open the passenger door of his van.
“Well, I had no idea where you were taking me,” she replied, climbing in. “Could’ve been another cliffside in the elements.”
Gabriel only smirked, starting the engine. The road swallowed them in darkness, the headlights cutting a narrow path through the rain-slicked night.
When they pulled up, the full beams illuminated a small stone-fronted building. The kind of place most people walked past without a second glance – weathered wooden sign, iron lantern above the door, windows dark.
He knocked twice.
The door creaked open, revealing a man in a tweed jacket, a beanie pulled low over his glasses.
“Gabriel,” the man said, grinning. “Didn’t think I’d see you back here so soon.”
Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “Told you I’d take you up on that favour.”
The man chuckled, stepping aside. “Well, you’ve helped me too many times for me to name! Come in before you freeze to death.”
He held the door wide, and Gabriel turned to Erica. She was staring at the building now, her breath misting.
“Ready?” he asked.
Erica hesitated. “Where are you taking me?”
“This place holds the church records for the Highlands,” Gabriel said. “Most people use it for family trees. But I thought – maybe Isobel might be here. Another thread you could pull.”
She scoffed, but there was a crack in it. “I doubt Isobel was an active member of the congregation. If she was accused of witchcraft, it was probably the opposite. That’s why she was singled out.”
“Maybe,” Gabriel said. “Or maybe someone wrote her name down anyway.”
He followed his friend through a series of doors, holding each one for Erica without thinking. The lights hummed overhead, throwing dull pools of yellow onto threadbare red carpet.
Erica slowed beside him, taking it in.
They passed rooms stacked with ageing books, long wooden tables left bare, steel drawers, half labelled and half forgotten. It felt less like a building and more like a hoard of memories no one had sorted through in years.
Finally they reached the back room.
Smaller. Quieter. Cramped with deep brown cabinets that looked as if they hadn’t been opened in decades. A few old PCs sat dark along the far wall, their screens thick with dust.
Gabriel stopped.
Erica did too.
At first her face was blank, taking it in. Then something softened. Her eyes traced the cabinets, the drawers, the sheer scale of what was stored here. All those names. All those lives.
“Worth a look?” he asked.
She didn’t answer straight away.
Not because she wasn’t interested, he could see the pull of it on her, but because something else had caught her.
“You did this for me?” she said quietly.
“You needed help,” he replied.
For a heartbeat she forgot to hide it. Surprise. Gratitude. Something dangerously close to being moved.
Then she swallowed, straightened, and the focus snapped back into place.
“Let’s see what they’ve got.”
His friend slid a pair of gloves across the table beside a cabinet marked: Church Records. 18th Century.
Gabriel watched as she pulled them on, already approaching the drawers, drawn in by the promise of what might be inside.
He hadn’t meant to stop her before. He’d only been afraid.
Some people listened, his mother had said. Some people noticed.
And standing there, in the dust and the half-light, he realised he wanted to be one of them.