Epilogue
The morning sun streamed through the cottage windows, catching every smudge and streak on the glass.
Erica stared at them over the rim of her coffee cup, still wrapped in her dressing gown. “God, I really need to clean. Less writing … more wiping.”
Behind her, warm arms wrapped around her waist. Gabriel pressed a kiss to her neck, his morning stubble scratchy but welcome. “Cleaning?” he murmured. “No cleaning. More bed.”
“We’ve been in bed all night.”
“And yesterday too,” he added with a satisfied rumble against her shoulder.
Erica laughed, nudging him off gently. “Gabriel, your sister is coming tonight. This place looks like a laundry basket exploded.”
“She won’t notice. She’ll be too distracted by the novelty of adult conversation and a drink she didn’t pour from a juice carton.
” He stretched and kissed the top of her head.
“It’s her first night with a babysitter in years.
She’s not going to care if we’ve vacuumed.
” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll be more interested in you. ”
“No pressure then,” Erica said, rolling her eyes.
Gabriel spun her around to face him. “You’re not scared of my big sister, are you?”
“What? No,” she scoffed. “She just … might’ve thought I was a bit unhinged.”
“She didn’t think that,” Gabriel said, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “She thought you were struggling. There’s a difference. Besides, she was a fan – of your blog. She used to watch your videos before I met you.”
Erica groaned. “So she’s seen the worst of me. The performative, filter-happy version.”
“She knows the brand,” he teased. “But I know the real you. Warts and all.”
“That’s so romantic.” She kissed him, soft at first, then with more certainty. “Now go. This place isn’t going to clean itself.”
Gabriel sighed in surrender. “What’s my assignment? Other than cooking?”
“You are making dinner.”
“Yes, and I will do so heroically,” he said, mock-bowing. “But it would’ve been nice to know you invited extra guests after I bought a leg of lamb sized for six.”
Erica winced. “Sorry. I meant to tell you that Margery and Rosa are coming.”
Gabriel blinked. “So that’s … eight?”
“Ish.”
“I’m going to need more potatoes.”
“I’ll peel them,” she offered with a grin. “Margery’s been eager to come up and see the cottage. You know she’s been buzzing ever since she found out she might be descended from Isobel.”
“Of course Margery’s descended from a witch. That explains everything,” Gabriel said, shaking his head.
“She says she always knew she had Charles Grigor in her tree, but the connection to Isobel changes everything.”
“Of course it does.” He kissed her forehead. “Now get those cobwebs gone. I must shower before I rescue a leg of lamb.”
“Cobwebs?” Erica called after him but Gabriel had already disappeared. She chuckled to herself and lingered at the sink for a moment longer. She took another sip from her mug and looked out the window again.
Outside, a single shard of morning light cut across the garden, illuminating the back wall of the cottage – the very spot where she’d found the box weeks ago.
She stepped closer, breath slowing, gaze resting on the dappled stone.
Everything felt quieter now.
Her mind no longer raced when she closed her eyes. Even her dreams had softened.
She still wrote – but differently.
The blog had taken on a life of its own, and people were asking for more.
Publishers had started to circle, nudging her in the direction of something bigger.
A book, perhaps?
She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. But it didn’t feel quite so impossible. Her story, Isobel’s story, woven together?
Lucky meowed from the counter, his eyes steady on her. He stretched, tail flicking once, and padded over, hopping into her arms.
She scratched behind his ear. He leaned into it, purring deeply.
“You always know, don’t you?” she whispered.
It was time.
She slipped into the bedroom and pulled out the small wooden chest tucked under the bed, the one holding Isobel’s keepsakes. Inside, everything remained just as she’d left it: the curl of hair tied with ribbon, the medallion, the folded letters, aged and trembling at the edges.
And one remained. The only one Erica had read. She had kept it in her bedside drawer.
The last letter.
She turned it over in her hands and placed it with the rest, sliding it carefully into place at the back.
She had been tempted, many times, to open the others. To know more of the story.
But they weren’t hers to read. No. Some truths weren’t meant to be read on computer screens. Some were meant to be left buried.
Pulling on her boots beneath her robe, with Lucky loyally at her side, she stepped out into the chill morning.
She crossed the frost-dusted grass to the back wall, where the earth still bore the memory of being disturbed. The light danced across it, gold and pale.
Prepared with a spade, she dug the hole again and placed the box inside.
Lucky circled once, then lay down beside the spot.
With care, she returned the soil, pressing it gently flat. She patted the ground, then placed her hand on the cold stone of the cottage wall – where Isobel had once carved her marks.
“Thank you,” Erica murmured.
Not just to Isobel.
But to this place, for not letting her rush away.
She stood for a moment longer, the spade resting lightly in her hand.
Inside, she could hear Gabriel moving about, cupboard doors opening, the low clatter of pans. A life already in motion.
Tonight, the cottage would be full of voices, laughter, people squeezed around a table that was probably far too small.
Erica brushed the soil from her hands and glanced once more at the patch of earth, now smooth and undisturbed.
For a moment, she stayed where she was.
Then she turned back to the cottage.
The door stood open, warmth spilling out into the cold morning air.
Lucky darted past her, tail high, as if he’d been waiting.
Erica followed him inside, pulling the door gently closed behind her.