Page 123 of The Clifftop Cottage

“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.