Page 34 of The Clifftop Cottage

Erica found herself smiling despite herself.

“But the garden,” Margery went on, lowering her voice, “that was always the real wonder. Or what was left of it, anyway.”

“In what way?” Erica asked, setting her mug down.

Margery studied her over the rim of her tea. “The carvings. They say the woman who lived there long ago left them behind. Isobel Grant.”

“Before it became a ruin?”

“Long before.” Margery nodded. “I’m surprised no one’s mentioned her to you yet.”

“Well … everything happened rather quickly. I hadn’t planned to move there.”

Erica stopped herself from saying any more. Soon she’d be talking about her failed marriage if she wasn’t careful. She sniffed the tea casually.

“And I imagine you’re not one for village gossip.” Margery gave a small smile. “My daughters say history is just old stories that get in the way of what’s new.”

“Actually,” Erica said, “I studied history at university.”

Margery brightened. “Did you? How marvellous. A proper scholar.”

“Not quite. I was … well, I’m an influencer.” The word still felt strange in her mouth.

Margery blinked, then smiled. “Ah. That explains the good hair.”

Erica laughed, startled by it. “So,” she said, when the moment settled, “what happened to Isobel Grant?”

Margery traced the rim of her cup. “She was accused of being a witch.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. That particular story, I’m afraid, is all too familiar.” Margery’s voice was gentle but firm. “Most of them weren’t witches at all. Just women who were inconvenient. Too clever. Too independent. Too strange. Or simply alone.”

Erica felt something tighten in her chest.

“Sometimes,” Margery went on, “all it took was being noticed. Or not fitting neatly where you were expected to.”

Erica thought of comment sections, headlines, strangers deciding who she was allowed to be. She didn’t speak, but Margery seemed to sense it.

“I don’t believe Isobel did anything wrong,” Margery added quietly. “But belief doesn’t save you when a story gets loose.”

Erica swallowed. “I’ve read about the trials. They were … horrific.”

“That’s putting it kindly.” Margery gave a small shudder. “Still, we like to think we’re better now. Kinder. More enlightened.” She smiled, but there was something wistful in it. “Perhaps we are. A little.”

Erica took the last sip of her tea. “I was wondering if I could get some more sage.”

Margery’s eyebrows lifted. “Already?” Then she chuckled and disappeared into the back, returning with two thick bundles. “Take extra. Just in case.”

Erica paid, tucked them into her bag, and headed for the door.

As she reached it, Margery said softly, “Look in the garden when you’re ready. You’ll see what I saw as a girl.”

Erica ventured down the street, tucking the herbs inside her bag before stopping for a few essentials – a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese, and a chocolate pudding that had been taunting her from the bakery window.

She skirted around the harbour, taking her time. The hills on the other side of the water were fading into the deepening dusk, their shapes fading into the sea. Boats swayed at their moorings, the sound of ropes creaking and sails rustling in the wind. She wrapped her hands around a takeaway coffee, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she watched people battle the relentless wind – hoods up, collars turned, heads down.

Winter was settling in already, creeping into the town like an old friend. The boutique shop windows glowed, spilling golden light onto the cobbled streets, illuminating the trees that still clung to their last copper and amber leaves. Even on a dark day, Rock Cove managed to look inviting.