Page 35 of The Clifftop Cottage

Her phone buzzed. A message from Leah.

Erica hesitated, then slipped the phone back into her pocket without reading it.

By the time she reached her car, the light was disappearing fast. She followed the winding single-track road home, the sky turning inky blue, the trees on either side twisting into dark shapes.

By the time she reached the top of the cliffs, the garden was lost to shadow.

She thought about grabbing a torch, but the cold had already settled deep in her bones, and the wind howled against the walls as she stepped inside.

Instead, she locked the door, drew the curtains, and set about warming the place up.

The fire was reluctant at first but caught eventually, the flames snapping and curling, spilling flickering light across the wooden floorboards. She swapped her jeans for leggings, thick wool socks and an oversized jumper, pouring herself a glass of wine as she curled up in the battered old armchair by the hearth.

Outside, the wind howled across the cliffs, rattling the windows. Inside, the fire crackled, the scent of herbs and wax from an old candle mingling with the buttery sweetness of warm chocolate pudding.

She’d check the garden tomorrow.

For tonight, she just wanted to be warm.

Later, after a few episodes and another unnecessary bundle of sage, the wind had picked up, rattling the door and the front windows. It was a noise she’d need to get used to, living so high up, but she had hoped the cluster of shrubs around the cottage would shield it from the worst of the gales. She couldn’t imagine the place without them. Without some kind of shelter, it would feel as though the house might simply be lifted off the cliff and carried away.

She clicked off the lamp, ready to crawl into bed.

Then she heard it.

A strange sound. Thin, broken. Almost strangled.

A shiver curled up her spine.

The wind roared again, shaking the door in its frame. Erica reached for the nearest object to defend herself with – her hairdryer. Brilliant. That sound again – high-pitched, desperate.

Her heart thumped. Was it kids playing a prank? No, no one would be hanging around up here, not on a night like this.

She needed to know what it was.

Creeping down the hallway, she strained to listen. Was it coming from the garden? She turned, tiptoeing to the back door, fingers hovering over the lock. The wind howled again, louder this time, as if urging her to stay inside.

She ignored it.

Taking a breath, she threw the door open.

The wind slammed against her, lashing rain into her face. The night was thick with shadows, the trees bending and groaning. She squinted into the darkness.

Then something moved.

A small shape darted from the door to the nearest bush, dark against dark. Erica’s breath caught. Please don’t be a rat.

Then – that sound again. A pitiful, broken cry, nearly drowned out by the storm.

Not a rat.

Her dressing gown clung to her in the downpour, but she didn’t care. She had to know. She crouched, peering beneath the dripping foliage. And there, huddled against the cold, was a tiny black kitten.

It shrank back, ears flattened, but didn’t run. It looked miserable. Soaked through, trembling violently.

“Hey,” Erica murmured, voice soft despite the wind ripping around her.

The kitten didn’t move.