Page 55 of The Clifftop Cottage

She needed a break, something to pull her back before she spiralled.

The night was creeping in, though it was still early. The shops would be open for a little while longer. Maybe a walk would clear her head.

She pulled on her light oatmeal-coloured wool coat over her white jeans – a small, stubborn nod to London neatness – and grabbed a torch from the hook by the door before heading out into the wind.

By the time she reached town, the dusky light had swallowed everything, turning the world into deep blues and velvety greys. One by one, the streetlights flickered to life, their warm golden glow pooling onto the cobbled pavement, halos of light catching the drifting mist. For a moment, the street felt almost enchanted.

She had precisely three seconds to enjoy the moment before a swanky, far-too-shiny car came hurtling past, sending a tidal wave of grimy puddle water straight at her.

With a shriek, she leapt onto the pavement with an undignified flail, only to land spectacularly into another, even deeper puddle. Cold water slapped up her shins, drenching her once-pristine white jeans into a pitiful shade of puddle-water grey, while her buttery-soft wool coat took on the unmistakeable weight and smell of a damp sheep.

She stood there, blinking, rainwater trickling down her face.

Lovely. Just lovely.

Before she could properly mourn her dignity, something big and striped materialised in front of her.

Margery’s cat.

Not in his usual post, lazily sprawled across the witchy shop’s window display. Out here in the wild, the massive tabby looked even more beast-like. He regarded her with the flat, unimpressed stare of a creature with no time for human nonsense.

Then, with a dismissive flick of his overly fluffy tail, he let out a throaty meow and sauntered off to the shop, slipping through the slightly ajar door as if he owned the place. Which, knowing Margery’s cat, he probably did.

Erica, still sopping wet, had little choice but to follow.

The moment she stepped inside, the world shifted.

Warmth met her at the door, along with scents of dried lavender and cinnamon. The decor had changed: fairy lights drifted lazily across the ceiling, tangled with bundles of herbs and strings of tiny glass potion bottles that caught the shop’s golden glow.

The soft purr of Margery’s cat drifted past her as he settled into his rightful throne atop the counter.

And, for a moment, Erica almost forgot she was dripping onto the floor like a woman who had absolutely lost a fight with the weather.

Almost.

Margery appeared, holding out two ugly mugs. This time in a questionable shade of yellow-green, like pea soup gone wrong or a regrettable 1970s bathroom tile.

“Thought you might need something hot,” Margery said, her eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”

Erica, still dripping and vaguely resembling a drowned squirrel, accepted the mug and followed Margery to the back of the shop, with the faint, uncomfortable sense that this was exactly where she’d been expected to end up.

A small iron stove flickered there, casting golden light across a plush red velvet chaise longue, its fabric worn but still inviting. The stove ticked and hummed softly, a small, steady sound in the quiet of the shop.

Margery settled onto the chaise and patted the cushion beside her. “Come on, love, sit before you start growing moss.”

Erica sighed, peeling off her damp coat and sinking down, the room wrapping around her like a heavy quilt. She curled her fingers around the ugly mug, letting its heat thaw the chill that had seeped into her bones.

“Things going well at the cottage?” Margery asked, her voice mild, but her eyes quietly alert over the rim of her mug.

Erica frowned. Gabriel storming out had settled on her like damp clothes – clinging, cold, impossible to shake. She’d tried to distract herself with the dramatic views on her walk down, the picturesque rooftops, until she was baptised by puddle water – but still, it lingered.

“You know already don’t you?” Erica said slowly, watching Margery’s body language. “I’ve found those carvings.”

Margery’s mouth quirked up. “Well, I did presume a girl with a historian’s itch wouldn’t rest until she uncovered something interesting.”

“Well, you’re right. Although it’s stirred up more than I expected.” Erica took a sip of her cinnamon-laced drink, the heat spreading all the way to her toes. She hadn’t realised just how cold she was, how the damp had worked its way deep, or how the exhaustion had curled around her muscles like a weight.

Between late-night research spirals and the uneasy dreams that tangled her in seaweed-like tendrils, she wasn’t getting much rest. Worse, in the mornings, the dreams faded, leaving behind only a vague restless feeling like she’d woken halfway through a thought she couldn’t quite remember.