Page 60 of The Clifftop Cottage

Join me in uncovering her history, and the stories of other so-called ‘witches’—women who were punished and never acknowledged for their innocence.

Because, of course, they were innocent.

I will research and share their names, their fates, and the lives they led before history erased them.

Lost in history, they will be no more.

Say their names. Let them be heard.

He read, leaning forward without meaning to.

About the cottage. The woman who had lived there. About women accused, erased. About names that had never been spoken out loud again.

Say their names. Let them be heard.

Gabriel swallowed.

He scrolled.

The screen filled with photographs of worn headstones, crumbling walls, coastal paths swallowed by grass. Names written carefully beneath them. Dates. Lives.

His throat tightened.

She had been busy in this. Throwing herself into far more than just finding Isobel.

This wasn’t someone chasing attention, or playing at history for clicks.

This was someone paying attention.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

Chep lifted his head, then dropped it again with a huff.

Gabriel stared into the fire. He’d called her selfish. Accused her of barging in and changing things. But everything she’d written … it was the opposite of that. It was careful. Thoughtful. Respectful.

Gabriel shut the laptop with a quiet click, staring at the fire’s glow. His hands rested on the closed lid, fingers flexing slightly, like his body wasn’t sure what to do with itself.

Chep shifted at his feet, letting out a contented sigh. Gabriel envied the dog’s ability to simply exist, to not dwell on things that couldn’t be changed.

His phone lay on the table. He could message her. Apologise. But the words wouldn’t line up in his head. Sorry I shouted didn’t cover it. Neither did I was wrong.

He thought about calling Sorcha. His sister would have an opinion – she always did.

He could already hear her: Since when do you care what some lassie does in your cottage?

And worse – she’d hear what he wasn’t saying.

No. He wasn’t ready for that.

He had let his own history cloud his judgement. His own superstitions, better or worse to have them, even so they were woven into him as tightly as blood.

Don’t whistle inside.

Don’t turn your back on the sea.

Don’t go digging where you shouldn’t.

His parents’ accident had been an accident.