Page 87 of The Clifftop Cottage

Erica rubbed her hands together. “I just don’t know anymore. I like to know the answers but …” She trailed off, thinking of the cottage, of Gabriel, her head muddled with Leah’s and Andrew Peters’ words.

“When things don’t go the way I expect … I feel it building. Like pressure. And then I snap. And afterwards I’m exhausted.”

Margery nodded once, not alarmed.

“It’s like …” Erica searched for it. “It’s like everything is too close to my skin. Too loud. Like I’ve no room.”

“That sounds uncomfortable,” Margery said simply.

“I just see red sometimes,” Erica admitted. “And I hate that I do.”

Margery took a slow sip of tea. “We can all see red sometimes, Erica. Heaven knows my grandchildren go straight to ten. That’s what comes from high energy and stubborn genes.” She shook her head with a chuckle. “Have you ever tried stepping outside before the red comes? Doing something else first to dispel the anger?”

“What, like a child on a naughty step?”

“No,” Margery said dryly. “Like a grown woman who knows when she’s reached her limit.”

Erica stared at the fire. “It’s more than all that, Margery. Not just a temper.” She gazed at the flames, already exhausted from trying to work out her own problems. “I thought I could come up here and just … be quiet,” she said. “Disappear into something smaller.”

“Mm.”

“But it follows me.”

Margery’s mouth curved faintly. “Most things do.”

“Even here?” Erica asked.

Margery didn’t answer straight away. “You talk about witches,” she said after a moment. “But what unsettles people isn’t magic. It’s women who don’t quite fit.”

Erica looked up.

“Alone,” Margery continued. “Not easily managed. That’s always made folk twitchy.”

The statement wasn’t dramatic. Just a knowing, that Margery’s years gave her a better understanding of the world than Erica.

“There’s more to it,” Erica said, her voice thinning. “I think something’s wrong with me.”

Margery studied her for a long second. “Something happened,” she said, nodding, but didn’t ask the question.

Erica hesitated. The hospital. The burnout. Maisie’s face. Gabriel at the door.

“It all feels tangled,” she managed. “Like I’m reacting to things that aren’t even there.”

Margery nodded. “That’s usually a sign there’s something underneath.”

“I don’t even know what that is.” Erica placed her head in her hand.

“Well,” Margery said calmly, “that’s a place to start.”

Erica looked up. What was she expecting? That Margery would offer her some grand advice?

Instead, the fire continued to crackle and Lucky stretched out in front of it; Margery leaned over, stroking him. He purred loudly for all to hear.

No fixing. Just company.

Just that.

From the kitchen came the soft rhythm of Rosa chopping, the low murmur of a tune half sung in Spanish.