Before I could think better of it, I found myself nodding too. Maybe it was the weight of the conversation with Katy, or maybe it was Sage’s voice, soothing and steady. Either way, my usual scepticism decided to take the afternoon off.
“I’ve got two women with me. I should tell you I can never see faces clearly.” Sage’s voice shifted, and I shivered again. “One is carrying a blue pen. The other is quite a bit older.”
Her words hit me like a jolt of electricity. Montblanc was my mum’s favourite pen brand, and it was pretty fancy. Her favourite pen was blue. The other woman had to be my gran.
Every part of my skin prickled. I’d expected to feel uncomfortable or angry, but instead, a strange, unexpected comfort settled over me like a blanket.
“The woman with the pen…” Sage paused, her brow furrowed. “She wants you to know she’s sorry. Deeply sorry for not being there. For all the times work came first.”
I swallowed hard, and I took a sip of my now-cold coffee to give myself a moment. I was not going to fall apart here.
“She’s showing me a program from a play,” Sage continued, eyes closed, and tilting her head as though listening tosomething. “Something to do with Christmas? Maybe a pantomime? Does that make any sense?”
“It does,” I replied. “I was the narrator in the school panto when I was 11. Mum was meant to be there, but she got held up in Switzerland meeting suppliers. Dad came, and he brought the program home for her.”
When Mum got home after that, they’d had an almighty row, and the next week, Dad left for good, hardly ever to be seen again. He lived in Thailand now with his new family, and kept in touch sporadically. I was amazed that of all the things Mum had in the afterlife, that program had made it. I would have shredded it by now.
Sage nodded slowly. “She sees it all differently now. The choices she made.” Her eyes flicked back to me, sharp and clear. “The other woman.” She frowned. “I don’t know if this means anything, but she’s talking about scones?”
I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. “Gran made the best scones.”
“The recipe,” Sage said suddenly. “She says it’s in the loft in the big photo box. You’ve been looking for it?”
My coffee cup rattled against the saucer as I set it down too fast. I’d been looking for that recipe just last month, when I’d cleaned out some old boxes. I hadn’t told a soul. I knew it more or less, but wanted my gran’s exact measurements.
“They want you to know,” Sage continued gently, “that whatever you decide about your future, they support you.” She hesitated, her head tilting again, as if catching the last whisper of something. “But they’re worried about another woman in your family. They’re saying you should support each other.”
“I can’t.” I shook my head. “I don’t know how to run the company.”
“They’re showing me someone.” Sage frowned. “Someone from your past who could help. A woman with blonde hair. There’s something unfinished there.”
My mind raced, trying to piece together who they could mean. A woman from my past? I’d been so wrapped up in my startup life, I’d let most of my old connections fade. Blonde hair. It was a vague description. I knew many blonde women. Some of them might never want to talk to me again.
Sage blinked a few times, her shoulders relaxing, as if releasing a weight. “They’re stepping back now,” she said quietly, “but they want you to know they’re proud of you.”
A mix of sadness and elation slipped through me.
“Even though I’ve been avoiding the family legacy like it’s contagious?” I tried to make a joke, but my voice cracked.
“Especially because of that,” Sage replied, her gaze steady. “It shows you understand its weight.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d spent my whole life learning from my grandmother and Mother. I knew the principles of the business, the suppliers, the factories. Whatever I didn’t know, I could learn. I’d just never wanted to consider it before.
But maybe now was the time.
CHAPTER 2
Sleep had been about as elusive as a straight answer from my startup’s investors. Now it was the next morning, and I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying yesterday’s lunch on a continuous loop like some sort of supernatural blooper reel. Had Sage Morrison really channelled my dead relatives over bacon-and-chicken salad?
The thing about mediums is they’re either complete charlatans or terrifyingly accurate, and Sage had always occupied an uncomfortable middle ground where I couldn’t quite dismiss her. Sure, she could have googled some oldCountry Lifeinterview where Gran waxed poetic about her award-winning scones. But she couldn’t have known about my pathetic Sunday afternoon tearing through the loft, covered in dust and decades-old spider webs, desperately searching for a recipe.
Unless Mum and Gran really had pulled up a chair at Carluccio’s and decided to play afterlife career counsellors.
I kicked off the covers. The thought of all my relatives, living and dead, tag-teaming me into taking over Voss Watches was like being trapped in one of those cute British supernaturalcomedies Netflix churned out. Except this was my actual life, and there was nothing charming about it.
The love-hate relationship I’d cultivated with Voss Watches was a masterpiece of emotional complexity. Yes, it had funded my privileged childhood: private school, gap year, the works. But it had also demanded everything from the women in my family until there was nothing left but sought-after timepieces and yet another black suit.
Still.
