Heather swallowed the tightness in her throat. For the first time, the centuries between her and her ancestors didn’t feel sowide. They had all been part of the same story—the same pulse that beat through stone and bone, loss and love.
Flynn stirred on the sofa, one arm slung over his face, the quilt kicked half to the floor. “Ye been up all night?” His voice was rough, sleep-blurred.
“I couldn’t stop reading,” she said softly. “She wrote everything. The execution, the promise… the gold wasn’t treasure, it was hope. She buried it for their daughter, for their future.”
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Aye. And for you.”
Heather’s eyes flicked to the window, where frost crept over the glass like a map of veins. “She must’ve been so scared. But she still did it. She finished what he started.”
Flynn crossed the room, crouching beside her. “And nowyouget tofinish what she started.”
Heather managed a weary smile. “Seems like fate doesn’t take no for an answer.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, thumb tracing the bruise near her temple. “You’re shakin’, mo chridhe.”
“I know.” She exhaled. “I just… I feel her here. Like she’s watching.”
“She probably is,” he said gently. “If ghosts can choose their company, I’d wager she’s proud.”
Heather’s laugh was soft, unsteady. “That’s the first time anyone’s said that to me.”
“Then I’ll say it again,” he murmured. “She’d be proud of you, Heather.”
She didn’t answer. Just leaned against his shoulder for a moment, letting the silence stretch.
Then, needing something solid, she stood. “I’ll make coffee.”
Flynn let her go, watching her cross the creaking floorboards.
In the kitchen, the kettle clicked on with a hum. Heather moved automatically—water, grounds, cup—her mind still wrapped around Fiona’s words.Hide it where warmth never dies. If the thistle endures, follow it home.
She turned toward the hearth. Morning light slanted through the window, catching on the faint carvings scattered across the stones—tiny thistles, half-swallowed by soot and age. She’d cleaned them a dozen times during the renovation.
Never thought much about them.
Until now.
Her fingertips brushed one absently, feeling its uneven ridges. Then another. The same shape, but slightly different—each one carved by hand, imperfect, deliberate.
She whispered to herself, “Where warmth never dies.”
The kettle began to hiss. Heather crouched, peering into the wide mouth of the hearth. Inside, were more carvings: thistles tucked between bricks like hidden prayers.
But one, near the lower corner where the light barely reached, wasn’t like the others.
Not just a thistle.
Two entwined Celtic hearts, framed by the thistle’s bloom.
Her breath caught.
“Flynn?”
He appeared in the doorway, barefoot, coffee forgotten. “Campbell?”
She pointed into the hearth, voice trembling. “Look. That carving. It’s different.”
He crouched beside her, squinting at the stone. “Two hearts,” he murmured. “Never seen that before.”
