“It’s them,” she whispered. “Harris and Fiona. It has to be. ‘Where hearts gather… where warmth never dies.’”
Flynn’s gaze met hers, steady and certain. “The hearth.”
Heather nodded, tears threatening but held at bay. “The hearth.”
The kettle shrieked behind them, sharp and sudden, but neither of them moved.
Flynn’s hand found hers, grounding her as the world spun.
“This is it,” she said quietly. “What they died to protect. It’s here.”
He squeezed her hand once. “Then let’s bring it home.”
Outside, the morning wind caught in the eaves as if the house itself had been waiting centuries for someone to finally understand.
Chapter 40
Heather—Present Day
The coffee had gone cold on the counter, but Heather barely noticed.
She knelt at the hearth again, fingertips pressed to the carved stone: the twin hearts woven through the thistle’s bloom. Pale light seeped through the windows, turning the carvings gold.
Flynn crouched beside her, a shadow against the rising sun.
“Still there,” he murmured.
“It’s them,” she whispered. “Harris and Fiona. I’m sure of it.”
He brushed soot from her cheek. “We’ll look closer once the day’s up proper. Right now, you need food.”
She gave a distracted nod, eyes still on the hearth. “If the thistle endures…” she said softly, “then maybe it led me here.”
Flynn kissed her temple, the gesture quiet as breath. “Aye. But no more diggin’ on an empty stomach.”
He strode to the refrigerator, rummaged for a packet of back bacon, then reached for the bread box atop the counter. “Bacon morning rolls it is, then,” he crooned.
The domestic normalcy of it nearly undid her; it all belonged to a world that hadn’t yet shattered.
Heather rose, rubbing her hands on a dish towel that had seen better days. “You really think I can eat?”
“Aye. You’ll eat, I’ll cook, and we’ll pretend we’re ordinary folk for five blessed minutes.”
The pop of grease punctuated his words. She smiled despite herself and began setting the table: the obligatory brown sauce, two mismatched mugs, the sugar tin dented from use.
A sound outside broke the quiet—tires crunching over gravel.
Heather stiffened. Flynn appeared in the doorway, every muscle coiled. “Expectin’ someone?”
Before she could answer, a knock rattled the front door.
Flynn’s hand went automatically to the pry bar leaning against the wall, but a familiar voice called through the wood.
“Heather? It’s Eleanor! Are you all right?”
Relief cracked the tension. Heather practically ran to the door.
Eleanor stood on the porch, cheeks pink from the cold, hair whipped wild by the wind. She clutched a grocery bag and a thermos.
