Heather nodded. “Her diary, some keepsakes, a letter from the Crown. Everything leads back here, to the hearth.”
Eleanor whispered, “If the thistle endures…”
“You read her notes too?” Heather asked, eyes widening in surprise.
Eleanor nodded. “Eilidh showed me years ago. Said the phrase haunted her.”
They fell silent, each lost in thought. The kettle clicked, forgotten. Outside, the wind scraped over the eaves.
Finally, Flynn spoke. “We keep it quiet. Let Henderson think the trail’s gone cold.”
Heather met his gaze. “And we wait. Watch. She’ll slip.”
Eleanor rose, but her shoulders didn’t square this time; they folded. Her composure wavered.
She crossed the small space between them and, without a word, pulled Heather into her arms.
For a heartbeat, Heather just stood there, stunned. Then she let herself be held.
Eleanor smelled faintly of rain and Earl Grey, the kind of comfort that had been missing since her mother died.
When Eleanor finally spoke, her voice was thick. “You really do look just like her, you know.”
Heather’s throat went tight. “Everyone says that.”
“No,” Eleanor said softly, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “They see her face. I see her spirit. The way she threw herself into something she believed in. Heart first, sense later.” She gave a watery laugh. “Seems to run in the family.”
Heather smiled faintly, tears gathering on her lashes. “I hope so.”
Eleanor brushed a thumb across her cheek, the gesture tender. “She’d be proud of you, lass. She really would.”
They moved back into the library as the morning brightened. The air smelled of dust and soap. Eleanor brushed her fingers along the shelves.
“Funny how a house can hold its breath for centuries,” she mused.
Heather looked toward the hearth, the faint carvings glinting in the light.
“It’s still holding,” she said.
Flynn slipped an arm around her waist. “Then we stay a bit longer. Make sure it knows we’re listenin’.”
Eleanor smiled faintly. “I’ll put the kettle back on.”
But as she turned toward the kitchen, Heather caught movement through the window—just a shadow, fleeting, by the treeline at the edge of the drive. Her heart jumped.
Maybe only the wind.
Maybe not.
The house, it seemed, wasn’t the only thing holding its breath.
Chapter 41
Heather—Present Day
The light had shifted by afternoon, soft and forgiving, pouring through Glenoran’s cracked windows like it meant to apologize.
Flynn hammered the last board across the broken pane while Heather swept the remaining glass into a dustpan. The echo of each nail hitting wood carried through the hall, a rhythm steady enough to settle her nerves.
