Dubh carried Harris Mackenzie’s hope across the Highlands.
When the brave horse passed, Fiona bade me keep this panel—for it holds what she could not hide with the rest.
This is the last of the melted gold… the final fragment.
The final measure of Scotland’s hope.
When the world is ready, reunite them.
Trust the thistle.
Follow it home.
— Flòraidh NicDhòmhnaill”
Heather pressed a hand over her mouth.
“She knew. They all knew someone would come someday.”
Heather now understood the simple truth that the story had never just been about finding something lost, but being the one ready to receive it.
Flynn read the last line again, voice thick with awe.
“Trust the thistle.”
Eleanor turned away first. She scrubbed a hand over her face, blinking hard, jaw set like she was holding herself together by sheer force alone.
“She would’ve been…so proud of you.”
Heather paused.
Eleanor’s voice wavered just enough to give her away. She shook her head once, a soft, broken huff of breath escaping her.
“You’re your mother’s daughter, right enough.”
Heather reached for Eleanor without thinking, her hand settling on her shoulder steadily, the way she was sure her mother once had.
Eleanor was right.
Shewasher mother’s daughter.
Chapter 52
Heather—Present Day
Flynn’s cottage felt too small for the weight of what now lay between them.
Heather set Flora MacDonald’s parchment on the table with care, smoothing it flat as if the paper might remember the hands that had last touched it. Flynn stood beside her, arms braced on the wood, his jaw tight; not from danger now, but from the sheer gravity of what they’d recovered. Eleanor lingered near the door, watching the saddle panel like it might breathe.
The duffle lay open on the rug.
Gold, dulled, uneven, and imperfect.
Not treasure.
Burden.
“All this time,” Heather said quietly, “she kept it.”
