“Well… that’s it, then!” Eleanor stood, wiping her eyes and smoothing her coat. “I’ll see ye both soon. There’s paperwork. Meetings. A great deal of very boring responsibility.”
Flynn smirked. “Sounds dreadful.”
“It is,” she agreed. Then, softer, to Heather: “You did good, my girl.”
After she left, Heather stood at the window, watching Eleanor walk down the drive.
“She’s right, ye ken,” Flynn said from behind her.
Heather leaned back into him with a shrug. “I didn’t do it alone.”
“Aye,” he said with a nod. “But ye’re the one who finished it.”
She looked around—the hearth, the saddle, the quiet corners that no longer felt empty.
The house finally didn’t feel like something she inherited.
It felt like something she belonged to.
Heather exhaled.
And Glenoran, at last, was at rest.
Chapter 55
Heather—Present Day
The National Museum of Scotland didn’t feel like a museum today.
It felt like a cathedral.
Clean glass. Soft light. Hushed voices.
The kind of reverence usually reserved for ancient saints.
Heather walked beside Flynn, Fiona and Eilidh’s diaries held carefully in both hands.
Ahead of them, a curator ushered them down a quiet hall toward the private archival wing.
“They’re ready for you,” she said gently.
Heather nodded, throat tight.
The room was temperature-controlled, softly lit, and filled with glass tables. On the center one lay a display of tartan textiles—fragments, swatches, woven histories.
And at the far end…
Dubh’s saddle sat proudly beside the museum’s scrap of Mackenzie tartan along with the missive and Saltire Heather had found in the storage unit months prior.
The fragments from the Glenoran library.
The very first breadcrumbs.
Heather’s breath caught.
Flynn squeezed her hand.
“You alright, lass?”
