I have a wee granddaughter.
I’ve told her mother everything I know, which isn’t much. She thinks I’m a mad old woman, and perhaps I am.
But if anyone finds this? The Order keeps records of everything, or they should.
I was too afraid to look.
Maybe you’ll be braver than I.
The diary endedthere.
I sat back, gently closed the book, and blew out a long breath.
So it was real.
Just like we’d thought. Just like Liora had shown me with the threads of my fate.
It was all real. And somewhere in the castle archives, the full story was waiting. Well, it might be waiting. I had to find it first.
I could no longer deny that keeping Graham at arm’s length was the right move. Loving him would kill him. It was written right here, wasn’t it? Gran had never mentioned any of this. Why hadn’t she shared it with me? Let alone my mum?
I sighed, picturing my mum’s lips pressed tightly together. Every time I questioned her about my father or my grandfather, she’d pushed it aside. I’d long thought it was because there was a coldness to my mum, but as I’d grown older, I’d learned it was because the hurt had welled too deep for her. Mum had stayed in Loren Brae for me, but any talk of the two great losses of her life—her husband and her father—was entirely off limits. It was a staunchly Scottish way, I supposed, to push feelings under the rug, and now I wished she’d been brave enough to tell me more.
That I’d been brave enough to press her for more.
All those years I’d spent pushing Graham away. All those nights lying awake, telling myself it was for his own good. I’d never once thought to askwhy. Never thought to dig deeper than Gran’s warning.
The loch takes what we love.
That had been enough for me to trust that I needed tokeep from loving Graham. For his own protection. And that had been that.
But it wasn’t the whole story, was it? Not even close.
I looked at the diary again, at that final plea scrawled in shaking handwriting.
Maybe you’ll be braver than I.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I murmured to no one.
Tomorrow, I’d go to the castle. Tomorrow, I’d dig through the archives until I found every record with the Wright name attached to it.
And maybe—finally—I’d learn what my ancestor had done.
And whether I could undo it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRAHAM
Icouldn’t decide between sweet or savory, so I brought both. Cranberry orange or cheese scallion, both were solid scone choices, in my humble opinion, and I was certain she’d be pleased with either.
Not pleased with me showing up when she’d told me not to come today. Och, no, I was well aware she’d be fussing at me for doing so. But I hoped the scones would soften the fact that I was blatantly ignoring her text telling me not to stop by.
Annoying Agnes was practically my favorite pastime by now, after all. If it meant I got to spend more time with her, watching her being flushed and flustered every time I leaned too close, then by all means, I would continue my pursuit.
Standing outside Bonnie Books for the second day in a row, I peered through the window and warning bellsimmediately sounded. Agnes wasn’t behind the counter today. The shop seemed to be empty, the lights dim, and theclosedsign was still hanging in the window even though it was well past noon.
That was unusual.
