Page 41 of The Clifftop Cottage

His gaze drifted to the cottage, to the thought of the woman who had lived here long before. Isobel. The whispers of the past wove through his mind – a name spoken in half-remembered stories, tied to loss and fire and things no one in Rock Cove liked to look at too closely.

A black cat.

He watched it a moment longer than he meant to, just in case.

A faint prickle slid along his arms. His father had a respect for superstition, although he didn’t quite see it in the cottage. Even when the scaffolding collapsed. Right up until the pipes burst. Right up until one thing after another had gone wrong in this place.

And now this.

A fragile black kitten, appearing out of a storm on the first night Erica stayed here.

Coincidence, he told himself. It had to be. Rock Cove was full of strays. Cats wandered where they pleased.

Still … he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted.

Erica dipped her head, letting the kitten nuzzle against her chin. It purred, louder now, warm and insistent.

“Would you be happy here, little one?” she murmured.

There was no fear in her voice. Only tenderness. Only choice.

Gabriel called for Chep. The dog bounded over, skidding slightly on the damp grass. He patted him, keeping him close. “What will you call him?”

Erica giggled softly, pressing her cheek to the kitten’s head.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Lucky.”

Lucky. Gabriel nodded to himself.

Because the kitten had survived the storm, or because Erica had found him? Or maybe because, sometimes, people needed to believe that what arrived was a gift.

Gabriel watched them both. The woman and the tiny black cat. Framed by the weathered cottage behind them, and hoped that this time belief might be enough.

15

Erica may have been many things, but once something caught hold of her, she didn’t shake it easily.

When Gabriel left, his cryptic mention of the witch stayed with her, tugging at her thoughts like an unsolved riddle. She couldn’t leave it alone. Instead of going back inside, she pulled on her wool gloves and headed straight into the garden.

She started close to the cottage, tugging away creeping weeds, brushing aside damp leaves, running her hands over the rough, weathered stone.

The sheltered space along the side of the house drew her in. Brambles and wild shrubs had taken over, thorny and tangled, but she could almost see past them. In her mind, the mess fell away, replaced by neat raised beds and soft earth. In spring she could plant seedlings here – carrots, herbs, maybe even strawberries. And lavender. She smiled at the thought of it, purple heads swaying in the sea breeze, the scent drifting through open windows as she sat at a small wooden table with a mug of tea.

For now, though, the garden was stubborn and overgrown. It would take time. Care.

She could do that.

The afternoon sun slipped behind thin clouds, casting everything in a dull, grey light. For a moment a chill settled into the air, enough to make her think about Lucky inside, warm by the Rayburn, about curling up with him and pretending this could all wait.

No. Not this time.

Erica pulled on the waterproof coat she’d bought in town and went back to work. She moved slowly now, carefully, brushing her palm over the grass, pressing gently against loose stones, checking every inch of the wall. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for – only that she would know it when she found it.

Nothing.

Dusk slipped in around her, the garden growing dim and blue-grey. The first rain came as a fine mist, barely more than a whisper, but soon it thickened, dampening her hair and darkening the fabric of her coat. She barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on the old stone wall at the edge of the garden.

Her fingers slid along the uneven surface, until they caught.