Page 59 of The Clifftop Cottage

Erica pushed her cup away slightly.

“Some people just take the long way round,” Margery added softly.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, breaking the moment as the children burst in, demanding food.

Margery clapped her hands. “Right, before one of you sets something on fire …”

As the room filled with noise and warmth, Margery glanced at Erica again. “Oh, before I forget. I saw your picture earlier.”

“My what?”

Margery pulled out her phone. “With the councillor. It was on his Facebook – and in the town paper too. When Rock Cove runs out of news, it borrows some.”

She held up the screen. There was Erica, smiling politely beside the man, the caption something pompous about “important discussions” and “welcoming celebrity Erica Hayes to Rock Cove.”

“I didn’t realise you were famous,” Margery said mildly.

“I’m not,” Erica muttered. “I just … have followers.”

“Well, then you’d better be careful,” Margery said with a twinkle. “This town gets curious when there’s nothing else to talk about.”

“I can’t wait,” Erica said dryly.

But a small part of her wondered whether being noticed might help.

The storm gathered outside, but Margery’s house stayed warm and bright.

21

Gabriel dropped into the chair by the fire and scrubbed a hand over his face. Chep curled at his feet, tail thumping once before settling. The hearth ticked and popped, and outside the wind shoved against the windows like it wanted in.

It had been hours since he’d walked out of Erica’s cottage.

He’d worked until his shoulders burned, herding sheep through driving rain, fixing a broken gate, keeping busy because stopping felt worse. But none of it had shaken what sat in his chest. The anger had faded, but what replaced it was harder to ignore.

Why had he snapped like that?

He leaned back, staring into the fire. A part of him wanted to go back up there now, knock on her door, say he was sorry. But the idea made something tighten in his gut. How would that look? Turning up again, uninvited. Landlord or not, it would feel like too much.

His gaze slid to the laptop on the side table. It sat there like a challenge.

He wasn’t a man who spent his evenings scrolling through nonsense. If he went online, it was for feed orders, weather reports, or a tractor part. But right now, something wouldn’t let him leave it alone.

He picked it up.

The screen glowed to life, and after a moment’s hesitation, he typed: Witches Rock Cove

He didn’t expect much. A few daft blogs, maybe. Some nonsense about crystals.

Instead, her name came up.

Erica.

A post. Recent.

He clicked.

I moved to an old fishing town, into a cottage that dates back to the 18th century. Some say it was a weaver’s home, others say it was a farm. But when I uncovered who lived here – a woman accused of witchcraft – I knew there was more to this place than I first thought.