Page 62 of The Clifftop Cottage

He didn’t go straight to the cottage.

He went into town.

The flower shop was warm and smelled like damp leaves and clean water. Buckets of flowers lined the walls, bright and busy and far too cheerful for how he felt. He barely glanced at the roses or lilies.

It was the foxglove that stopped him.

Tucked among the autumn shrubs by the window stood a single potted plant, its tall stems crowned with dusky purple bells.

Witch's gloves, his mother used to call them.

They used to grow wild at the edges of the old stone dykes, tangled through bramble and nettle, rising up beneath the yew trees behind their house. As a boy he’d been warned not to touch them – too beautiful, too dangerous.

He lifted the pot from the display before he could talk himself out of it.

Erica answered the door looking wary.

He didn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding the terracotta pot between them like a peace offering. “I was out of line. Properly.” He paused. “Stupid.”

Her face warmed, and after a brief hesitation, she stepped aside to let him in. “It’s fine.”

“What? Just like that?” He shook his head. “I was awful to you. You didn’t deserve it. I can see now that you only meant well.”

She smiled, a little awkwardly, and set the foxglove carefully on the windowsill above the sink, tilting it slightly until it looked at home.

“It's beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

He watched her at the sink, the way she moved – quick, precise, like she was trying not to think too much.

“I read your blog,” he said.

She turned to face him, her sleek hair catching the light. “And?”

“It’s good,” he added. “What you’re doing. It matters.”

She pressed her lips together, her expression unreadable. Then her gaze shifted back to the windowsill. “I think I’ve hit a wall. I’ve reached out to experts, but I can’t find Isobel.”

“Do you need to find her?” he asked. “Isn’t it enough to uncover other names, to make them known?”

She shrugged. “Yes. But I got here because of Isobel.”

Gabriel studied her. Really studied her. The way she rubbed her wrists together, like an irritation she couldn’t quite shake. The quick scratch at her scalp before smoothing her sleek hair back into place.

She looked different today, polished and put-together. And he found himself missing the wildness. The wind-tangled curls, the damp strands sticking to her cheek that first day on the cliffs. There was something freer about her then. And yet, even now, he was captivated.

“I might be able to help,” he said.

She lifted her head sharply, her dark eyes locking on to his. His heart kicked at the sudden attention, but he pushed past it, focused on why he was here.

“I’ll pick you up later?”

Before she could question him, he turned. “Wear something warm. I’m told it gets cold.”

Chep bounded ahead as he stepped outside, the damp air cool against his face. Behind him, Erica lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But he could feel her curiosity, hear the quiet churn of her thoughts.

He laughed despite himself. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain later, okay?”