Page 74 of The Clifftop Cottage

Maisie was watching her from the passenger seat, cape pooled around her shoulders, eyes wide with hope.

Leah’s heart clenched.

She took a breath.

Then forced a smile onto her face. She would not let Erica ruin this for Maisie.

“Well,” she said lightly, yanking open the car door. “Looks like it’s me tonight, kiddo.”

25

Gabriel showed up at Sorcha’s after the mayhem of guising had passed, and now everything seemed almost too quiet.

The streets of town had slowly emptied of witches, skeletons, and miniature vampires, their plastic pumpkins full and their voices hoarse from songs and knock-knock jokes.

The chaos was over, and the farmhouse dark, apart from a lonely carved pumpkin glowing in the window. By now, niece and nephews would be flopped on their beds upstairs, high on sugar and low on stamina.

He let himself in, the house unusually still.

Sorcha was exactly where he knew she’d be – in the kitchen. But for once, she was alone. No little ones clamouring for snacks, no tweens raiding the fridge, no one spilling juice or asking for batteries. Just her. Sitting quietly at the table, lit by the warm amber of the old corner lamp. The radio played some gentle folk song in the background, so soft it was more atmosphere than sound.

She hadn’t heard him come in.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Gabriel said gently.

She jumped, clutching her chest. “Jesus Christ!” Then, covering her mouth, she added quickly, “Oh biscuits, Gabe.”

He grinned. It was one of his favourite things about her. Her attempts not to swear. She’d always been determined to raise polite children, though most of them had heard worse from her during bath time.

“You knew I was coming,” Gabriel said padding over to the sink in his socks. “You invited me, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just didn’t think you’d sneak in like a ghost.”

His boots were at the door, caked in blackened muck from the hillside. He could still smell the smoke in his hair.

“Bonfire?” she asked, clocking the state of him.

Gabriel let out a dry laugh as he filled a glass of water. “Aye. You’d think a firepit in someone’s garden wouldn’t end in a call-out.”

She raised a brow. “Let me guess, whisky and poor judgement?”

“Close. Petrol and a hero complex. Some numpty thought the flames were ‘dying down too quick’. One swoosh and whoosh later and he nearly lost his eyebrows. Toasted half the trellis and singed his nan’s begonias.”

Sorcha winced, half laughing. “Only in Rock Cove.”

“Only in Rock Cove,” he agreed.

He sat across from her, the quiet between them easy. He noticed she hadn’t touched her tea, the steam long gone. Her eyes were a little far off, like they were replaying the whole evening in her head.

“You alright?” he asked after a moment.

She nodded. “Just … taking it all in. You know how it is. All that noise, and then suddenly it’s … nothing. Like someone pulled the plug.”

He understood that feeling. The sudden vacuum after a shift, after the adrenaline ebbs and the world catches its breath again.

“It’s a nice nothing,” he said quietly.

The lamp buzzed gently in the corner. The fridge hummed its familiar rhythm. Upstairs, one of the children shifted in bed, a door creaked, and the old bones of the house sighed as it settled.