Page 78 of The Clifftop Cottage

Erica stared at the final sentence.

She didn’t remember writing it.

The kettle clicked on. The room was dim but for the low fire and a single lamp pooling yellow light across the table. She moved as if her limbs were filled with ash.

When the kettle shrieked, she flinched.

She poured the water and carried the mug to the window. Beyond the glass, the dark lay heavy over the hills.

Somewhere, she imagined, houses were lit and loud and full of people. She tried to remember what that felt like.

Then, the memory came without warning.

The wine had been too warm.

Steven’s aunt had insisted on balloon goblets, and the taste clung medicinally to the back of her throat.

They’d stood in the garden at dusk, fairy lights strung overhead like imitation stars. She’d been smiling for hours. Her jaw ached.

Steven had glowed – easy among his cousins, his father, laughter rising from somewhere solid inside him.

“They all love you,” he’d murmured, slipping an arm around her waist. “You’re a hit.”

“It’s just so … loud,” she’d said, too quickly. “You’re all so – together.”

“Is that bad?”

“No.” And she’d meant it.

But she hadn’t known where to put her hands. Or herself. As if everything she offered had to be assembled first. As if she were performing a version of intimacy rather than inhabiting it. Like standing slightly outside the photograph.

Later, in a lull, she’d asked quietly, “What if you change your mind about me?”

He’d laughed in confusion. “Where is this coming from?”

“You’ve got so much. I just have … Leah. And she’s got a family now.”

“You’ve got me.” He’d gestured to the garden, the people, the mess and warmth and noise.

She had tried to believe him.

The cottage closed in again.

Her laptop screen glowed on the table, the archive she’d left open blinking patiently. Eighteenth-century land records, roughly translated.

One entry had caught her earlier:

Item: One Isobel, reputed woman of ill fame, said to have kept company with a gentleman⁠—

… with child by him, as was whispered …

… thereafter called before the magistrates at the urging of the estate.

Erica leaned closer.

The language was careful.

Outside, the wind rose again, catching in the eaves. Lucky shifted but did not wake.