Page 59 of Of Heather and Thistle
She’d tried the bedrooms. The first night, she’d climbed into her mother’s childhood bed, quilt pulled to her chin, staring at the ceiling. But the walls had felt too close, too full of memory. After ten restless minutes, she’d gathered her blankets and padded downstairs.
For the past three nights, she’d slept by the fire in the sitting room, curling into its quiet glow. And still, the house hadn’tquite settled around her. Not yet.
Byrdie was already awake, perched on the windowsill like a sentry, tail twitching in crisp, deliberate flicks. Not lazy—watchful.
Heather sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What do you see out there, huh?”
Byrdie chirped in reply but didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.
Frowning, Heather shuffled over to join her. The fields beyond stretched quiet and still, damp grass gleaming under the hesitant sun. Nothing seemed amiss. But a strange feeling crept into her gut, like she was watching something she wasn’t meant to. She shook it off and sighed. “Alright. Another big day. Let’s see how much I can get done before I collapse.”
First up: plumbing—or what might pass for it. The pipes groaned in protest when she tested the taps, but after some coaxing, a sputter of water came through. Rusty at first, then clearer. It was enough. The upstairs bathroom would need a deep clean, but at least she wouldn’t have to haul water from town.
She spent the morning wiping down windowsills, knocking decades of dust and cobwebs loose. Each swipe of the cloth revealed more of the house’s story—cracks in the plaster, intricate woodwork, hints of wallpaper faded to near memory.
She paused at the staircase, her hand resting on the banister. Had her mother once stood here, just like this?
Had she run these halls? Laughed in these rooms?
Had she ever imagined her daughter would return, trying to stitch their history back together?
Heather exhaled slowly.Maybe I’ll find out. One way oranother.
By noon, her stomach growled. She made a sandwich and tea, then stepped outside to the back garden while Byrdie took her usual inspection of a single patch of grass, nose buried, tail upright in concentration.
The air was crisp with damp earth and distant woodsmoke. Birds rustled in the hedges. Somewhere beyond the trees, a sheep called out in a bleating yawn.
Peaceful. Unexpected.
Heather glanced at the tangled garden. The stone paths were nearly swallowed by weeds, but beneath the mess, she could see what it might become again—if she was willing to try.
A vision bloomed: lavender lining the walkway, wildflowers spilling over the edges, a weathered bench tucked beneath the old willow at the property’s edge.
The idea settled in her chest—warm, steady.
One thing at a time, she reminded herself, draining the last of her tea.
After lunch, she turned her attention to the attic.
The stairs groaned underfoot as she climbed, dust rising in lazy spirals. The attic door was swollen with age, reluctant to give way, but after a few firm shoves, it opened with a long, splintering creak.
The space stretched wide and quiet. Sloped ceilings met at timber beams that looked older than the house itself. The air was heavy with dust, the scent of old paper and something faintly sweet—like forgotten flowers pressed between pages.
She stepped carefully across the worn floorboards, each one whispering beneath her boots. Trunks and boxes loomed in uneven stacks, draped with sheets faded to the color ofghosts. Stray shafts of sunlight slipped through cracks in the shutters, catching the dust midair—stars suspended in stillness.
She tugged the sheet from the nearest trunk. A puff of dust rose like a breath released, making her cough as she waved it away. Kneeling, she unlatched the brass clasp and lifted the lid with a soft groan of hinges.
Inside: neatly folded linens, a few moth-eaten sweaters, and—beneath it all—a bundle of letters tied with a fraying ribbon.
Heather froze.
She hadn’t expected to find anything of value, much less anything personal. But the paper was fragile beneath her fingers, the ink faded but still legible.
And then she saw the name.
The top letter was addressed in looping script to Elidh Mackenzie.
Her mother.
