Page 68 of Of Heather and Thistle
Maybe she could too.
Chapter 19
As dawn’s pale light crept across the room, Heather stirred beneath her blankets, the chill seeping through the thin fabric. She opened her eyes slowly, her breath visible in the frosty air.
The house was still, but not silent. Wood groaned softly, expanding in the cool morning air, while the patter of rain on the window added a quiet rhythm. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, curls tumbling over her shoulders. The fireplace had burned out hours ago, leaving only a trace of smoke curling faintly in the draft.
The stone walls felt cold and heavy, but as she inhaled deeply, a faint floral note—lavender?—lingered in the air. It was subtle, barely there, but it made her pause. Maybe it was her imagination, or maybe the house was offering a quiet reminder of her mother.
Byrdie lay curled in a tight ball at the foot of the bed, and Heather smiled, stroking her fur. She stretched luxuriously, her contented purr rumbling beneath her fingertips.
“Good morning, Byrdie,” she murmured.
She chirped, blissfully unconcerned with the day ahead.
Heather swung her legs over the edge of the makeshift bed, her feet meeting the cold floor with a soft thud. The chill bit at her skin, urging her to move quickly. She glanced around, taking in the peeling wallpaper and the faded floral curtains framing the frosted glass.
The house was alive—breathing, groaning, whispering its stories.
It urged her to listen. To pay attention.
But she also felt the weight of uncertainty pressing in. Yesterday had been a whirlwind of revelations, and now, in the quiet morning light, she couldn’t outrun her thoughts.
This wasn’t just a renovation project.
It was her mother’s memory. A legacy of family history. And a future she wasn’t sure she was ready to claim.
She shook off the thought and pulled a sweater over her head before padding into the kitchen. The rough, uneven floor beneath her socks was a reminder of the work still waiting. As she stood at the sink, filling the kettle, her gaze drifted to the window.
The rain had softened to a mist, clinging to the rolling hills and skeletal trees. A landscape both foreign and deeply familiar.
Tea in hand, she returned to the sitting room. Byrdie followed, hopping onto a windowsill, her tail swishing lazily as she peered outside. Heather leaned against the doorway, watching her—Heather’s little shadow, just as curious about this place as she was.
She chirped softly, as if urging her forward.
And so she did.
Not just into the day, but into the house’s story—her story.
She didn’t have all the answers, but in the morning light, the house didn’t feel as daunting. It was a challenge, yes, but also possibility.
Her fingers itched to uncover what had been hidden.
She knelt beside Byrdie, stroking her fur as she looked out at the misty hills.
“Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s see what this day brings.”
By the time she finished breakfast, Flynn was already at Glenoran, a toolbox in hand.
Heather spotted him through the sitting room window, moving across the gravel drive, his breath curling in the cold morning air. His jacket was unzipped, his work boots kicking up bits of frost-dusted dirt as he approached.
She wrapped her hands around her mug, watching him a moment longer than she probably should have.
There was something steady about him. The way he moved with purpose, his focus already locked on the task ahead.
She wasn’t sure what to make of him—but she’d have plenty of time to find out.
Stepping outside, she crossed the gravel path to meet him. Flynn was already assessing the front porch, his broad shoulders shifting easily as he inspected the wooden beams.
