Page 83 of Of Heather and Thistle
The air wooshed out of her lungs. “So, this survived when others didn’t?”
Henodded, his voice reverent. “These flags weren’t just symbols—they were resistance. People risked everything to keep them. And the tartan—it wasn’t just a fashion choice. After 1746, wearing Highland dress was outlawed for nearly 40 years. This could have belonged to someone who defied that law, who held onto their identity despite the cost. And this”—he carefully unfolded the piece of Mackenzie tartan—“this is unmistakably from your clan. What a find! What a marvelous find!” He turned his attention to the parchment, squinting at the faded text as he held it up to the light.
“April 16th… yes, yes, the date of the Battle of Culloden! This is extraordinary. A relic like this, connected to the battle… it’s a piece of history, lass. A piece of your history.”
Her throat went dry.
His excitement was palpable, his words tumbling out in rapid succession. Heather felt a mix of awe and discomfort as she watched him. She couldn’t help but feel the weight of the objects in a way she hadn’t before as if they were more than just old items—they were part of something far bigger than herself. Dr. Morrow finally looked up, his face glowing with enthusiasm. “My dear, ye’ve brought me something truly extraordinary. These pieces—this flag, the tartan, the parchment—may hold stories lost to time. Ye’ve stumbled upon a treasure that connects the past to the present in ways we rarely see.”
He gestured to the parchment, his voice rising with excitement. “This faded writing is a puzzle begging to be solved. The date, April 16th, is a powerful clue tied to such a pivotal historical moment. If you’re comfortable with it, I’d suggest sending these to my colleague at the University of Edinburgh. She has access to advanced imaging technology that canhelp us uncover what’s written here—technology far beyond my means. Together, we can unravel this mystery, piece by piece!”
His eyes sparkled as he leaned forward. “Ye’ve brought me something remarkable, Miss Campbell. It would be my honor to help uncover its secrets.” Heather ran her fingers over the box’s splintered edges. It felt like handing over the last thread connecting her to her mother. Like sealing something shut before she could even read the ending.
What if it got lost? What if it never came back? What if she was giving away the only chance she had to understand? Her throat tightened. But she forced herself to nod. “Okay. If you think your colleague can help, then… let’s do it.”
Dr. Morrow’s face lit up, his excitement practically radiating from him. “Excellent decision! Professor Henderson at the University of Edinburgh is brilliant—an expert in her field. If anyone can unlock the story behind these items, it’s her. I’ll make the arrangements straight away.”
Heather managed a small smile, feeling lighter now that she’d made the choice. “Alright,” she said quietly. “What happens now?”
“Well,” Dr. Morrow said, carefully placing the items back into the box as though they were precious jewels, “I’ll write to her immediately, explain what we’ve found, and arrange for secure transport of the artifacts. Of course, she’ll need a little time, but I promise ye’ll be the first to know as soon as we have any updates.”
She nodded, the weight on her shoulders easing. “Thank you. It’s exciting to think that we might learn something so significant.”
Dr. Morrow smiled warmly. “My dear, ye’ve already donethe hardest part—finding these treasures and recognizing their value. The rest is simply a matter of patience.”
“Thanks,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m looking forward to seeing what they uncover.”
Dr. Morrow handed her a card with his contact information. “If ye have any questions—or if ye happen to find more treasures tucked away somewhere—don’t hesitate to call.”
Heather tucked the card into her pocket and shook his head. “I appreciate it. And I will.”
She stepped into the crisp air, breath fogging in the quiet. This wasn’t a loss, she told herself. It was a beginning. That giving the artifacts away was a beginning, not an ending. But it still felt like something had slipped through her fingers. She stood on the sidewalk, the weight of the past pressing against her spine. She’d planned to head back to storage. To keep sorting. Keep pushing. But the thought of another hour surrounded by ghosts—literal or not—was too much. She turned toward the city instead. Away from Glenoran. Away from Flynn. He was steady. Too steady. The kind of man you could believe in. And that was the problem—because she couldn’t afford to believe in anyone
Neither of them was supposed to pull her in. She just needed to breathe—to exist without the ache of the past or the pull of what might come next.
Chapter 23
The streets of Inverness pulsed with quiet energy—locals weaving through routine, tourists pausing to check maps or snap photos. Heather had never walked these streets before. Never traced the edges of her family’s history with her fingertips.
The city should have stirred something in her—roots, memory, connection. Instead, she drifted like a ghost, untethered.
She meandered toward the River Ness, watching the water rush past in a steady, endless current. It reminded her of the burn that cut through Glenoran’s land, the way the water permanently moved, even when everything else felt still. She leaned against the bridge’s stone railing, the city’s hum flowing around her. Would her mother have brought her here? To this very bridge? Would she have pointed out thebest spots for tea, woven stories from the stones beneath their feet, made this foreign place feel like home?
Heather swallowed the thought and kept going. She let herself move without a plan, following the river’s curve, cutting through narrow streets lined with historic buildings. The stonework, the history—it made her think of Glenoran. She wondered if Flynn had worked on any of these buildings too—if his hands had shaped more than just her family’s estate. She wandered past historic stonework, the scent of pastries in the air, and ducked into a quiet bookshop. The hush of paper and wood wrapped around her like balm.
She ran her fingers along the spines of books she couldn’t quite justify buying—she had nowhere to put them—but she still lingered.
A few streets over, she spotted a display of wool scarves and sweaters, tartan patterns neatly folded behind the glass. She hesitated, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of a shawl. It was deep green, edged with delicate weaving, lighter than she expected but warm to the touch. Would it feel like home—or like a borrowed costume from a history she wasn’t sure she had a right to wear?
Everything about her life lately felt borrowed. The house, the land, the history. Even her name felt like something she wasn’t sure belonged to her anymore. She had never worn her family’s tartan before—never even thought about it. But standing here, with the fabric soft under her fingertips, she wondered if it would feel more like belonging than pretending.
Eventually, she found herself at a small café and nursed a cup of tea by the window. No Glenoran. No Flynn. Just warmth and steam and a rare hush inside her chest.
Outside the window, the world moved on without her—locals with familiar paths, visitors with camera straps and wide eyes. People who belonged. People just passing through.She’d always seen herself as the latter. Just passing through. But Glenoran was still in her mind, an unfinished thought, a question she wasn’t ready to answer. She told herself Glenoran was temporary. A stop, a project, a place to finish what had been left undone so she could move on.
And yet.
The artifacts came to mind—the flag held by someone who had stood in this country centuries before her, and the letter written by hands that had long since turned to dust. She thought about the quiet ache in her chest when she walked through Glenoran’s halls, the way she couldn’t seem to distance herself from it, no matter how much she tried.
