Chapter 13 - Whispers of Rowanmere

Lucy woke with a heaviness in her chest.

It showed up the way it always did, in small missing pieces. No wooden floorboards under her feet. No morning sounds from the shop next door. No hint of Vermont autumn slipping through a cracked window. She felt the absence sharply enough that her throat tightened.

She sat up and rubbed her arms. The room was warm, sunlight pooled across the blankets, but the warmth didn’t help much.

Her eyes drifted to the small table near the window.

Mrs. Hughes had left a pot of autumn cyclamen there the night before. Pink blossoms curled neatly over marbled leaves. Yesterday they looked bright and cheerful.

This morning they drooped.

Lucy frowned and swung her legs out of bed.

“Oh. You need water,” she murmured, reaching for the pot.

She stopped halfway.

The soil was damp. The leaves were healthy. Nothing was wrong.

They just looked how she felt.

A memory rose before she could push it away: Jessie in the garden behind their old house, hands sunk into warm soil, tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine. Jessie brushing dirt off her cheek as she laughed.

“Plants know when they’re cared for,” her foster mother had said. “They know when you’re happy too.”

Lucy swallowed and touched one of the leaves.

A soft warmth moved through her fingertips. Subtle and brief, like breath settling in the roots.

The flowers lifted.

Only a little. But enough to see.

Lucy froze.

“No,” she whispered. “No, that’s… no.”

The petals eased open again in the morning light. The whole plant looked steadier, almost alert.

She stepped back quickly.

There was no breeze. No draft. Nothing else touching them.

Just a plant reacting to her. Or to what she felt.

Her pulse picked up, loud in her ears.

“Timothy didn’t do that,” she said. “You’re a plant. You are a plant.”

The flowers shifted again. Almost like they were agreeing with her. Or teasing her. She couldn’t tell.

She pressed a hand to her chest. The hum she’d felt when she touched Jason returned, quiet, deep, familiar. She felt it when she walked the grounds. When she brushed the old oak the night before.

She wasn’t ready to name it.

She took a step back toward the door, breath catching a little.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I cannot explain that.”

The cyclamen stood straighter, bright in the light.

Lucy slipped out of the room with her heart racing, already heading toward the one person who might have answers.

Lucy had walked most of Rowanmere by now, but the West Wing felt different the moment she reached it. The light dimmed in a way she couldn’t pin on the windows, and the air carried a faint coolness she felt more in her chest than on her skin. It wasn’t cold. Just expectant, like the house was waiting.

She paused in the doorway.

“It’s just a hallway,” she whispered.

But she didn’t quite believe it.

Portraits lined the walls here, faces she didn’t recognize. Older than the Pendragons she had seen in photographs. Their expressions held something quiet and distant, like people who knew the land in ways she didn’t yet understand. Aelwyn, her mind offered, though she had nothing to confirm that.

She stepped farther in.

The air shifted around her. Not in temperature, just in attention. She slowed near a long stretch of wall where the wallpaper had faded with age. Something brushed against her awareness, a faint tug she couldn’t explain. It felt like someone turning slightly toward her from a far distance, though the corridor stayed empty.

Just a quiet moment that settled into her chest and then slipped away.

She ran her fingertips along the wall. Smooth. Cool. Ordinary. Whatever the feeling had been, it passed quickly.

“Miss Lucy.”

She turned. Timothy stood a few steps behind her, hands folded, expression warm and steady.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” he said.

He didn’t ask why she’d stopped or what she’d been sensing. He simply stood there as though meeting her here had been the plan all along.

Lucy glanced once more at the empty wall, then let it go. If something had stirred, it wasn’t stirring now.

“Timothy… something happened earlier,” she said as he walked toward her. “The flowers in my room. They didn’t wilt or anything. They just… reacted to me. I felt sad, and they drooped. Then I touched them, and they lifted again. And nothing about the soil or the light explained it.”

Timothy watched her with a calm that felt almost reassuring.

“And how did that make you feel?” he asked.

“Confused,” she said honestly. “And a little unsettled. Plants don’t mirror people. That’s not how anything works.”

“Living things respond to intention,” Timothy said quietly. “To presence. To heart.”

“That’s not very scientific,” she said.

“It is more so than it sounds,” he replied.

Lucy studied him, searching his face. There was something like recognition in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or simply confirmation of what he already suspected.

“You knew this might happen,” she said.

“I hoped you would notice it,” Timothy answered. “And you did.”

Lucy let out a slow breath. The corridor felt calmer now, like the moment she’d sensed earlier had passed without demand or urgency.

Timothy nodded gently toward the garden doors.

“Walk with me?”

Lucy followed him, leaving the West Wing behind. Whatever she had felt there settled into quiet as she stepped away, fading as softly as it had come.

Jason had taken over a quiet strip of lawn behind the south garden wall. The early sun caught on the dew while he worked through a slow series of strikes and blocks. He kept the movements careful so he wouldn’t strain his healing side, but he moved with enough purpose to wake old muscle memory.

He winced now and then, though it wasn’t frustration. It looked more like determination settling into him with each shift of weight. Like he was trying to find himself again.

Lucy watched from a distance with Timothy beside her. Jason didn’t notice them at first. He was focused on breathing, on balance, on a rhythm that clearly belonged to a part of his life she didn’t fully know.

Timothy’s voice was quiet. “He trains as if stopping would cost him something.”

Lucy nodded. “He said he wants to be worthy of the second chance he’s been given.”

Timothy’s expression warmed. “He isn’t proving anything to us.”

“Then who?” she asked.

“Himself,” Timothy said. “Becoming himself again is enough for now.”

Jason paused and finally saw them. He straightened almost automatically. His posture shifted into something alert but not tense, the kind of readiness that came from long habit rather than fear. Lucy lifted a hand in greeting, and he gave her a small, genuine smile.

Later, they sat on the terrace overlooking the west gardens. Late blossoms caught the morning light. Mrs. Hughes set out tea and fruit and slipped away again with the quiet ease she always carried.

Lucy wrapped her hands around her teacup, letting the warmth settle into her palms. A light breeze brushed her cheek and carried the scent of heather and something sweet she couldn’t name. The longer she stayed at Rowanmere, the more the land felt near.

“Feels like home,” she murmured.

The breeze shifted gently across her shoulders. She didn’t question it.

Jason joined them, still catching his breath. He hesitated at the steps until Lucy waved him over.

“You don’t have to stand like you’re reporting for duty,” she said with a small smile.

Jason relaxed a little and took a seat. “Old habits,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lucy poured him tea without thinking much about it. The motion felt natural, as if they had done this before.

Jason looked out at the garden, shoulders loosening. “It’s peaceful here,” he said quietly.

“Rowanmere likes you,” Lucy said before she could stop herself.

Jason blinked. “Is that normal?”

Lucy shrugged lightly. “Around here? Maybe.”

He let out a soft laugh, warm and unguarded. The sound eased something in her chest, a quiet sense of connection.

They finished their tea in a comfortable silence. Then Jason stood with a small groan.

“If I sit any longer, I’m going to stiffen up.”

Lucy gave him a playful look. “Go. And take it slow.”

Jason’s mouth tugged into a faint smile. “I’ll pretend I listened.”

Sam, who had been waiting under the table like he owned the place, chirped and trotted after Jason with his tail high, clearly approving of the plan.

Left alone, Lucy took out her phone. She hesitated for only a second before calling home.

Her foster mother answered almost immediately. “Lucy?”

“Hi, Mom.”

Hearing Jessie’s voice eased something tight inside her. It was the first familiar sound she’d heard in days, and it steadied her more than she expected.

“Oh sweetheart, are you eating? Are you safe? Did you get there alright? And your father said I needed to calm down, but I knew something was off when you didn’t...”

“Mom,” Lucy said gently, a small laugh slipping out. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Well… good. Good. That’s good.”

Lucy could picture her pacing at the kitchen window, one hand in her hair, talking too fast. The image warmed her and made her chest ache at the same time.

“How’s Dad?” she asked.

“He’s fine. Still convinced the coffee maker is haunted. And he broke another mug this morning but swears he didn’t. I keep telling him ceramic doesn’t just explode.”

Lucy smiled. “That sounds like him.”

“And the shop is fine,” Jessie went on. “Daniel’s keeping the front tidy. People keep asking when you’ll be back. Hannah left a note on the door telling you not to forget her.”

The mention of the shop tugged hard at Lucy’s chest. It wasn’t a grand life, but it was hers. Every creak, every regular, every familiar corner. Hearing about it now felt both comforting and far away.

“Tell her I’m alive,” Lucy said, “and that I didn’t fall off the moors.”

“I’ll tell her.”

Jessie paused. Lucy felt the shift even across an ocean.

“Lucy… are you really alright?”

Lucy looked out toward the gardens. Leaves stirred in the light breeze. The ground felt steady under her feet. She thought of the cyclamen lifting after she touched it. The warm hum in her palms. The strange sense that Rowanmere was listening.

None of that fit into a simple answer.

“I’m safe,” she said quietly. “There are good people here. And it’s… peaceful. Strange, but peaceful.”

Jessie exhaled, soft and relieved. “Call again later, sweetheart. Or tomorrow. Just don’t disappear.”

“I won’t,” Lucy said. “I love you both. I’ll call soon.”

“We love you too.”

She ended the call and let the quiet settle around her. Not empty, just wide, like the room had shifted slightly after the goodbye.

Her phone dimmed in her hand. With it went the last bit of normalcy she’d been holding onto. She sat still and let the feeling move through her, unsure if she missed home or was worried she was already changing too quickly to fit back into it.

She set the phone aside and looked toward the West Wing.

A small shiver went through her.

Whatever the Chronicle was… it wasn’t just waiting for her. It felt like it expected her. The hallway there seemed quieter than the rest of the house, as if holding its breath.

Lucy drew in a slow breath.

She wasn’t sure she was ready for answers.

But the answers seemed ready for her.

Later, Lucy found Timothy near the herb garden, trimming rosemary with the steady care of someone tending old truth instead of plants. The morning light touched the leaves, releasing a soft, clean scent into the air.

“Timothy…” Lucy paused, gathering her thoughts. “Earlier you said something about my lineage.”

He did not answer right away. He finished his cut, laid the sprig aside with deliberate gentleness, then turned to her fully.

“Your bloodline is stronger than I anticipated,” he said. There was no fear in the words, only honesty. “Pendragon power alone is formidable. Aelwyn magic alone is rare. But combined…” He released a quiet breath. “It creates a potential neither side has ever seen.”

Lucy swallowed. “That sounds like a problem.”

“It is a gift,” Timothy corrected softly. “But gifts can become burdens when misunderstood.”

Her voice lowered. “What aren’t you telling me?”

There was the faintest shift in his expression, not secrecy, but caution. “Uther Pendragon was a man of great will. And great shadow. His instincts were not always governed by compassion.”

Lucy’s breath caught. “You mean… I could become like him?”

“No.” The word was calm, certain, grounding. “Because you are not him. You are Lucy Pendragon. You lead with kindness. That will be your anchor.”

Lucy looked down at her hands, the memory of warmth still lingering there. “But the Chronicle could… change me.”

“It will reveal you,” Timothy said. “Not remake you.”

She nodded slowly. The rosemary rustled between them, releasing another soft breath of scent, as if the garden itself understood the weight settling into her shoulders.

Lucy let the silence rest on her a moment, steadying herself against it.

Evening settled over Rowanmere with the soft hush of cooling earth. The dining room glowed with warm light as Mrs. Hughes served a meal that felt like a hug disguised as food. Herb-roasted chicken. Buttery potatoes. Honeyed carrots. Rolls still warm from the oven. Spiced berries that tasted like late summer trying to hold on.

Jason sat across from Lucy, posture straighter but no longer guarded. Timothy took the head of the table, quiet but content, as if watching the outline of a family he had never expected to keep.

Sam leapt onto the spare chair beside Lucy and claimed it with the confidence of a creature who had attended Pendragon dinners for generations.

Jason took a bite and stilled. “This is… incredible.”

Mrs. Hughes sniffed. “Food tastes better when people eat it instead of apologizing to it.”

Timothy raised one brow. “Do you often accuse meals of waiting to be offended?”

Mrs. Hughes shot him a look. “If the roast last winter had feelings, it would have filed a complaint.”

Lucy burst into laughter. Jason tried not to smile and failed. Even Timothy’s mouth twitched at the corners.

Dinner stretched in soft conversation. Jason asked about the rose bushes. Lucy told a story about Sam knocking over a display at the shop. Mrs. Hughes made a quiet joke about Timothy never aging, which Timothy absolutely ignored.

When the meal ended, they drifted their separate ways.

Lucy returned to her room, washed her face, changed into soft sleep clothes, and settled beneath the covers. Sam trotted in and curled against her side as if the bed had always belonged equally to both of them.

But Lucy didn’t lie down right away.

She reached for her journal on the nightstand. The leather cover felt warm beneath her fingertips, familiar and steady. She opened to a blank page.

I do not know how to describe today.

Jason is healing. More than healing. He looks lighter, as if something inside him finally loosened. I keep thinking of that night, how afraid I was to touch him and how natural it felt when I did.

Timothy says intention matters more than understanding. I wish I believed that fully. I wish the things happening around me came with explanations and diagrams and safety warnings.

But Jason is alive. I saw hope in his eyes today. Real hope. Maybe kindness can do more than I thought.

And Timothy… he speaks in truths wrapped in patience. He sees me more clearly than I see myself and it is both comforting and terrifying.

I feel like the ground is shifting under me. Not in a dangerous way. More like something waking up and stretching after a long sleep. I am not sure what I am becoming. But I know I do not want to lose myself along the way.

If anyone ever reads this: I hope they can tell I tried to meet the world with kindness first.

Lucy closed the journal gently. Her breath steadied as she set it aside.

She slipped beneath the blankets. Sam curled closer, purring, a small, steady weight against her ribs. Sleep found her fast.

The dream came sharper this time.

Elowen stood beneath pale, silver-lit leaves. Her eyes were warm. Her presence felt steady in a way that eased Lucy’s chest. Her voice moved through the air without her mouth opening.

“Lucy. Find the Chronicle before the Hollowborn awakens.”

Lucy jerked awake, breath catching.

Moonlight stretched across the floorboards in a quiet stripe. Her chest ached with a strange certainty, sharp and sudden. Sam lifted his head, blinking, then nudged her arm as if reminding her she wasn’t alone.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, running her hand through his fur.

But she wasn’t sure she believed it.

Outside, the wind moved over the moor in a long, low sweep. Carrying a tension in its quiet, as if the land felt something stirring out there in the dark.