Chapter 15 - A New Guardian Stirs

Morning sunlight eased its way across the curtains with the gentle confidence of a house that knew its heir had finally begun to settle in. Soft gold light touched Lucy’s face before she even stirred. It warmed her cheeks, nudging her awake with the kind of patience only dawn or an old home could manage.

Sam was already awake. He sat on her chest like a compact, judgmental loaf, staring down at her with the faint annoyance of a creature who believed breakfast should have started five minutes ago. When she finally blinked into consciousness, he chirped once, headbutted her chin, and hopped off the bed as if to say, well, finally.

Lucy stretched slowly. The quiet contentment that met her was new and comforting. The dreams that had haunted her first nights at Rowanmere were gone. In their place was something gentler, a warm hum beneath her ribs she could not yet name but welcomed all the same.

She followed Sam downstairs. Her bare feet landed on warm floorboards that seemed to soften beneath her steps. The scent of coffee curled through the air. Toast. Something fruity and bright. A buttery warmth that made her stomach rumble.

Mrs. Hughes stood at the stove humming a tune Lucy did not recognize. Her movements were spryer than usual. Her cheeks held a flush. Her eyes were clear, and her posture straight and strong. She looked younger this morning. Lighter.

“You look bright today,” Lucy said, accepting a mug of coffee that fit perfectly between her palms.

Mrs. Hughes waved a wooden spoon with theatrical dismissal. “Just feeling spry, love. Some mornings come with a bit more wind in the sails, that is all.” A twinkle rested behind her eyes, something quietly revitalized.

“Have you always lived here?” Lucy asked. “At Rowanmere?”

A warm laugh puffed out of Mrs. Hughes. “Not always. I grew up in a village not far from here. My mum did laundry for families with more rooms than sense. My da worked the fields. Hard man, but gentle with us girls.” She flipped the eggs with practiced ease. “I came up to the Hall when I was about sixteen. Nervous as a rabbit. The housekeeper then was Mrs. Dawes. Terrifying woman. You could hear her coming down the corridor and start apologizing for things you had not done yet.”

Lucy grinned. “And you stayed?”

“Aye.” Mrs. Hughes smiled at the memory. “Your grandfather took a liking to my baking. Said anyone who could make a decent treacle tart had no business being wasted on laundry. Asked Mrs. Dawes to train me proper. She did. Fiercely.” She paused, her expression softening. “But she taught me well. Taught me to see the Hall, not just clean it. To listen to its moods. To walk its corridors with respect. Over time it stopped feeling like a workplace and more like a place that had room for me.”

Lucy felt something inside her settle at that.

Mrs. Hughes went on. “Over the years the Hall grew quieter. Fewer voices in the rooms. Fewer footsteps. When your aunt Lilly began traveling so much, the days stretched long and lonely. Sometimes I thought the old place would just sigh and sink back into the hills.”

Her eyes softened. “Lilly was bright. Curious. Always poking into dusty corners asking questions that made old scholars tremble. The Hall felt steadier with her in it.”

A tender shift touched her features. “Your mum, Sarah, came later. A surprise for the Pendragons, that one. A blessing, but unexpected. I remember the day she was born. The whole house felt different. Alive again.”

Lucy’s voice slipped into a whisper. “What was she like?”

“Gentle. Kind. But restless,” Mrs. Hughes said. “Even as a girl she would wander the fields with her pockets full of feathers or stones or bits of wildflowers. She loved deeply, but she was never meant for these walls. Too many expectations. Too many echoes.”

Lucy swallowed. “She never told me any of that.”

“No, love,” Mrs. Hughes said gently. “You were far too young to remember the things she carried in her heart. But I knew your mum. I saw her grow from a restless girl into a young woman still searching for her place in the world.” Her voice softened. “Sarah loved you fiercely. That much I know without question.”

She nudged the pan. “She left Rowenmre because she was not meant for these halls. She needed something simpler, something that was hers alone. Meeting your father gave her that. Two dreamers running off together, building a life far from expectations they never asked for.”

A sigh touched her voice. “He was a kind young man, but he carried a restless wanderlust that first drew Sarah to him and later pulled him away, leaving her to raise you alone as best she could. Unfortunate, but such things happen.”

She hesitated, then stepped away from the stove and crossed to a side cupboard built into the wall. She opened it carefully, reverently, as though touching something fragile.

“I have something for you,” she said.

From the cupboard she withdrew a small wooden box, worn smooth by years of handling. She carried it to the table and set it down gently.

“Your mum sent these back to us,” she explained. “Letters came less often over the years, but she always enclosed photographs. Said it would keep the old house from forgetting her.”

Lucy sat slowly, breath unsteady.

Mrs. Hughes opened the box.

Inside lay a tidy stack of photographs, edges curled and colors softened by time. She lifted the first one and passed it to Lucy.

Sarah as a young woman, no more than twenty, stood beside a tall young man with messy hair and a broad smile. Her father. His arm was around Sarah’s shoulders. Sarah leaned into him, laughing at something just out of frame.

Lucy’s breath caught. Her fingers trembled.

“She was so happy then,” Mrs. Hughes murmured.

Mrs. Hughes passed her another. Sarah holding a newborn Lucy, bundled in a knitted blanket. Sarah looked exhausted but radiant, her hair loose, her eyes shining as she pressed her cheek to her baby’s head. Lucy traced the image as though she could warm the moment by touch alone.

Another. Lucy at two, icing smeared across her hands as Sarah laughed behind her. Lucy at four, missing a front tooth and wearing a paper crown. Lucy at five, wrapped in Sarah’s cardigan on a porch swing, Sarah’s arms circled around her, steady and warm.

“I have never seen these,” Lucy whispered.

“No,” Mrs. Hughes said softly. “Your mum kept her life in Vermont separate, not out of shame but because she finally had a chance to choose her own happiness. But she sent these so we would know she was well. And so the Hall would not forget it had once known laughter.”

Lucy brushed a tear from her cheek. “Thank you. For keeping them.”

“It was my honor, love.” Mrs. Hughes closed the box, then pushed it toward her. “These belong with you now.”

Lucy rested her hand on the lid. “I think today,” she said quietly, “I would like to visit her.”

Mrs. Hughes nodded. “Your heart knows the way. Let it.”

Breakfast was simple but perfect. Eggs warm and soft. Toast with blackberry jam. A small bowl of fresh fruit. Coffee that soothed straight to her bones. Sam stared at her plate with pointed interest but managed to keep his manners intact. Mostly.

Jason was not in the kitchen. Neither was Timothy. But Lucy was not surprised. Mornings at Rowanmere were not hurried. Everyone moved at their own rhythm. The house held space for that.

When she finished eating, Lucy lingered with her hand on the wooden box. A quiet steadiness settled in her chest. Grief and warmth intertwined. Memory and discovery braided together. Rowanmere felt different now.

She rose from the table. The day waited for her, gentle and patient, ready to lead her where her heart needed to go.

After breakfast she stepped out into the morning air, and Rowanmere met her with a breeze that curled gently around her shoulders like a quiet greeting. The gardens shimmered with dew. Some of the herbs seemed to lean her way, their leaves stirring in a breeze she could not quite feel. Lucy pretended not to notice, but warmth fluttered in her chest, soft and reassuring.

She spotted Jason near the far edge of the lawn, kneeling in the dew soaked grass with a stillness she had never seen in him. His posture was steady. His breath rose and fell in a slow, patient rhythm. His shoulders had loosened, the tightness she had come to expect eased away. For a man who had lived years with every nerve braced for impact, the quiet on his face was nothing short of remarkable.

A short distance away, Timothy watched with calm approval, hands folded loosely behind his back. He stood like someone who understood the intention behind every breath, every shift of weight.

Lucy approached with soft steps. “You are up early.”

Jason opened his eyes and rose smoothly. A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Could not sleep much,” he said. “Mind is quieter than it used to be, but still a busy place. Meditation helps.”

Timothy nodded. “It gives the heart a steady path to follow.”

Jason let out a quiet breath, amused. “You always talk like that first thing in the morning?”

Timothy lifted one shoulder in a modest shrug. “Only when the morning is listening.”

Lucy smiled at the exchange. Something in Jason looked lighter. Not transformed, but gently lifted, as though a weight inside him had tilted just enough to let him breathe a little more freely.

They walked together toward the garden path, the morning chill lifting from the grass. Lucy let her fingers brush through tall blades still tipped with silver dew. She slowed near the old stone sundial, a question rising in her chest with quiet insistence. She held it for a moment, afraid to disturb its shape.

But Timothy’s expression held only patience.

“Timothy,” she asked softly. “Where are my mother and aunt buried?”

Timothy’s features softened with profound respect. “On the grounds. Not far from here. The Pendragon cemetery rests in a grove of oaks. It is a peaceful place. Sarah. Lilly. Many before them. All at rest.”

A gentle ache tightened beneath Lucy’s ribs. She had always known she would visit, but hearing the words out loud settled the truth in her heart. “I would like to go.”

“Of course,” Timothy said. “But go alone. Some journeys begin in solitude.”

Lucy nodded. The weight of the moment did not frighten her, but it steadied her, grounding her breath.

Timothy smiled faintly. “Your bicycle is waiting for you.”

“My bike?”

They turned toward the stables. A brand new gravel bike leaned against the wall, cream colored with soft green accents. Sturdy tires. Smooth frame. The exact style she loved. Sized perfectly for her.

Lucy’s breath hitched before a small laugh escaped. “Timothy, how did you know.”

“You are a creature of motion,” he said. “This land is easier to know when you meet it on its own terms.”

Lucy stepped closer and brushed her fingers along the frame. The morning light warmed the paint. Something quiet settled in her chest. It felt like permission. Like a gentle push forward.

Today she would visit her mother. And the land would carry her there.

Lucy mounted the bike and pedaled down the gravel road, morning air brushing through her hair. Rowanmere faded behind her until it became part of the hills, steady and familiar in the distance.

She didn’t get far before slowing. Everything around her seemed to ask for her attention.

She stopped beside a mossy stone wall where foxgloves grew tall and bright. Dew clung to the petals like tiny beads of light. She pulled out her phone and took a picture, smiling when a bumblebee wandered into the frame. She sent the photo to Hannah with a quick note.

Found wild foxgloves taller than me. England is magical. I will bring you some pressed ones.

She rode a bit farther and stopped again, drawn toward an old oak with wide branches that looked almost like arms. She photographed it, then a hillside dotted with sheep. Their soft bleats carried across the morning and loosened something inside her.

At a bend in the road she heard water. A narrow stream slipped under the road through an old stone culvert. Lucy crouched and touched the cool moss at its edge, dipping her fingers into the clear water. It felt good in a way she could not explain. Familiar, almost. She took another picture, one for Hannah and one for herself.

A light breeze moved past her, brushing her cheek. She did not question it.

Back on the bike, she followed Timothy’s directions until a line of old oaks came into view. The grove looked like a place meant for quiet things. The branches arched overhead as she stepped inside and the light softened under the canopy. The whole space felt still, not heavy, just gently waiting.

Lucy moved between the stones until she found her mother’s.

Sarah Pendragon. 1972 to 2010. Beloved. Gentle. Fierce in love.

She knelt and placed her hand on the cool stone. A warm ache rose in her chest, steady and honest. The photos from that morning were bright in her mind, Sarah laughing on a porch, Sarah holding her as a baby, Sarah wrapped in that cardigan Lucy remembered from old drawers.

“I saw you today,” Lucy whispered. “Holding me. Laughing with Dad. I could see how much you loved me.”

Her voice shook, but she did not look away.

A breeze moved through the grove and brushed her cheek as if answering her.

“I wish we had more time,” she said quietly. “But I am grateful for what you gave me.”

She rose and stepped to the next stone.

Lilly Pendragon. 1958 to 2024. Keeper of the legacy. Ever watchful. Ever kind.

Lucy touched the edge of the stone. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For protecting Mom. For protecting me. Even from far away.”

The grove stayed still, holding space for her.

She walked deeper among the older markers. The stones grew rough and softened by years of rain. Moss covered some of them in gentle green.

At the far edge of the grove she found a small, worn stone.

Aelara. Daughter of Uther and Elowen.

Lucy knelt again and placed one hand on the stone and one on the earth beside it.

Warmth rose through her palm, steady and clear. The trees shivered once, leaves rustling in a soft, even ripple. Moss brightened. Small flowers near the roots lifted their heads.

Light shifted across the ground, almost like recognition.

Impressions moved through her. Water clearing, fields steadying, wounds easing, land responding to presence rather than force.

Her breath wavered.

The earth welcomed her just enough for her to feel it.

Lucy rose slowly and steadied herself against a nearby tree. Her pulse thudded through her fingers as she looked back at the worn stone.

“Who laid you to rest here,” she whispered.

She did not know the answer, but something inside her quieted. A small, patient understanding waited just beyond reach, close enough for her to sense but not yet name.

As she rode back toward Rowanmere, wildflowers turned their faces toward her. A bird circled overhead. The land exhaled as though relieved to have her upon it.

Timothy waited at the garden gate. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, expression calm, though something in his posture felt unusually still.

“You felt something,” he said.

Lucy stopped beside him and rested one hand lightly on the bike’s handlebar. “Yes,” she said quietly. She told him about the grove, the stillness, the warmth beneath her palm, and the way the oaks seemed to listen.

Timothy did not interrupt. His eyes softened as he listened, but his breath grew deeper, steadier, as though bracing against the weight of her words.

Lucy hesitated. “Aelara,” she said softly. “Did you bury her there?”

For a moment the garden held its breath.

Timothy bowed his head, a gesture filled with reverence rather than confirmation. “She was not left alone,” he said. “That much I can tell you.”

The answer landed gently, but it did not fully settle. Lucy felt the shape of something unspoken beneath it, a truth Timothy held but would not yet reveal.

“You knew her,” Lucy whispered.

His eyes closed briefly, a quiet ache passing across his features. “In a way,” he said. “It was a different time.”

Lucy stepped closer. “Timothy, how long have you been here?”

A small, tired smile touched his face. “A very long while, Miss Lucy. Long enough to see seasons change, long enough to remember voices that have long since faded.”

“Were you with my family,” she asked, “even before my mother was born?”

His gaze held hers for a breath. Warm. Gentle. Unreadable. “I have walked beside many who lived here,” he said. “Sometimes at a distance, sometimes close enough to share their burdens.”

The air between them softened. Lucy felt a tug of tenderness, a quiet grief, something like gratitude for a devotion she did not yet understand.

She spoke more quietly. “Timothy, there is something you are not telling me.”

“There will be time,” he said. His voice carried neither avoidance nor fear, only a careful patience. “Some truths must be carried with steadiness before they can be spoken. You are not unready, but the day is not today.”

Lucy swallowed, absorbing the weight in his tone. It was not dismissal. It was protection.

He nodded toward the path leading to the front steps. “You have gone far this morning. Rest a little. Let the grove settle in your thoughts.”

Lucy leaned her bike gently against the gate. She stepped forward without thinking, wrapping her arms around him in a brief, impulsive embrace.

Timothy stilled in surprise before returning it with quiet reverence.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He bowed his head. “Always, Miss Lucy.”

And though he said nothing more, Lucy felt it. There was a truth waiting between them, patient as old stone. One that would find its voice soon.

Lucy found Jason behind the stables, splitting wood with slow, steady swings. His shirt was damp, and the rhythmic thud of the axe felt like a way to keep his thoughts from getting too loud. When he saw her, he set the axe aside and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

She told him about the cemetery. Aelara’s stone. The warmth she felt in the grove. The way the trees seemed to listen. Jason didn’t interrupt. His shoulders eased a little as she spoke, like the story gave him a place to sit his own weight down for a moment.

When she finished, he took a long breath. “In Iraq,” he said, “there were things I had to do to keep my team alive. Some of it made sense. Some of it didn’t.”

His eyes drifted toward the open moor. “I saw people at their worst. I saw cruelty. I saw people break. And after a while, I couldn’t tell which part of that was mine.”

Lucy stayed quiet and let him move through it.

“There were nights where every noise felt like a warning,” he said. “A car backfiring. A door closing. Anything. Sleep was almost impossible. Even breathing felt like work.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I came home with too many ghosts in my head and kept telling myself I didn’t have the right to complain.”

He looked down at the chopping block. “I drifted after that. Took jobs that didn’t ask questions. Jobs that let me stay numb. I told myself it was control, but it wasn’t.”

Lucy stepped closer. “You walked away from all of that,” she said quietly.

Jason let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Not soon enough.”

He brushed his thumb along the uneven wood grain. “But that night, when Timothy stopped me… and when you reached out…” His voice softened. “Something cracked open. It felt like air getting into a room that hadn’t been opened in years. It didn’t fix everything, but it made remembering possible without drowning in it.”

He swallowed. “And for the first time in a long while, a future didn’t feel impossible.”

Lucy touched his arm gently. “You deserve peace.”

Jason breathed out, a small, tired sound. “Maybe. All I know is that being near you makes it easier to breathe. Easier to see where I’m going. Easier to see the kind of person I want to be.”

Lucy stepped a little closer. Her voice stayed low. “You aren’t the man those jobs tried to shape,” she said. “You’re the man who chose to leave them.”

His jaw tightened, then loosened again. “Some days it doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It’s a start,” she said. “And you’re allowed more than survival.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, weighing something inside himself. “Whatever comes,” he said, voice steady, “I don’t want to stand on the wrong side of it again. If anything comes for you, I won’t let it reach you.”

Lucy didn’t push back. She nodded once, a simple promise. “Then we face it together.”

Jason looked toward the Hall, then toward the moor, as if he could see a clearer path than the one he arrived on. “Together,” he said.

Something in him settled. Not a dramatic shift, just a small, honest resolve finding room under old scars.

And the morning felt a little softer around them, as if the world had been waiting for this quiet moment to take shape.