Chapter 6 - The Heir Arrives

The alarm on Lucy’s phone cut through the dark at 4:30 a.m. She fumbled for it, heart thudding, and remembered why she’d set it so early. Hannah would be there by five. An hour to Burlington, a seven o’clock flight, and no real way to undo any of it.

She dressed warmly but comfortably, layering for the chill of the airport and the drafty walkways she knew too well, then padded to the kitchen to feed Sam. He blinked up at her, tail curling around her ankle as if to say he understood. She topped off his water, tucked his papers in the carrier pouch, and walked the shop one more time. The floorboards creaked in the way she knew by heart. She checked the back door, the latches, the curtain cords, the little chalkboard that still read Specials: Half-Price Mysteries. At the register she stood for a breath, palm on the worn counter, and the sudden burn in her eyes caught her off guard. By tonight she would be in London. She would have Sam, and that was a thread to hold.

She shut down the computers, snapped off the lamps one by one, and locked the front door. Headlights moved across the windows. When she stepped outside, Hannah was there with two travel mugs and a grin.

“Fuel,” Hannah said, passing over coffee. “And moral support.”

“You’re a saint.”

“Not according to my mother.”

They loaded Lucy’s bags and Sam’s carrier and rolled out into a town still rubbing its eyes. The road stretched ahead under a sky that was only starting to lighten. They talked the way close friends do when a morning feels shorter than it should, about nothing at all, about everything at once. Hannah teased her about sending photos. Lucy promised she would. They let the radio fill the quiet stretches. The first pink line touched the hills as Burlington’s lights gathered ahead.

Drop-off was quick because it had to be. There were longer hugs than usual, quick promises to call, and one last squeeze of hands through the window. Hannah leaned in toward the carrier. “You hear me, Sam? Look after her.” Sam meowed as if swearing an oath.

Inside, Lucy moved on instinct. Bags checked. Sam cleared and confirmed. Security. The gate. The boarding chime. She didn’t linger on any of it. She could sort out the feelings later. For now, the day pulled her forward.

Burlington to JFK passed quickly, the way travel sometimes does when there isn’t much to do but follow the signs. Her flight landed on time, which helped settle her nerves. The layover at Kennedy gave her a chance to breathe, sit with Sam in his carrier beside her, and text Hannah that she was doing fine. When it was time to board for London, she pressed her forehead gently against Sam’s carrier.

“You’re staying with me this time, brave boy,” she whispered.

The airline had let her keep him in the cabin, tucked under the seat in front of her, and having him close steadied her more than she expected. Then the long stretch began.

Lucy had an aisle seat beside a woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Whitcombe, returning home to England after visiting, as she put it, “the colonies,” with a little sparkle in her eye. She had the easy warmth of someone who knew how to pass the hours without fuss. She talked about cousins in Vermont, about the hedgerows back home, and about a group of women she met with every month.

“We share stories, mostly,” Mrs. Whitcombe said. “Some call it a coven, but I assure you the strongest thing we make is chamomile tea. It’s really just a circle of women who enjoy remembering the old tales our grandmothers whispered about.”

Lucy smiled. “You mean gardening clubs?”

Mrs. Whitcombe laughed. “Not quite, though there is a bit of tending involved. Mostly we keep each other company and hold on to the pieces of lore people forget these days.”

She touched Lucy’s arm lightly, a friendly gesture. “We’re hardly mystics, dear. We just enjoy stories.”

Lucy took a sip of water to hide her amusement. “I’m a bookseller, Mrs. Whitcombe. I appreciate stories, but I’m only visiting family.” It wasn’t untrue, and it was easier than explaining anything else.

Mrs. Whitcombe’s smile deepened. “You’d be surprised what runs in families, my dear.”

The hum of the engines and the quiet talk around the cabin started to lull Lucy. Her eyes slipped shut, the dim overhead light flickering through her thoughts until everything blurred.

For a while, there was nothing. Then a soft glow took shape, warm and gentle, the kind of light that filters through leaves on a bright morning. The air smelled like damp earth after rain. She didn’t feel any fear. The place, whatever it was, felt calm.

A figure slowly formed ahead of her. A woman, maybe, or the outline of one. Cloaked in green. Loose auburn hair. The details stayed just out of reach, as if the dream wasn’t ready to show more than an impression. What Lucy sensed most was the gentleness of her. A quiet presence. Someone who meant no harm.

There were no words. Just a feeling. Warmth. A steady kind of calm. The sense of being held in a memory that didn’t belong to her.

Something brushed her cheek, light as a breath. The glow brightened for a moment, then thinned away.

Lucy woke with a small inhale, not shaken at all. Her heart felt steady, as if the dream had left something kind behind. Mrs. Whitcombe sat beside her, knitting with the slow, practiced rhythm of someone used to long flights. Sam’s carrier rustled faintly at her feet.

The engines kept their steady drone, carrying her east toward whatever waited next.

The strange calm from her dream stayed with Lucy longer than she expected. When the cabin lights dimmed again, she looked at the seat-back map and traced the dotted line heading east over the Atlantic. The steady hum of the engines filled the quiet in her mind where harder thoughts tried to settle. Her aunt’s letter, the Pendragon name, the man in the shop whose smile hadn’t matched his eyes.

She wondered what kind of life her aunt had lived, what sort of person left an estate to a niece she had never met. Had she gone by Pendragon here, or had she stayed Lilly Rowan even in England? Maybe she had kept both names the way people keep old stories, one for the world and one for themselves.

Outside the window, the sky was dark and scattered with stars. Her reflection hung faintly in the glass, overlapping the soft glow of the map behind it. She nudged Sam’s carrier with her foot until she felt a small shift inside, a reminder he was still sleeping. The steady drone of the engines wrapped around the cabin, giving the hours a kind of stillness that only long flights seemed to have.

She must have drifted off again, because the next thing she noticed was the smell of reheated dinner trays mixing with warm air. Mrs. Whitcombe was still knitting beside her, her needles moving in a quiet rhythm that sounded as patient as she was. Most of the cabin had gone quiet, passengers bundled in blankets and sleep masks.

Lucy took a sip of water and set the bottle down. There were still hours to go, but the quiet didn’t feel as heavy now. Not comfortable, exactly, just steady enough to sit with. She reminded herself that travel always left people a little frayed, and nerves had a way of making simple things feel larger than they were.

When she leaned back again, Mrs. Whitcombe hummed softly and folded her knitting. “London will greet you gently, dear,” she said. “It’s a fine place for new beginnings, even in the colder months.”

Lucy smiled. “I’ll take gentle.”

“Oh, it won’t always be gentle,” Mrs. Whitcombe said with a grin. “But it has a way of meeting people where they are. Cities remember more than we think.”

Lucy didn’t know exactly what she meant, but the comment eased her anyway. She watched the small plane icon inch across the map, growing closer to England with every minute.

Her thoughts circled the same questions, what she would find, who she might meet, what her aunt wanted her to understand. For a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of light on waves below, though she knew there was nothing she could have seen at this altitude. The wing dipped slightly and she closed her eyes until the odd feeling passed.

When the captain’s voice finally came through to announce their descent, Lucy lifted her window shade. The sun had fallen behind them, turning the edges of the clouds a deep orange. Below, London glowed in the dusk, its buildings catching what was left of the light. It looked old and wide and unlike anything she knew. The engines changed pitch, the lights grew closer, and a quiet thrill ran through her tiredness.

The wheels touched down with a gentle bump, and a few people clapped out of habit. Evening shadows stretched along the terminal windows. Lucy gathered her things, heart beating fast with a mix of exhaustion and the strange excitement of arriving somewhere entirely new.

It was early evening by the time Lucy made it through the long lines and gathered her bags. The terminal buzzed with people speaking in different languages, luggage wheels knocking over the tile, and the faint smell of coffee drifting through the air. She shifted Sam’s carrier on her shoulder and glanced around, wondering if she should call the solicitor’s office now that she had arrived.

She didn’t have to.

A man holding a placard with the name Pendragon stepped forward with a polite, practiced ease.

“Miss Pendragon? Lucy Pendragon?”

She straightened, relieved that someone was waiting for her. “Yes.”

The man nodded. “Stephen Worthsby, miss. I helped your aunt with some of her personal affairs here in London. Mr. Martin asked me to meet your flight and bring you to her townhouse.”

Townhouse.

The word felt heavier than she expected.

“I didn’t know she kept a home here,” Lucy said.

“It was a quiet place,” Worthsby said. “She valued her privacy.” His eyes moved to Sam’s carrier with a small, warm smile. “And who might this be?”

“This is Sam,” Lucy said. “He likes to supervise.”

“A sensible philosophy,” Worthsby said lightly.

They started walking toward the exit.

“Mr. Martin mentioned your arrival time and that you’d be traveling with a cat,” he added. “Made it easy to spot you.”

Lucy let out a small breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding. That sounded normal. Practical. Human.

“All right,” she said. “Lead on.”

The car waiting at the curb was comfortable and quiet, the sort of vehicle that looked expensive only if you knew what you were looking at. London moved past the window in a blur of slate rooftops, red buses, hurried umbrellas, and narrow streets tucked close together. Lucy sat back with Sam’s carrier beside her, curiosity settling in under the exhaustion.

“Mr. Worthsby,” she said after a moment, “how long did you know my aunt?”

“Nearly fifteen years, miss,” he said, keeping his eyes on the wet windshield. “Lady Lilly was a good woman. Private, very private, but kind. She remembered everyone’s name, even mine when I was only a part-time assistant.”

“Private in what way?” Lucy asked.

“She kept to herself. Spent most of her time studying, writing letters, doing historical research. Family history, especially. She was proud of the Pendragon name, though she rarely used it in public.” He paused. “She said some names bring more attention than a person wants.”

Lucy gave a small smile. “That sounds right. At least from what I’ve learned.”

Worthsby nodded. “She was thoughtful. Careful about what she shared. Now and then she’d say something that stayed with you. Once she told me that knowing who you are is useful, but remembering where you come from is what steadies you.” He gave a short laugh. “I figured it was something people say when they’ve lived enough life to mean it.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Did she have many visitors?”

“A few. Mostly scholars. Sometimes someone from overseas. She and Mr. Martin spoke often, not only about legal matters. She trusted him completely.”

Lucy hesitated. “And she never mentioned me directly?”

“Only that you looked like your mother,” Worthsby said, glancing at her with an apologetic smile. “She said your eyes had the same quiet focus. That’s how I knew you when you walked up.”

Lucy looked out the window and felt her throat tighten. She wasn’t sure if it was sadness or something closer to gratitude.

Rain streaked across the glass as the city lights brightened around them.

Lucy looked out at the rain-blurred lights of the city, her reflection faint against the moving streets. A cool flutter settled in her chest, part nerves and part the simple fact of being somewhere entirely new. They rode in a silence that felt easy, the wipers marking the minutes as they went.

They turned onto a quieter street lined with tall plane trees and rows of Georgian buildings, the kind she had mostly seen in photographs. The car slowed in front of a three-story townhouse with soft light shining through the windows. The stonework showed small repairs near the top, little marks that hinted at age and steady upkeep. Lucy caught herself wondering how long it had stood here, how much it had seen.

A wrought-iron fence bordered a small courtyard. Stephen opened the gate, its hinges giving a tired creak. Beyond it, a set of stone steps led to an entrance framed by pale glass and ironwork. Lamps on either side cast warm light over the wet stone, the rain catching it here and there.

Lucy paused halfway up the steps, taking in the quiet details, the faint smell of a rain-soaked garden, the even lines of the building, the sense of a place someone had cared for over many years.

This had been her aunt’s home.

And now, somehow, she was walking into it.

The door opened almost as soon as they reached it, as if someone had been waiting. A tall man in a dark suit stood there, his posture straight and his expression warm in a contained sort of way.

“Good evening, Miss Pendragon,” he said. “I hope your journey was manageable. Please come in. You are welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said, stepping inside as Sam’s carrier brushed her leg. “And you are?”

“I am Timothy Barrett,” he said, giving a slight bow. “Your valet.”

“My… valet?” The word felt like something borrowed from another life.

“Lady Lilly employed me for many years,” Barrett said with a courteous nod. “My service now extends to the Pendragon heir.”

Lucy blinked. The Pendragon heir? She wasn’t sure the words were meant for her, yet standing in her aunt’s home, it didn’t feel impossible. His tone was calm and matter-of-fact, with something quieter beneath it, something she couldn’t quite name.

As he led her through the main hall, she took in the polished banisters, the silver picture frames catching bits of light, and the faint warmth from the radiators. The house blended old and new without drawing attention to either. Barrett moved through the space with the ease of someone who knew every corner well.

The air carried a clean scent of beeswax and citrus. The foyer was both simple and grand, its marble floor softened by old rugs, a dark oak staircase curving upward. Family portraits lined the walls. Their faces were painted with enough detail to feel almost present. Lucy caught her reflection in a gilt mirror and wondered how many others had paused there the same way.

It felt, in a quiet way, like the house had been kept ready.

Timothy stepped aside and gestured toward a room off the hall. “Please, Miss Pendragon. You must be hungry after such a journey.”

He led her into a sitting room with a small fire burning in the grate. The room felt lived-in despite its elegance. A tray waited on the low table: steaming tea, neat sandwiches, warm scones under a cloth, and a dish of clotted cream and jam.

Lucy blinked. “You made all this?”

“Lady Lilly believed a guest should never arrive to an empty table,” Timothy said. “I saw no reason to change that for her heir.”

The word heir brushed against her thoughts again, but she set it aside. Sam’s carrier shifted, and Timothy crouched to open it. Sam stepped out with the dignity of someone who expected the house to adjust to him. Timothy gave the cat a small bow, as if greeting someone important.

“There is fresh chicken prepared for him,” he said. “If he approves.”

Sam sniffed his hand, accepted him without hesitation, and wandered toward the hearth. Lucy shook her head lightly. “He usually takes his time with new people.”

“Animals often see things quickly,” Timothy replied.

He poured her tea with steady hands. The first sip was warm and fragrant, a gentle blend with a hint of vanilla and citrus. The food was simple and exactly what her tired body needed.

When she had eaten enough to feel steady again, Timothy stood. “If you are ready, I can show you to your room.”

Lucy followed Timothy up the curving staircase, Sam trotting behind like he had already decided this was his new territory. At the landing, Timothy paused at a hallway lined with old watercolor landscapes. He opened the first door on the left.

The room was soft and bright, even at night. Pale walls reflected the glow from a bedside lamp. A four-poster bed stood in the center with a quilt of blues and greens. Across from it, a carved wardrobe sat open a little, empty hangers ready, the faint scent of lavender inside. A writing desk waited beneath the window, polished and unused. A small vase of fresh roses sat beside the lamp, their scent mild and clean.

“This was Lady Lilly’s choice for you,” Timothy said. “She always kept it prepared.”

“You mean she expected me?” Lucy asked.

“Not expected,” Timothy said gently. “Prepared for the possibility.”

Lucy brushed her fingertips over the quilt. The fabric felt soft, worn in a good way. The room felt warm and safe, taken care of without feeling staged. Someone had thought about her comfort long before she ever stepped inside.

“There is a bathroom through that door,” Timothy said, nodding to the side. “Fresh towels, soap, and anything else you may need. Tell me if something is missing.”

“And Sam?” Lucy looked down. He had already jumped onto the bed and begun kneading the quilt, settling himself without hesitation.

“I’ll bring his supper and a litter tray,” Timothy said with a faint smile. “Cats adjust better than most.”

Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you. Truly.”

Timothy dipped his head. “Rest well, Miss Pendragon. The house is yours now.”

He stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

The sound of his footsteps faded, leaving Lucy in the warm light of the room. For a moment she stood with her hand on the bedpost, letting the quiet settle. Sam had claimed the end of the quilt, paws tucked under him like he was already in charge.

A light knock broke the stillness. Lucy opened the door to find Timothy holding a small tray: warm chicken for Sam, a fresh bowl of water, and a litter tray he carried with easy practice.

“Call if you need anything,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll be downstairs if you want company or tea.”

Lucy thanked him again. When he left for the night, the house felt noticeably calmer, as if her being there steadied it in some quiet way. She closed the door gently.

She fed Sam and poured herself a cup of tea she hardly tasted. She carried it to the window and pulled out her phone. The familiar glow made the room feel less foreign. She sent short messages to Hannah and her foster parents. Safe arrival. Evening in London. A driver had met her at the airport. The house was warm and welcoming. Sam was curious and doing fine. She knew they would read the messages hours from now, when Vermont woke.

London spread out below in rooftops and scattered lights. Somewhere far off, a clock chimed. The day caught up to her all at once, Hannah’s early-morning hug, the long flight, the conversation with Mrs. Whitcombe, strangers speaking her name as if they had been waiting. She pressed her palm to the cool glass. Sam hopped onto the sill and leaned against her side, purring.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m really here.”

The feeling was a quiet kind of awe. Tiredness moved through her in a steady wave. She finished her tea, turned down the bed, and slid beneath the crisp sheets. Sam curled against her shoulder, purring as she reached to dim the lamp.

As she drifted toward sleep, the room felt still and solid around her. The house held its quiet, and Lucy let herself rest in it.