Chapter 7 - The Inheritance

Lucy surfaced to the small sounds first: a clock ticking, the low hiss of an old radiator, and Sam’s steady purr pressed against her shoulder. For a moment she stayed still, letting the room come into focus. The ceiling above her carried a pale wash of dawn. The trim held a pattern she didn’t recognize. None of it matched her bedroom in Vermont.

She blinked once, then again. The room stayed. Beeswax, citrus, clean sheets. Sam kneaded her shoulder with complete confidence in his job.

“It’s real,” she whispered, and felt the truth settle.

Habit pulled her into motion. She checked her phone, read the replies from home, felt a small lift in her chest, and set it aside. When she swung her legs over the bed, her feet met a thick rug that softened the first chill of morning. The floorboards gave a quiet creak as she stood.

Sam hopped down and trotted ahead, tail high. He glanced back as if making sure she was coming.

“Leading the way, are we?” Lucy murmured. He chirped once. Good enough.

A robe hung behind a dressing screen, dove gray and lined in cotton. The monogram on the cuff read LP. Lilly Pendragon. And now, awkwardly but honestly, Lucy Pendragon. She wasn’t sure how that felt yet, but the robe was warm, and that was enough for now.

She wrapped it around herself and stepped into the adjoining bath. Older fixtures blended with newer ones; everything worked without complaint. She washed her face, brushed her hair, and felt the last of the travel weariness ease. The mirror showed someone still a little stunned but awake. Her eyes looked brighter than usual, maybe just the light.

“Still not superstitious,” she told her reflection. “Just paying attention.”

Back in the bedroom, dawn had climbed a little higher. She opened the curtain an inch. A narrow street sat below, lined with plane trees catching the early light. A delivery van rolled by. Somewhere nearby, a bicycle bell rang twice. The city moved in its own rhythm, steady and unbothered by her arrival.

Her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten. The thought of coffee followed immediately, sharp and welcome. If she could find the kitchen, she might start feeling like herself again.

She slid her feet into her slippers, opened the bedroom door, and stepped into the quiet hallway.

When Lucy opened the door, she heard faint classical music coming from somewhere downstairs and caught the smell of toast and coffee. It felt unexpectedly comforting, a familiar start in an unfamiliar place.

The hallway carried a light scent of polish and old paper. Photographs hung between older portraits, the kind of mix that suggested the house had been lived in for a long time. One picture showed a young woman with auburn hair laughing in a cloche hat. Lucy paused. Aunt Lilly, probably in her twenties. Another frame held two tabby cats stretched across a windowsill, looking like they owned it.

Sam nudged her calf, impatient. “All right,” she whispered, smiling. “Breakfast it is.”

They went down the curved oak staircase. The banister was smooth under her hand, worn by years of use. The house settled here and there, a creak, a soft tap in a pipe, nothing unusual, just the sounds of an old place waking up. At the landing, a narrow window showed the morning sky starting to brighten. By the time she reached the bottom, the smell of toast and something buttery made her stomach wake up fully.

The ground floor opened into familiar shapes: a sitting room to the left, with an open book left on the table as if someone had stepped away mid-chapter. To the right, warm light spilled from a doorway at the end of a short hall.

Sam trotted ahead. Lucy followed him into the kitchen.

It wasn’t the kind of kitchen meant to impress anyone. That made her like it even more. Morning light found its way through a tall window and landed on the flagstones. A simple wooden table held a vase of roses that were a little past their best but still holding on. Copper pans hung from a rack, clean and used, not decorative. The stove ticked quietly.

“Good morning, Miss Pendragon,” Timothy said, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. He cooked without fuss, eggs softening in a pan, a tomato warming on the grill, toast tucked under a cloth. The kettle began to murmur.

“You didn’t wake me,” Lucy said. “I’m always up early.” She glanced at Sam. “Some of us insist on it.”

Sam hopped onto a chair, then changed his mind and sat at her feet. Timothy’s mouth lifted slightly.

“Your aunt was much the same,” he said. “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please. Milk and a little sugar.”

He poured it and handed her the cup. She breathed in the warmth before taking a sip.

“Thank you,” she said. “This is wonderful.”

“There’s toast, eggs, and fruit,” Timothy said. “I wasn’t sure how your mornings usually work.”

“This looks exactly right.” She buttered the toast. “Coffee first, food second. That much never changes.” Then she added lightly, “I’m guessing you already knew that.”

Timothy’s smile deepened just a touch. “Routines matter. They keep us steady.”

Lucy watched him for a moment. He moved with quiet confidence, everything measured but unhurried. It was easy to imagine him keeping the same rhythm through years of looking after the house.

“Timothy,” she asked, “how long were you with my aunt?”

He paused before answering. “Since she bought this house in the late seventies. Before that, I was here to keep it sound through repairs and the usual troubles old houses encounter. Lady Lilly kept me on afterward.”

“You must have known her well.”

“Well enough,” he said. “She liked her quiet, but she was kind.”

“I wish I’d met her.”

“She wished that, too, Miss Lucy.”

Something in his tone made her chest tighten a little.

“She lived here as Lilly Pendragon?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. London knew her by her true name. Vermont was her refuge, under the Rowan name.” He met Lucy’s eyes. “She believed it safer that way.”

Lucy nodded. “Rowan for the world, Pendragon for herself.”

“A good balance,” Timothy said. “Your aunt appreciated symbols. The Rowan tree is meant to guard against misfortune.”

“I like that,” Lucy said softly.

He nodded toward the back door. A slender bicycle leaned near the coat stand, dark blue, simple and ready to ride.

“I took the liberty of preparing this for you,” he said. “Adjusted the height as best I could. London is reasonable with bicycles if you’re confident. Helmets are there as well. And a basket, should you feel a pastry calling your name.”

Lucy laughed, surprised by how natural it sounded. “You prepared a bicycle.”

“Your aunt preferred walking,” he said. “But the Pendragon line tends toward restlessness. I thought it wise to offer options.”

“You really do think ahead.”

“Old habits, Miss Lucy.”

She smiled. “Timothy, if it’s all right, I’d rather call you that than ‘Mr. Barrett.’ It makes me feel like I wandered into a period drama.”

“As you wish,” he said with a polite nod. Then, after a moment, “Your eyes are much like Lady Lilly’s. Green, with a touch of gold. The family trait never seems to fade.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “So I’ve heard,” she said, though she hadn’t. Not once.

“Some things make themselves known,” Timothy replied.

Lucy stood, set her cup in the sink, and looked toward the window. The morning had brightened into a soft silver light. A child called out somewhere in the street. The idea of a short ride, nothing adventurous, just a simple loop around the block, settled comfortably in her mind.

“Sam will be okay while I’m out?”

“Completely fine,” Timothy said. Sam accepted a chin rub with the dignity of someone granting permission. “Cats notice what others don’t. It’s why they fit well in this house.”

Lucy laughed. “Then he’s definitely staying.”

“I’ll take that ride,” she said. “Just a quick one. Ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Very good,” Timothy said. “Mind the taxis. They assume they’re indestructible.”

She grinned and headed for the stairs. The house felt watchful again, not in a heavy way, just attentive, as if it was quietly learning her footsteps.

The bicycle fit her well, steady under her hands as she rolled down the quiet street. Morning light was soft, the air cool with the smell of rain and something warm from a nearby bakery. London was starting its day: a delivery van idling at a corner, a dog pulling its sleepy owner toward a park, a boy with newspapers under his arm trying not to yawn.

Lucy kept an easy pace. The narrow streets curved around small squares bordered by iron fences and neat gardens still wet from the night. She noticed the things she always did, a curtain left partly open, a lamp still on, a stack of books in a window. A café was setting out chairs; a waiter polished a glass with the focus of someone who’d done the same job a thousand mornings.

At the edge of a square she stopped, one foot on the curb. From here the city opened a little, rows of terraces, chimneys, a faint glint of water far off. She took out her phone and snapped a few pictures: the quiet street, the bike’s long shadow, a quick one of herself with her hair pushed by the wind. Something to send home later. Something to mark the moment.

A red bus rumbled by, brushing her scarf loose. She caught it, laughing under her breath.

“Welcome to London, Lucy,” she said softly.

This time, the city didn’t feel distant. It just felt real.

By the time she rolled back through the gate, the house sat in a friendlier light. Timothy was nowhere in sight, already moving through whatever work he handled so quietly, but the kettle on the counter had been freshly filled. It felt like his version of a wave.

Sam appeared on the stairs, tail up, meowing as if she’d just returned from a heroic journey.

“Explored, not conquered,” she told him, giving him a quick squeeze before he wriggled free.

Upstairs, the shower filled the bathroom with steam. She let the heat take the edge off the morning chill and thought about the quiet streets, the way London felt both unfamiliar and oddly welcoming.

She dressed with a little extra care: a cream blouse, dark jeans, a fitted jacket that worked for a lawyer’s office without feeling unlike her. She clasped the silver pendant her mother had given her, the one thing that always made the trip, no matter where she went. When she brushed her hair, her reflection looked back with the same green eyes, the same small, curious half-smile she always had right before doing something new.

Downstairs, the foyer clock chimed nine. Sam had claimed the windowsill and was soaking up a bright patch of sun like he’d always lived there.

Lucy checked her bag one more time, touching the letter, her passport, her phone. She slipped on her jacket.

Outside, the morning had cleared into a bright, steady light. A dark car waited at the curb, polished enough to catch reflections of the plane trees overhead. Stephen Worthsby stood beside it, coat buttoned, hat perfectly straight.

He opened the door for her. “Good morning, Miss Pendragon. You look well. I trust London has treated you kindly so far?”

Lucy nodded. “So far, so good.”

“Excellent,” he said, motioning her into the car. “Let’s keep it that way.”

She settled into the back seat, the door closing with a quiet, confident click.

London moved past the window in a steady flow of turns and narrow streets, buildings leaning close as if they’d been listening to the city for centuries. Worthsby drove with practiced calm.

“London’s quieter in the morning,” he said. “It’s when the old bones show through.”

Lucy smiled. “You sound like you should give tours.”

He met her eye briefly in the mirror. “I prefer history you can walk past, not just read about.”

Traffic picked up near Westminster. The Abbey appeared in pieces between buses and taxis, then the Thames, bright under the bridges. Lucy lifted her phone for a couple of photos, knowing they wouldn’t catch the real feeling but wanting them anyway.

“Your aunt liked this drive,” Worthsby said. “She once told me London was a library that forgot how to close.”

Lucy shook her head, amused. “I think I like her more every time someone quotes her.”

They turned onto a quieter street, the noise dropping to the soft sound of tires on damp stone. Worthsby slowed to a stop in front of a pale brick Georgian building with carved stone trim. Discreet brass letters beside the door read:

Russell J. Martin, Solicitor

Worthsby stepped out first and opened her door. “Take your time, Miss Pendragon. Mr. Martin dislikes keeping people waiting, so he’s careful not to do it himself.”

Inside, the lobby was quiet and orderly, carrying the faint scent of lemon oil and old books. A receptionist with neat hair and a calm manner looked up.

“Miss Pendragon? Mr. Martin is expecting you. Would you like tea or coffee while you wait?”

“Coffee, please. Milk and a little sugar.”

“Of course.” She offered a small, practiced smile and motioned to a leather chair near the window.

Lucy sat and wrapped her hands around the coffee. The room felt deliberately arranged, oil portraits balanced by modern frames, a bronze clock ticking steadily. A single painting of green hills hung behind the desk, simple and old.

Before she could look at it too long, a side door opened.

“Miss Pendragon,” the man said. “Welcome to London, and to your family’s affairs.”

Russell J. Martin was tall, silver-haired, well put together, but his expression was warm enough to soften the formality of the place. His handshake was firm without trying to impress.

“It’s good to meet you,” he said. “Your aunt spoke of you often in her later years.”

“Only good things, I hope.”

“The very best,” he said. “Come with me. This room is too stiff for real conversation.”

The adjoining study was quieter, darker wood, a green-shaded lamp, a window that looked out over a small ivy-lined courtyard. On the table rested a thin folder and a small cream envelope sealed in wax.

They sat. Martin folded his hands.

“I’ll be direct. You are now the legal heir to all Pendragon estate holdings, here in London, in Devonshire, and the properties attached to them. Your aunt wanted the transition to be calm and private. That’s what we’ll aim for.”

Lucy blinked. “All holdings?”

“Yes.” He opened the folder. “Rowanmere Hall is the main property. The estate includes several hundred acres. Some are privately owned, others are tied to long-standing agreements with local conservation authorities. Parts of the surrounding woodland and hills aren’t deeded in the usual way, but the Pendragon family has access rights that go back centuries. Functionally, it’s all considered part of the Hall.”

Lucy let out a slow breath. “That’s… a lot.”

“It is,” he agreed, “but it’s manageable. Your aunt set up a steady trust years ago. Income comes from an agricultural lease on part of the land and a few conservation grants. Enough to maintain the property, support staff, and keep the Hall in good order.”

“That actually helps,” she admitted.

“It was designed to.” He turned a page. “There’s also a personal inheritance separate from the trust. Not extravagant, but meaningful. Something to give you room to settle.”

A small ache tightened in her chest. “She thought about everything.”

“With care,” Martin said. “And affection.”

He continued. “Regarding your bookshop, Pendragon’s Nook, you already own it outright. Your aunt bought it under the name Lilly Rowan and later folded it into the trust for safekeeping. It remains entirely yours.”

Lucy had to steady her breath. “She really planned all of this.”

“With remarkable foresight.”

He paused before the next part. “There is also a ceremonial title connected to Rowanmere: Lady Pendragon. It holds no legal authority now, but historically it did.”

Lucy blinked. “So I’m… Lady Pendragon.”

“In the traditional sense, yes. In practice, it’s a title people recall more than they use.”

“I can barely handle my shop’s tax forms.”

Martin smiled. “Then you’re already ahead of most people who’ve held titles.”

She laughed, tension easing. “What happens next?”

“Not much today. You’ll sign these documents to acknowledge the inheritance. After that, Worthsby will arrange your travel to Rowanmere Hall. There are letters and personal items your aunt wanted you to see yourself.”

Lucy signed where he indicated, each signature feeling strangely distant and real at the same time.

When she looked up, Martin held the cream envelope carefully.

“Your aunt left this with strict instructions,” he said. “It is to be given to you only after you accept the inheritance.”

The seal bore the shape of a dragon circling a sword.

Lucy brushed it lightly. “She really leaned into the symbolism.”

Martin offered a small smile. “Your aunt believed symbols last because people need them. This envelope is to be opened when you stand on Pendragon ground.”

Lucy nodded slowly, letting the words settle.

“Thank you,” she said.

“It’s my privilege,” he replied. “Lady Lilly trusted few people. You were one of them, even from afar.”

Lucy accepted the envelope. It was light as paper but carried a weight she couldn’t yet name. “I’ll take care of everything she left.”

“I believe you will.”

Martin rose. “Worthsby will drive you home. When you’re ready, the trip to Rowanmere can begin. If you need anything, my office is at your disposal.”

He opened the door. Light from the hall touched her eyes, and something in their green caught a brief shimmer of gold. Martin noticed, but said nothing. He simply gave a small, respectful nod.

A gesture that belonged to older traditions, passed down with quiet purpose.

Outside, Worthsby waited by the car, one gloved hand on the handle.

“All well, Miss Pendragon?”

Lucy nodded, the sealed envelope tucked close. “All well,” she said, though her voice carried the shaky wonder of someone still catching up to her own reality.

The drive back to the townhouse passed more quietly than the one that had brought her there. The afternoon light slid through breaks in the clouds, London moving at a slower pace, steadier, as if the city understood she needed a moment to catch her breath.

She kept the envelope on her lap. The wax seal was unbroken. Her thumb traced its edge without lifting it.

When Worthsby stopped at the gate, she thanked him.

“Have Timothy contact me when you are ready to travel,” he said.

“I will,” she promised.

The house looked just as she’d left it, warm light in the hall, curtains pulled against the gray. The air carried a faint hint of something baking. For a moment she wondered if Timothy had timed it deliberately, or if the house simply kept its own routines.

Timothy appeared at the base of the stairs, as neat as earlier. “Welcome home, Miss Lucy. Mr. Worthsby called. I hope the meeting went well?”

“It was… a lot.” She lifted the box slightly. “I apparently own an estate in Devonshire, and a history I didn’t know existed.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “Your aunt spoke often of the hills there. She said the place remembers more than people think.”

Lucy followed him into the kitchen. The table was already set with tea and a plate of scones. Sam sat in a chair as if he’d been waiting to preside over the afternoon.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Timothy said.

“Hungry, tired, and still half convinced I dreamed all of this.”

He poured tea without hurry. “Travel and surprise can do that. Give it a little time.”

Lucy buttered a scone, her hands steadier than her thoughts. “You always sound like you’re holding back the real answer.”

“I’ve learned to listen,” he said. “Most answers show up when people are ready for them.”

She smiled faintly. “Can I ask a few things?”

“Of course.”

She took a breath. “What is Rowanmere Hall like? How big is it?”

“Large enough to notice, small enough to live in. The original part is late medieval. It’s been added to over the years. Tall chimneys, long halls with good morning light. Around forty rooms, though most stay closed.”

Lucy blinked. “Forty.”

“Don’t let that trouble you. Old houses end up with more rooms than anyone needs.”

She laughed under her breath. “All right. And the grounds?”

“Several hundred acres. Woods, a ravine that runs strong in spring, open meadows. Part of the land is leased for grazing. Sheep, mostly. They’re easy tenants.”

Lucy pictured that and smiled. “And orchards?”

“A small one. Apples, a few pears. Enough for the house. And a garden the staff tends.”

“There are staff, then?”

“A couple,” he said. “You’ll meet them when the time comes. The Hall runs better with a light hand.”

She thought about that. “Did my aunt live there full time?”

“No,” Timothy said. “She split her time between London and Rowanmere. In her later years she went to the Hall more often. It was quieter for her.”

“And you? Did you stay there with her?”

He shook his head. “Only when needed. Repairs, seasonal work. London was my main post. Your aunt valued her privacy at the Hall.”

Lucy nodded. “I understand.”

She touched the box lightly, fingers brushing its simple grain. “She left this for me. I’m not supposed to open it until I’m standing on Pendragon ground.”

“Then that’s when you’ll open it,” Timothy said gently.

“And until then?”

“Until then, rest. Eat. Look after your cat. There’s no rush. Old houses do better with healthy people in them.”

Sam stretched as if making his own point. Lucy scratched behind his ears and felt the steadying weight of routine slip back into place.

She finished her tea slowly. The idea of going straight upstairs felt too still, so she stood.

“I think I’ll take a short walk.”

Timothy nodded. “The back garden is pleasant now. The sun hits the west wall.”

Lucy fetched her jacket, left the sealed envelope safely in her room, and stepped outside.

The garden was small but welcoming, a neat rectangle of green bordered by climbing roses and a worn stone bench. The sun edged through the clouds long enough to warm the flagstones. Lucy sat and let the quiet settle. A blackbird searched near the hydrangeas. Somewhere past the wall, a child laughed; the sound drifted over like something familiar.

She pulled out her phone and called Daniel and Jesse.

Daniel answered right away. “Lucy? Everything okay?”

“Everything’s… big,” she said with a soft laugh. “I met with the lawyer.”

Jesse joined in. “And?”

“And I apparently own a house. An old one. And land. And a title I’m definitely not trained for.”

They reacted exactly the way she expected, warm, loud, proud, overlapping each other in the way families do when they care too much to take turns. She shared what she could without getting overwhelmed. They asked when they could visit. She said soon.

After the call, she opened her journal. The page waited, plain and patient.

Rowanmere Hall.

She wrote the name again, slower.

An estate. A title. A part of my life I didn’t see coming.

The pen hesitated as she admitted the truth.

She was afraid. She was curious. She was tired.

The sun dipped behind the chimneys, cooling the stones under her feet.

She closed the journal and headed back inside.

The house had settled into its late afternoon quiet. Lamps cast warm circles of light. Sam greeted her with a quick chirp and wound around her ankles as if clocking her back into ordinary life.

She found Timothy in the sitting room checking the latch on a window.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For the tea?” he asked.

“For the day,” she replied. “For keeping it from feeling like too much.”

He gave a small nod. “Days only overwhelm us when we forget to pause.”

She smiled a little. “Did you ever think this family’s story would end up with me?”

Timothy met her eyes. “It was never meant to end, Miss Lucy. It was only waiting.”

The weight of the day settled over her, not heavily, just present.

“I’ll try not to leave it waiting.”

“A good choice,” he said.

She sniffed the air. “Is something cooking?”

“Something simple,” Timothy said. “Would you like to see?”

The kitchen was warm and steady. A pot simmered on the stove. The table was already set for two, a small vase of flowers in the center. Sam ignored them with practiced dignity.

“I hope you don’t mind a plain supper,” Timothy said. “Stew and bread. It suits long days.”

“It smells perfect,” Lucy said, taking her seat.

They ate quietly. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the first spoonful settled in. The rhythm of the meal, spoons clinking, warm bread passed across the table, Sam circling with patient hope, felt grounding in a way she hadn’t expected.

She asked small questions while they ate about the weather in Devonshire, the nearest village, the kinds of birds she might see. Timothy answered each with steady, simple detail.

When the dishes were done, he wiped his hands on a towel. “You’ve had a long day. Rest while you can. Tomorrow will bring its own things.”

“I think you’re right,” Lucy said.

She climbed the stairs with Sam trotting ahead. The old house made its quiet, familiar sounds, pipes shifting, wood settling.

In her room, she set the sealed envelope on the bedside table, dimmed the lamp, and slid into bed. Sam curled against her side.

She fell asleep within minutes.

Fog pressed low across the rear garden, muffling every shape into soft shadows. A man moved along the narrow alley behind the townhouse, steps light, breath steady. He paused at the back gate, glancing once toward the quiet windows before testing the latch with practiced fingers.

The iron resisted him.

He tried again, slower this time, reading the metal. The latch gave a half-click, then stopped as if something unseen held it still. His brow tightened. He knew locks. He knew how they failed and why. This was neither.

A faint ripple of unease threaded through him, rare and unwelcome.

Inside the house, Timothy Barrett stopped mid-step. The wards, quiet for years, stirred again at the perimeter, brushing against his awareness with familiar insistence. He set aside his book and moved through the hall with measured steps, opening the back door with the steady calm of someone answering a call he could not ignore.

He stepped onto the stone path just as the intruder tried the gate a third time.

“Evening,” Timothy said, voice gentle but firm. “The garden is closed.”

The man straightened at once. No surprise in his movements, only recalculation. His eyes swept Timothy, the path, the windows. He made no attempt to argue.

“Understood,” he said quietly.

He stepped back from the gate, hands easing into the pockets of his coat, posture controlled. But he glanced once more at the latch, something in his gaze unsettled by what he could not explain.

Timothy studied him in return. “You will find nothing here for you tonight.”

The man’s eyes flicked briefly toward the house. Not hostile. Assessing.

Then he inclined his head once, a small acknowledgment, and began to withdraw toward the alley. No threats. No bravado. Just the clean efficiency of a man abandoning a plan the moment it ceased to make sense.

Timothy raised a silver whistle and blew, a sharp note slicing through the fog. Not a challenge. A safeguard. An old habit ensuring the intruder did not return.

Blue lights glimmered faintly through the mist from the next street. The man hesitated, just long enough to measure his odds, then stepped into the alley. He meant to vanish.

He almost did.

But the constables emerged from the fog, cutting off his path. He stopped without resistance as they approached.

Timothy reached them with calm, steady steps. “This gentleman was in the garden,” he said. “He attempted the gate. He seems mistaken about where he should be tonight.”

The man looked at Timothy, not furious, but shaken in a way he tried to conceal. “That gate should have opened,” he murmured.

Timothy held his gaze. “Not for you.”

The constables led the man away through the fog. No struggle. Only a last, unsettled glance at the house.

Timothy returned to the garden, closing the gate with a natural, ordinary click. The wards settled again, quieting into the stone and earth as though nothing had happened.

Inside, the house breathed in calm.

Upstairs, Lucy slept soundly, Sam curved at her side, the sealed envelope resting in a soft thread of moonlight.