Chapter 8 - Where Lucy Belongs

Lucy woke feeling like she had not entirely returned from sleep, as if a thin thread still tied her to yesterday’s revelations. The ceiling above her wore a faint, early gray, the kind that suggested London had not quite made up its mind about the weather yet. Sam, loyal to his brand, had claimed the exact center of the bed sometime in the night and now lay curled with the smug serenity of a creature who believed mornings were optional.

She blinked up at the soft wash of light for a moment, letting the truth come back to her slowly.

A bookstore. A townhouse in London. An estate in Devonshire. Rowanmere Hall. Her estate.

The thought still landed strangely in her mind, like a sentence she needed to reread. "Well," she murmured, "there is a plot twist." Sam grunted without opening his eyes.

Lucy grabbed her phone from the bedside table and, out of sheer grounded practicality, typed in Dartmoor into her maps app. A shape appeared on the screen, a broad green sweep of national parkland full of moors, tors, and winding roads. "That is... vast," she whispered. She zoomed in. Forests, valleys, scattered villages. Was Rowanmere in the park? Next to it? Was that even legal?

Sam opened one eye at the soft glow of the phone, blinked once, then shut it again with deliberate disinterest.

"Sorry, sir," Lucy said. "Did not mean to disturb your beauty rest."

She eased out of bed and padded toward the bathroom. Sam stretched exactly three inches and settled again. Inside, she splashed water on her face and reached for the robe she had draped on a brass hook the night before. The monogram caught her eye again, LP, and she paused, thumb brushing the stitching.

Lilly Pendragon. Lucy Pendragon.

The initials felt heavier today, like the robe had been waiting for her all along.

Descending the stairs, she caught faint kitchen sounds: the soft clink of porcelain, the sigh of a kettle just before it boiled. Toast too, that unmistakable warm, golden smell that always made mornings feel manageable.

Timothy was already there, of course, sleeves rolled neatly, moving with his usual quiet precision. A plate of eggs and sliced fruit waited on the table, as if conjured by good manners alone.

"Good morning, Miss Lucy," he said. "I trust the night treated you kindly?"

"It did," she said, "though Sam may claim otherwise. He is working through something emotionally rigorous, like waking up."

Timothy’s smile flickered, subtle but unmistakably amused. "Cats are philosophers at heart. They take their time engaging with the world."

Lucy took her seat, grateful for the warm mug of coffee he set before her. "This is perfect. Thank you."

"You are most welcome. I thought a light breakfast would suit. Travel days rarely pair well with heavy meals."

"Travel day," she echoed. "Right. We are leaving around...?"

"Ten o’clock," Timothy said. "Mr. Worthsby will drive us to Rowanmere Hall. The journey should take three to four hours depending on traffic."

Lucy buttered a slice of toast, comfort in familiar motion. "I looked up Dartmoor this morning. It is huge. My estate is not actually in the national park, is it?"

"Bordering it," Timothy said. "Close enough to borrow the quiet, far enough to avoid the tourists. Your aunt always liked a balance."

Lucy nodded. "Good to know. I was picturing hiking trails cutting right through the living room."

"That would be inconvenient," Timothy agreed mildly. "Particularly on laundry days."

She laughed softly into her coffee. Exactly the tone she needed: light, warm, no sudden revelations. Just two people sharing morning air before a long day.

He refilled her cup before she could ask.

"Will Mr. Worthsby be joining us all the way?" she asked.

"He will take us as far as the main drive. After that, Hall staff will see us in."

"Staff," Lucy echoed faintly, still not used to that word applying to her in any capacity. "This is all still... a lot."

Timothy nodded, folding a dish towel with the kind of care most people reserved for fine china. "Then we shall take it one moment at a time. Today’s moment is breakfast."

Lucy took another bite, letting the warmth settle her nerves. He was right. One moment at a time.

Sam padded in at last, stretching his spine into an elegant arch before hopping onto the spare chair. Timothy poured a tiny splash of cream into a saucer and set it down for him without comment.

Lucy raised an eyebrow. "I see you have already been claimed."

"I have been claimed by cats many times over the years," Timothy said. "I have learned it is best not to resist."

Lucy grinned. "I am starting to suspect nothing surprises you."

"Surprise keeps the house lively," he said. "But breakfast first. Then the day can surprise us at its leisure."

Lucy finished her meal, feeling steadier than when she had woken. The day ahead was large, unfamiliar, maybe even life changing, but for now she was grounded.

One moment at a time. And the first moment of the day had begun well.

By ten o’clock, Lucy had her bag ready, Sam settled into his soft-sided carrier, and her nerves arranged into something that felt almost like excitement. Timothy checked the locks as she slipped on her jacket, and then they stepped out into the cool morning air. The London townhouse, with its dignified façade and pale brick, looked calmer in daylight, as if it approved of her plans.

Worthsby waited by the car, immaculate as ever. He opened the rear door with a small, respectful nod. “Good morning, Miss Pendragon. A fine day for travel.”

Lucy smiled. “So I’m told. And please, Lucy is fine.”

“As you wish,” he said, though the careful politeness in his tone suggested he would still default to Miss Pendragon unless ordered otherwise.

She settled in with Sam’s carrier beside her. Timothy took the front passenger seat. The car rode smoothly as Worthsby guided them into the gentle flow of traffic.

London was already alive. Red buses turned corners with practiced grace, cyclists zipped past in bright jackets, and pedestrians walked with the confident purpose of people who knew every pavement stone by heart. Lucy pressed her palm lightly to the cool glass, feeling the hum of the city through it.

It was her first real look at London in daylight, and she could not stop smiling.

“Can we… point things out?” she asked, a little sheepish. “If anything is interesting? Feel free to narrate.”

Worthsby gave a soft, amused chuckle. “Of course. London is more enjoyable when shared.”

Timothy inclined his head. “I have found definition adds delight.”

“Good,” Lucy said. “Because right now everything looks cinematic.”

They passed rows of terraces whose brickwork held centuries of sun and soot. Lucy snapped a picture of a bright blue doorway framed by overflowing flower boxes.

“That is Chelsea,” Worthsby said. “This part, at least. Very old, very beloved.”

“It looks like a painting,” Lucy said.

A little farther along, the car curved toward the river. The Thames appeared like a long gray ribbon, glinting under a soft sun.

“That is the Albert Bridge ahead,” Worthsby said. “Painted pink and white for visibility. Some believe it is the prettiest bridge in London.”

Lucy snapped a photo through the window. “It’s delicate. Like lace in metal form.”

Traffic thickened as they neared Parliament. Big Ben rose in the distance, half-shrouded in morning haze.

Lucy leaned forward slightly. “That’s surreal. I’ve seen that in movies my whole life.”

Timothy said, “Landmarks have that effect. They belong to the world’s imagination before they belong to our eyes.”

She smiled. “You’re poetic today.”

“I am consistent,” Timothy replied calmly.

Lucy laughed.

Worthsby guided the car onto Millbank, giving Lucy a clear view of the Houses of Parliament. She took a photo without hesitation. This time she did not even pretend it was subtle.

“That is Westminster Abbey just beyond,” Worthsby added. “If you look closely, the east window catches the morning sun in a particular way.”

Lucy did look, and the light pooled across the stone like warm honey. “I could spend days here and not run out of things to stare at.”

“Your aunt often said the city had a thousand faces,” Timothy said, “and she enjoyed meeting each one.”

The car pressed on, leaving the tighter heart of London behind. Buildings gradually loosened, trading stone and ornament for more modern façades. Lucy continued snapping pictures: a market stall setting up crates of oranges, a street musician tuning a violin, an elderly couple sharing a bench with matching umbrellas.

She watched London shrink in stages, like a storybook closing itself page by page.

After a time, the car merged onto a larger road, and the city finally gave way to open stretches of countryside. Fields unrolled in broad strokes of green and brown, dotted with sheep that looked like misplaced clouds.

Lucy exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath without noticing. “It’s so open. I didn’t expect England to feel this roomy.”

“Beyond the cities, England enjoys its space,” Timothy said. “In its own measured way.”

“Timothy,” she said softly, “thank you for pointing things out. Both of you. I didn’t want to admit it, but I’ve been feeling… small. In a good way, I think.”

Worthsby glanced at her in the mirror. “It is natural. New places remind us there is more world than worry.”

Lucy smiled. “That’s exactly it.”

She looked out the window again. The patchwork fields slipped by, gentle and steady. A few miles more and the land began to lift and fold into hills, the kind that rolled like soft waves.

“Somerset soon,” Worthsby said. “Then Devon.”

Lucy tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and checked on Sam, who dozed peacefully, apparently unbothered by his international adventure.

She looked back to the window and felt that mix of nerves and wonder again, stronger this time.

She was on her way to Rowanmere Hall. Her family’s story waited there. Her aunt’s secrets. Her mother’s past. Everything she had not known she was missing.

Her fingers tightened gently on the carrier handle.

One moment at a time, she reminded herself.

And this moment felt like the world opening its hand.

The farther they traveled from London, the quieter Lucy became. Not tense, just thoughtful. The countryside outside the window had shifted into wide, sweeping fields broken by stone walls and small clusters of farmhouses. The kind of scenery that encouraged reflection whether you asked for it or not.

Worthsby drove with steady confidence. Timothy sat in the front passenger seat, hands folded neatly, gaze calm and distant. Sam slept through most of it, a soft purr vibrating from the carrier like he approved of the entire journey.

Lucy leaned her shoulder against the door and watched the world roll by. Without meaning to, her thoughts drifted to Daniel and Jesse.

What, exactly, was she going to tell them?

“Hi, so, funny story… I am apparently the heir to an estate in Devonshire. Also, I own a townhouse in London now. Also, please don’t panic.”

Yes. That would go over beautifully.

But beneath the humor was something tender. She wanted them to see all this, the townhouse, the quiet kitchen, the carved banister, the London streets wrapped in morning light. And Rowanmere too, once she knew what it meant to her. She wanted them to be part of this new piece of her life, not distant observers.

Her thoughts drifted toward Hannah next.

She could already imagine that conversation.

“Hannah, I have news.” “Oh no. What did you break?” “Nothing.” “What did someone else break?” “No one broke anything.” “You’re worrying me.” “I inherited an estate.” “…What?” “And a title.” “…No, really. What did you do?” “Apparently all I had to do was exist.”

The imagined exchange made her laugh quietly into her hand.

Hannah would love it here. She’d wander the lanes of Dartmoor, photograph everything, ask the locals questions they absolutely weren’t expecting. She’d pretend she wasn’t impressed, then tear up about it later in private. Hannah was many things, but dishonest about her heart wasn’t one of them.

Lucy pressed her forehead lightly against the cool window. She didn’t want this new life to change her in the wrong ways. She didn’t want distance to grow between herself and the people she loved. She wanted to stay Lucy, the woman who loved books, quiet mornings, warm tea, and the small routines that kept life steady. The woman who still texted her foster parents every day, who cried at sentimental films, who laughed with Hannah until she couldn’t breathe.

She did not want to forget anyone. Or lose herself in the process.

“You are quiet,” Timothy said gently from the front.

Lucy lifted her head. “Just thinking.”

“About home?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “And about bringing home with me. If that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Timothy said. “Places shape us, but people anchor us.”

Worthsby added without looking back, “Good companions keep us steady when life surprises us.”

Lucy smiled softly. “Then I am very lucky.”

The car rolled on, the hills becoming more pronounced, the sky wider and clearer than before. Devonshire was close now. Rowanmere Hall waited somewhere ahead, tucked into the folds of the land.

Her nerves hummed. But so did her wonder.

She wasn’t stepping into this alone. She carried her people with her, in memory, in intention, in the quiet warmth they gave her.

Whatever waited at Rowanmere, she would face it as herself. Grounded. Kind. Connected.

One moment at a time.

The Devonshire countryside unfolded outside the windows in long, gentle waves of green. Hedgerows stitched the fields together. A few distant church spires broke the horizon like quiet punctuation marks in an old story. Lucy watched it all with the kind of curiosity that made her heart feel full and light at the same time.

She had been trying to keep her nerves steady, but the closer they drew to Dartmoor, the harder it became to ignore the questions hovering in the back of her mind. Eventually one of them slipped out.

"Timothy," she said softly, "can I ask something? Something historical, not mystical."

He turned slightly in his seat. "Of course."

Lucy hesitated. "Stories always place the Pendragons near Cornwall. Near the sea. Castles on cliffs, storms, all of that. But Aunt Lilly lived in London. And Rowanmere Hall is in Devonshire. It feels so different from the old tales. I guess I am wondering why the family is here instead. How that happened."

Timothy nodded as if he had expected this question and had simply waited for it. "A fair question. One that comes to many who know the legends."

Worthsby kept his eyes on the road, but a faint shift in his posture suggested he was listening too.

"The simplest answer," Timothy said, "is that the family moved. Quietly, deliberately, and long ago."

"Moved?" Lucy echoed. "As in resettled somewhere new?"

"Yes," Timothy replied. "Despite how the stories portray them, the Pendragons were not fixtures of courts and battles for nearly as long as people imagine. By the later medieval period, they were already turning away from the public eye. There were disputes, rivalries, the usual troubles that come when a name carries too much attention. Life near the old centers of power became rather crowded."

Lucy pictured it: a family weary of expectation and constant scrutiny, stepping back from the noise of legend and politics.

"So they left Cornwall?" she asked.

"In stages," Timothy replied. "First inland, away from the coast, then farther north and east. The branch your aunt belonged to settled in Devonshire several centuries ago. Too many wars in the wider world, too much interest in who they were. They preferred a quieter life, land they could tend, and a home where no one expected them to live up to a myth."

Lucy absorbed that slowly. "That sounds incredibly human. Not grand. Just wanting peace."

"A common desire, Miss Lucy," Timothy said gently. "And a sensible one. Their time near the sea was full of upheaval. Devonshire offered stillness. Space. Anonymity. No one troubles you in the moors unless you invite them."

Lucy smiled faintly. "Good to know."

"Rowanmere Hall grew around that idea," Timothy continued. "Not as a fortress or a showpiece, but as a refuge. A place for the family to live quietly, to raise children, to leave behind the noise of older generations. The Pendragons who came here wanted a life measured by seasons, not by stories."

Lucy felt something warm loosen in her chest. "I like that. A lot more than you probably think."

"I suspected you might," Timothy said with a small nod.

She turned her gaze back to the window, seeing the land differently now. Knowing her family had chosen quiet instead of being forced into it softened the edges of everything she had been afraid of. It made Rowanmere feel less like a spotlight and more like a home that had simply waited its turn.

"So Rowanmere is not about legend at all," she said. "It is just home."

"Exactly," Timothy replied. "Your aunt believed that deeply. She loved the old stories, but she loved real land more. The quiet paths, the garden walls, the gentler mornings. Home matters more than history."

Lucy nodded slowly, letting that settle. It made the coming arrival feel less intimidating. Less like stepping into a story she had to perform.

She pressed her hand lightly against Sam’s carrier. "I think that is what I needed to hear."

"I suspected as much," Timothy replied.

Ahead of them, the hills began to rise, and a darker stretch of land marked the first edge of the moors. The sky widened. The air seemed to shift.

Lucy sat back, breathing in the quiet, feeling steadier than before.

Rowanmere was not a legend waiting to judge her. It was a home waiting to welcome her.

The landscape shifted as they reached the edges of Dartmoor. The hills rose in long, rolling sweeps, the moorland stretching out in an ancient sprawl of heather and stone. The air carried a faint, clean chill that hinted at higher ground ahead. Sheep grazed along the slopes with an unhurried confidence that made Lucy smile.

Around midday, Worthsby slowed the car beside a modest hanging sign that read The Highwayman Inn. It swung gently in the breeze, unassuming at first glance.

Then Lucy saw the building beyond it.

The entire front façade had been crafted into the shape of a stagecoach, complete with carved wooden wheels, lanterns, and shuttered coach windows. It looked as though a full-sized coach had driven straight into the inn and simply become part of the wall.

Lucy blinked. “Is that…?”

Worthsby nodded with a hint of pride. “A landmark of the area. Lady Lilly always stopped here on her way to the Hall.”

Timothy stepped out of the car with calm familiarity. “It has character.”

“That is one word for it,” Lucy murmured, unable to suppress her grin.

Inside, the inn felt even more like stepping through a portal into a story. The lighting was warm and low, made golden by lanterns and the flicker of a generous fire in the stone hearth. Carved wooden figures watched from the beams above, travelers, mythical characters, highwaymen, and other curious faces. Costumes, masks, maps, and odd trinkets hung from the walls in a joyful clutter that felt whimsical rather than chaotic.

The place had the atmosphere of an old adventure tale, the kind told beside a fire on a rainy night.

Behind the bar stood a woman with silver hair and kind eyes. Her face brightened the moment she saw Timothy.

“Well now,” she said warmly. “Mr. Barrett. You have been away too long.”

Timothy offered a courteous nod. “Mrs. Endicott.”

Lucy liked the way his surname sounded spoken aloud, as though it tethered him more firmly to the world.

Mrs. Endicott leaned on the bar. “Are you keeping well?”

“As well as the moors allow,” Timothy said, his tone mild.

She smiled, then let her gaze shift to Lucy. “And who is this young lady?”

“Lucy,” she said, offering a friendly smile. “Lovely to meet you.”

“A pleasure, love,” Mrs. Endicott said. “Any friend of his is welcome here. Sit wherever calls to you.”

Lucy loved that. She loved this place already.

They chose a sturdy wooden table beneath a carved archway shaped like part of an old ship. Sam stayed tucked in his carrier beneath the table, giving a few opinionated chirps at the unfamiliar smells.

Mrs. Endicott brought menus, but Timothy said softly, “The specials are always good.”

Lucy ordered the vegetable pie, and when it arrived, golden, steaming, and fragrant, her first bite nearly made her eyes drift shut.

“This is wonderful,” she said.

Mrs. Endicott beamed. “Glad to hear it.”

As they ate, Lucy let her gaze drift across the room. Every corner held an unexpected detail: a carved mermaid here, a ship’s wheel there, a collection of lanterns above a window. It felt as if the inn had been collecting stories for decades and was waiting for someone to ask about them.

“Aunt Lilly must have liked this place,” Lucy said quietly.

“She did,” Timothy replied. “She enjoyed places with personality. She said they reminded her that the world still has magic even when no one is looking for it.”

Lucy smiled at that. “That sounds exactly like her.”

They were nearly finished when the front door opened with a soft jingle.

A man stepped inside.

He wore a worn coat and sturdy boots, the sort of traveler who blended in easily. But his eyes moved differently. Sharp. Appraising. Every corner of the room seemed to fall under his inspection.

Timothy went still.

It was the smallest shift, a pause in breath, a quiet focus settling in his posture, but Lucy felt it. She had learned to read him in these small ways.

The man ordered a drink at the bar, but his attention kept returning to the room. When his gaze swept across them, it lingered on Lucy.

Her auburn hair in the moorland light. Her green eyes brightened by the window’s glow.

A quiet prickle brushed her skin.

Timothy set down his fork with careful calm. “We will be on our way soon,” he said softly. “Finish at your pace. But do not linger.”

Lucy nodded, sensing the shift in the air even if she did not fully understand it.

Mrs. Endicott returned briefly, chatting as she took their plates, unaware of anything amiss. Timothy placed a few folded notes on the table and rose, helping Lucy into her coat.

Outside, the cool moorland air felt grounding. Lucy glanced back through the window just before Worthsby opened the car door. The man inside had risen. He stood watching them leave with a narrowed, thoughtful expression.

Inside the car, doors closed with a steady click. Worthsby pulled away from the inn smoothly.

“The man inside was not here by chance,” Timothy said quietly.

Lucy felt her breath hitch. “What do you mean?”

“Some people carry their intentions like a shadow,” Timothy said. “You do not need to hear their words to understand them.”

Lucy swallowed. “Was he looking for me?”

“Possibly,” Timothy said. “Or for something connected to you.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“In the usual physical sense, likely not,” Timothy said. “But he is the sort of man who pays attention where I would rather he did not.”

Lucy looked down, steadying her breath. “Do you think he will try to follow us?”

“He will not,” Timothy said with quiet certainty.

And though she did not know how he could be so sure, she trusted him.

The moorland ahead rose into sweeping, ancient curves. The sky opened wider. The air felt different, charged with something old but welcoming.

Lucy watched the inn disappear behind them.

Her journey was shifting. Something ahead waited for her. Something long overdue.

They continued toward Rowanmere Hall.

The road narrowed as they approached the moor proper. Stone walls bordered the way in long, uneven stretches, covered in moss and lichen. The wind moved differently here, carrying a cool hush that settled on the land like an old promise.

Lucy rested her forehead lightly against the window, watching as the open moorland shifted into a quieter, more sheltered landscape. Trees gathered in small clusters. Old oaks. Twisted beeches. Hawthorn hedges grown thick with time.

Worthsby guided the car along a winding lane lined with ancient stone markers. Timothy sat forward slightly, an attentive stillness settling into him. It was the kind of stillness Lucy had learned meant he sensed something she did not.

Lucy felt something too, though she could not name it. A small tug in her chest. A gentle awareness beneath her skin, like the faintest vibration of a string pulled taut.

“What is that feeling?” she whispered.

Timothy glanced back at her with kind eyes. “Home has a way of recognizing its own.”

Lucy’s breath caught.

As the car rounded one final bend, the trees parted, and Rowanmere Hall came into view.

The world seemed to still.

The Hall rose from the landscape like a long, graceful stone poem. Not a castle and not a manor chasing grandeur, but something older and quieter. Its walls were soft gray, warmed by years of sun and softened by ivy climbing the corners. Mullioned windows reflected the light like calm eyes. The roofline dipped and rose with character. The entire structure looked both sturdy and welcoming.

Lucy pressed a hand to her heart. “It is beautiful.”

Worthsby slowed the car so she could take it in fully.

Timothy watched her, and something in his face softened. “Your aunt used to say that Rowanmere never tried to impress anyone. It simply was itself. That was enough.”

“She was right,” Lucy whispered.

The car eased to a gentle stop near the front steps.

Lucy stepped out first, her shoe crunching softly against the gravel.

The instant her foot touched the ground, the air shifted.

It was subtle. A barely perceptible tremor in the atmosphere, like the faintest change in pressure when a door opens somewhere unseen. Lucy felt only a small flutter in her chest, gentle as a sigh. She lifted her head, puzzled but calm. The breeze brushed past her cheek with a softness that felt almost like greeting.

She thought it was nerves or the beauty of the place.

But Timothy felt the full weight of it.

His breath caught for half a heartbeat. He closed his eyes briefly, not in alarm but in recognition. The wards, old, quiet, woven into the land itself, stirred at Lucy’s presence. They brushed against him like an unseen wind, warm and powerful, awakening after long sleep.

He steadied himself, his expression smoothing before Lucy could notice. He whispered so softly the wind almost stole the words: “She is home.”

Lucy turned toward him. “Did you say something?”

Timothy gave a gentle smile. “Only that the air is different here.”

Before she could ask what he meant, an older man stepped out from a side path, wiping his hands on a cloth. Sturdy, silver-haired, with eyes bright and steady. His face carried the lines of someone who had spent a lifetime working in honest weather.

He approached with a respectful nod. “Welcome home, Miss Pendragon.”

Lucy stared for a moment, startled by the title. “You must be the groundskeeper?”

“Yes, miss,” he said warmly. “Evan Haywood. My family has cared for these grounds for generations. It is good to see the Hall with its rightful lady again.”

Lucy flushed, still not used to the title but touched by the sincerity in his voice. “It is lovely to meet you, Mr. Haywood.”

“Evan is just fine,” he said with a nod.

Timothy shook his hand. “Good to see you again.”

“And you, Mr. Barrett,” Evan replied. “We have kept things as she liked.”

Lucy didn’t need the name to know he meant her aunt. Something inside her tightened and warmed all at once.

Evan turned toward the front door. “Mrs. Hughes is inside. She has been preparing everything for your arrival.”

Lucy followed them up the stone steps. The front doors opened before she reached for them.

A woman stood there, dressed neatly in a housekeeper’s uniform, her posture straight but welcoming. She looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with calm warm brown eyes and a gentle expression.

“Miss Pendragon,” she said with quiet joy, dipping her head slightly. “Welcome to Rowanmere Hall. I am Mrs. Gloria Hughes. We have been expecting you.”

Lucy stepped inside.

A gentle warmth swept over her, like recognition.

A quiet settling beneath her ribs, as if the air itself had shifted to make room for her.

The entryway was elegant without excess. Stone floors softened by warm rugs. Landscapes of the moors hung on the walls. A polished wooden staircase rose gracefully on one side. Light filtered through high windows with a soft, golden glow.

Lucy stood still, letting the moment wash over her.

Mrs. Hughes watched her with a kind, knowing smile. “Many people say the Hall feels welcoming when they first step inside. Lady Lilly used to say it had a mind of its own. A kind one.”

Lucy swallowed. “I think I feel it.”

“It remembers those who belong here,” Timothy added gently.

Lucy felt her throat tighten. “I… I am honored.”

Mrs. Hughes nodded. “Take all the time you need. Your rooms are ready. I will bring tea to the sitting room whenever you wish.”

Lucy turned slowly, absorbing the details. The house felt alive in a way she could not understand, quiet, patient, aware. She placed her hand on the banister. The wood felt warm. As if recognizing her. As if greeting her. As if relieved. She exhaled, steady and full of wonder.

Evan carried in her luggage. Mrs. Hughes guided her gently forward. Timothy lingered near the entry, watching her with pride and a quiet, unspoken awe at the awakening happening all around them.

Sam padded into the hall behind her, tail high, as though the entire place had passed his inspection and earned his approval. Lucy breathed in deeply. She felt at home.

Mrs. Hughes led the way down a broad corridor lit by soft afternoon light. The air inside the Hall carried a gentle scent of old books, polished wood, and something faintly floral that Lucy could not place. It reminded her of lavender and something older, something rooted.

Lucy walked slowly, absorbing everything as they moved. The walls held framed landscapes of the moors in every season. Winter frost on low stone walls. Summer heather blooming purple. Autumn gold across the rolling fields. Each painting felt like a window into a memory the house had kept.

“This corridor leads to the main sitting rooms,” Mrs. Hughes explained. “Lady Lilly preferred the south-facing rooms for reading. You will find them much the same as she left them.”

Lucy smiled. “I would like that.”

She paused to look at a painting hung slightly apart from the others. It showed a large, solitary oak tree standing in an open field, its branches stretching wide as though sheltering the land beneath it.

Mrs. Hughes noticed her interest. “That oak is on the western edge of the property. It has stood there longer than any of us. Some say it is as old as the Hall itself.”

Lucy felt a soft pull toward it, quiet and inexplicable.

They continued into the first sitting room, a warm space lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The shelves held an array of old novels, nature journals, histories, and poetry collections. A pair of matching armchairs faced a broad stone hearth. A woven rug in deep greens and soft reds warmed the room.

Lucy stepped inside and felt her chest loosen. “This is… perfect,” she whispered.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. “Lady Lilly spent most of her evenings here. I imagine you will be comfortable in it as well.”

Lucy traced her fingers along the spines of the books. Some titles were familiar, others old enough that she doubted they were in print anymore. A thin layer of dust rested on the highest shelves, but the lower ones had been tended recently, as though someone visited this room still.

“Did she read all of these?” Lucy asked.

“Many of them,” Mrs. Hughes said. “She loved stories. And she loved this room more than any other.”

Lucy let her hand fall to her side. A quiet ache settled in her chest, warm and gentle. “I wish I had known her.”

Mrs. Hughes placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “In some ways, you will come to know her here.”

Timothy appeared in the doorway, watching Lucy with patient affection. “Shall we continue?”

Lucy nodded.

They walked through a second sitting room and an old study with a large desk set beneath a tall window. Sunlight streamed across the wood in shifting patterns. Papers, neatly stacked, sat in a small pile. A closed fountain pen rested on top.

Lucy paused. “These were hers?”

Mrs. Hughes nodded. “Her writing things. We have not moved them.”

Lucy ran a finger across the desk. The warmth she felt earlier deepened. The room smelled faintly of ink and lavender, like the echo of someone’s presence.

They moved on.

The next corridor widened, curving gently before opening into a hall lined with portraits.

Lucy’s steps slowed.

This part felt different. Quiet in a deeper way. As though the air itself held its breath.

The portraits varied in age, from cracked oil paintings in heavy frames to more recent, softer-toned canvases. The oldest faces were solemn, dressed in fashions she recognized from historical novels. The newer ones softened, showing people laughing, standing in gardens, sitting near horses or stone fences.

Lucy stopped before one portrait and felt her breath catch. A young woman with auburn hair and bright green eyes. Her eyes. Her coloring. Her smile. She looked like Lucy. Or Lucy looked like her. Mrs. Hughes stepped closer. “This was your grandmother, Morwenna Pendragon.” Lucy swallowed. “She looks… familiar.”

“She should,” Timothy said quietly. “Your aunt often said you carried her spirit.”

Lucy breathed the name as if testing its weight. “Morwenna. That is beautiful. What does it mean?”

“A Cornish name,” Mrs. Hughes replied, her voice warm with memory. “Old in its way. Most say it means maiden of the sea. Others say it carries a sense of calm or gentle strength. Your grandfather always said it suited her.”

Lucy felt something settle warmly beneath her ribs. “It really does.”

Timothy nodded once. “It suited the life she chose as well.”

Lucy studied the portrait again, seeing her grandmother anew, as if the name itself had opened something quiet and steady behind the painted eyes.

Lucy moved to the next portrait. A woman older this time, her expression wise and warm. Lady Lilly. Lucy felt something unspool inside her, a thread pulled gently free. “My aunt,” she whispered. Timothy nodded. “She would be pleased to see you here.” Lucy brushed her thumb lightly along the frame. “She feels real to me now.”

The next portrait showed a young woman with a softer face, her hair a gentler shade of red, her smile delicate and bright. Lucy’s chest tightened. “Is that my mother?” Mrs. Hughes nodded. “Yes. Lady Sarah. She did not sit for many portraits, but this one was painted when she was about your age.” Lucy’s eyes filled unexpectedly. She pressed her lips together, steadying herself. “She was beautiful,” Lucy whispered. “And beloved,” Timothy said. “Very much so.” Lucy stared at the portrait until her breath slowed again. She felt closer to her mother than she ever had before.

Mrs. Hughes gave her time before gently nodding toward the end of the corridor. “There is one more room I would like to show you today, if you have the energy.” Lucy nodded.

They stepped into a sunroom at the far corner of the house. Tall windows framed a view of the gardens beyond, hedges trimmed neatly into quiet shapes, clusters of roses, a stone path winding toward the orchard. Birds flitted among the branches, and somewhere in the distance, running water murmured softly.

Lucy inhaled deeply. “It is beautiful.”

“This was your aunt’s thinking room,” Mrs. Hughes explained. “She came here when she needed air and quiet. She said the Hall was her home, but the gardens were her peace.”

Lucy stepped closer to the window. The sunlight fell across her face.

Timothy watched her closely. He could feel it. The land reacting. The old wards stirring again, faint and warm. Recognizing her in a way the Hall had waited years for. Lucy simply felt calm. Connected. Steady. She pressed her fingers to the glass. “I think I will love it here.” Mrs. Hughes smiled. “Then it will love you in return.”

Lucy turned slowly, her thoughts full, her heart full, her sense of belonging blooming in quiet, unexpected ways.

Rowanmere was already beginning to speak to her. And she was ready to listen.

Evening settled over Rowanmere Hall with a gentle shift in the light. The sun dipped across the moor, leaving the sky painted in soft purples and washed-out gold. The Hall seemed to breathe with the changing air, its old stones warming in the glow of the setting day.

Lucy had spent hours exploring after her tour, drifting through rooms that felt more like pieces of a story than parts of a house. By the time she returned to the entry hall, she was pleasantly tired in the way one felt after a day of discovery.

Mrs. Hughes appeared almost before Lucy realized she needed her.

“Dinner is ready whenever you are, Miss Pendragon,” she said, hands folded neatly. “The dining room is prepared.”

Lucy blinked. “Already? But I did not… I mean, I did not want to trouble...”

“You have troubled nothing,” Mrs. Hughes said with an expression that lay somewhere between affection and quiet pride. “A new lady of the Hall should never go hungry.”

Lucy felt herself smile despite the sudden thickness in her throat. “Then yes. I would very much like dinner.”

Mrs. Hughes led her through a side corridor into a long dining room that managed to feel both elegant and comfortable. The lights were dimmed to a warm glow, and candles flickered in small silver holders along the polished table. The windows, tall and arched, reflected the twilight outside. Fresh flowers, small white blossoms Lucy could not name, sat in a squat vase at the center.

“Please, sit wherever you like,” Mrs. Hughes said.

Lucy chose a seat near the middle. Sam curled at her feet, making himself perfectly at home as though he had personally approved the room.

And then the dishes began to arrive.

Mrs. Hughes seemed to move with quiet sorcery, each plate appearing at exactly the right moment with exactly the right aroma. Lucy had not said a word about being hungry for anything specific, yet the spread before her felt tailored to her mood, her body, her long day of travel.

A bowl of creamy root vegetable soup, steam curling like a whisper of comfort. Warm bread, crust crisp and golden, already sliced neatly. Herbed butter soft enough to spread without effort. Roasted chicken with lemon and thyme, the skin browned perfectly. A medley of vegetables glazed lightly in honey and herbs.

It was simple food. Honest food. But executed with such care that Lucy felt something in her chest loosen again.

“You did all this?” Lucy asked softly.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. “I enjoy tending to people.”

Timothy, who had appeared quietly in the doorway, offered a small approving nod. “Mrs. Hughes has always known how to make a house feel like a home.”

Worthsby joined them a moment later, taking a seat farther down the table. He bowed his head politely. “Miss Pendragon.”

Lucy returned the gesture. “Please sit. I would like company.”

Mrs. Hughes poured hot tea into a delicate porcelain cup and set it in front of Lucy. The scent was floral with a hint of citrus.

“Lady Lilly enjoyed this blend in the evenings,” she said. “I thought you might as well.”

Lucy’s breath caught. “Thank you.”

They ate together in the soft glow of candlelight. The food warmed Lucy from the inside, easing both travel’s weariness and the enormity of everything she had experienced that day. She listened to Timothy and Worthsby share small stories about the moor, about the seasons, about the Hall. They did not overwhelm her with details; they offered gentle notes, small pieces of a larger life she was beginning to step into.

The conversation drifted easily, not pressured or insistent. Mrs. Hughes moved in the background like a quiet guardian of the moment, refilling tea before cups were empty, adding more bread just as someone reached for the last slice, offering a dessert of warm apple tart with a dollop of fresh cream.

Lucy took a bite and nearly sighed. “This is perfect.”

Mrs. Hughes gave a small, pleased nod. “I am glad. Every home should have a proper ending to its day.”

When the meal was done, plates cleared, and the candles burned low, Lucy felt a wave of calm wash through her. A peace she had not felt in years.

Timothy watched her for a moment, his eyes soft. “How do you feel?” he asked quietly.

Lucy looked around the dining room, at the candlelight, at the shadowed windows glowing faintly with moonrise, at the faces of the people who had shaped her first day in this new life.

“I feel…” She searched for the right word. “I feel like I belong,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. Timothy smiled, a real smile, warm and genuine. “Good. That is exactly what this place hoped for.” Mrs. Hughes placed a gentle hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Your room is prepared whenever you are ready to rest, Miss Pendragon. Fresh linens, warm blankets, and the fire lit.” Lucy felt her eyes sting. “You think of everything.” Mrs. Hughes bowed her head lightly. “I try.”

Lucy stood, thanking each of them. Sam wound around her legs before trotting ahead, clearly ready for his evening comforts.

She paused at the doorway, looking back at the table, the soft lights, and the people who had welcomed her without hesitation. Rowanmere did not feel like a stranger. It felt like an embrace. She followed Sam toward her room, heart steady and full, the Hall’s gentle warmth settling around her like a promise.

Lucy closed the bedroom door softly behind her. The room felt lived-in but untouched, like someone had prepared it with care and then stepped out only moments before she arrived. Sam hopped onto the bed at once, circling twice before settling against the pillows with a satisfied sigh.

On the bedside table lay the cream envelope the lawyer had handed her. Her name, written in a steady, unfamiliar script, seemed to watch her from the desk lamp’s glow.

Lucy hesitated.

She sat on the edge of the bed, Sam stretching a paw toward her as if urging her on.

“All right,” she whispered, sliding a thumb beneath the wax. “Let’s see what Lilly wanted me to know.”

The seal broke with a soft crack. Lucy unfolded the letter.

Lucy,

If you are reading this, then you have made it to Rowanmere at last. I imagine you standing there now, taking in far more responsibility than anyone should be handed on any given day. Breathe. That is my first instruction. Breathe, and remember that nothing needs to be understood all at once.

I wish I could have been there to walk you through the corridors myself, pointing out the places where the floorboards always sigh in protest, or the window in the west hall that insists on letting in a draft no matter how many times it is mended. You will learn the house the way one learns a person: slowly, by listening, by stepping gently, by paying attention to the small things.

If the Hall feels unfamiliar at first, give it time. It has an old heart, but it is not an unkind one. Homes can love us back, in their quiet ways. I believe this one will love you.

I know you have questions. And I’m sorry I won’t be there to answer them properly. I would have tried, though I doubt I’d have done any better than Timothy can with three calm words and a cup of tea. Trust him. Trust Mrs. Hughes. Trust yourself most of all.

And if you ever begin to doubt, remember this:

You are not alone. You never were. And there is nothing about you that is too much or not enough.

Live gently, Lucy. Live bravely when you must. And let yourself be loved by the world a little more than you think you deserve.

With all my heart, Lilly

Lucy let the page fall gently into her lap. The room stayed still, as if waiting for her to breathe first. Sam pressed against her leg, a small, warm weight that grounded her in the moment.

She traced her thumb along the folded crease of the paper, not to smooth it, just to feel it. The ink had faded in places, softened by time, but the words lingered like a hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

For someone she had never met, Lilly felt strangely close. Like a warmth left in a room long after someone stepped out of it.

Lucy leaned back against the headboard. The lamplight caught the edges of the letter, turning them a pale gold. Rowanmere was quiet around her, but not empty. The walls seemed to hold a kind of gentle listening, the way an old house sometimes does when it recognizes someone.

She read the end again, not for meaning, but for the shape of it. A woman she had never spoken to had hoped for her. That alone felt like a thread tugging softly at her chest, loosening something she hadn’t realized was tight.

Lucy folded the letter carefully, not out of duty, but instinct. She slipped it back into the envelope and set it on the bedside table. She laid down beside Sam now curled into a loaf and felt his warmth.

She wasn’t sure what she felt. It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t joy. It was something quieter, something that made her feel at ease, breathe a little deeper.

Maybe belonging had to start somewhere. Maybe this was the beginning.

Outside, the night deepened, and Lucy let the stillness settle around her. For the first time since arriving, she didn’t feel like a visitor.

She felt… welcomed.

As the days eased forward, Lucy began waking with a strange sense of belonging she couldn’t quite explain. Rowanmere was no longer unfamiliar. It was beginning to feel like a place that had been waiting for her.