Or maybe stress was getting the better of me. The silence drew out as the squirrel tilted its head the other direction, and I mimicked him.
“Aye, lass. That was me.”
“No way,” I breathed. “Wait. How come I couldn’t hear you when you chattered at me before then?”
The squirrel made a chattering noise and no words formed in my mind.
“So you can communicate with me if you feel like it? Is that what you’re saying?” I lifted my chin.
“Aye, that’s the way of it. I’m Bracken, by the way.”
“Bracken? Well, that’s a cool name. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Liora.” I glanced over my shoulder at the front of the cottage and was relieved to see there wasn’t a Ring camera doorbell on the front. I could only imagine how my new landlord would think of me if he was watching his new tenant talk to a squirrel out front.
“I know.”
At that, my attention snapped back to Bracken.
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’re mine.”The squirrel ran across the top of my car and leapt to a nearby branch.“I’ll be around, Liora. Welcome home.”
“Wait, what does that mean? That ‘I’m yours?’” I called, but Bracken was already bounding through the trees, like a ball ping-ponging through a pinball machine, and I gaped after him. “Well, that was weird.”
I looked up at the now empty branches.
“But cool,” I amended, not wanting to offend Bracken if he could still hear me. “Really cool. New talent unlocked, I guess. Yay for me!”
Would I be able to hear all the squirrels now? Or just Bracken? What about dogs? I brightened as I thought about being able to communicate directly with Mitch. My sister wouldlove that. He’d become such an integral part of her life, and I knew she’d get a kick out of hearing his thoughts. Humming to myself, my mind focused on all the ways I might be able to communicate with animals now, as I quickly worked through unloading the car and setting myself up in my new space. By the time I’d finished, leaving the boxes from Zara’s house on the table in front of the couch, my stomach was growling.
Grabbing my purse, I locked up and glanced around the trees to look for Bracken. The light was dimming, the sun already dipping toward the horizon as night came early in the late fall in Scotland. With no sign of Bracken anywhere near my car, I hopped in and drove to the supermarket. Briefly, I debated stopping at The Tipsy Thistle for a meal, but I looked a mess and since I’d likely be applying there for work, I needed to be at my most presentable. Instead, I dipped into the market, bought a few basics, and was back home before full dark.
Home.
It felt weird, moving into a house where nobody was home, but I wasn’t a stranger to weird situations in my life. Instead, I just needed to be grateful that I had a roof over my head and a small space of my own while I figured out what came next.
I kind of hated that I needed to work out what came next for me. In novels, it always made it sound like the heroine just sat down and sorted out her life in an afternoon. But the reality was, life just wasn’t that cut and dried, was it? What? I was suddenly going to have an epiphany and have it all figured out? Maybe life was just a series of taking small steps forward until you blundered into where you were meant to be. But I guess that probably didn’t make for fun reading, so I could see why authors left the ugly bits out of their stories.
But here I was, thirty years old. Sitting in my torn and faded pajamas, an empty sandwich plate on the table in front of me and clutching an almost empty bag of crisps, silence stretchingout around me and filling the room until it almost made my head hurt. Was now when I was supposed to suddenly have all the answers come to me? If so, I could use a manual. A set of instructions.
Hell, even an acorn thrown at my head would feel better than this yawning emptiness inside of me.
Never one to settle into uncomfortable feelings all that long, I decided to distract myself from the wholewhat should I do with my life?problem, so I cut into the tape on one of the old cardboard boxes from Zara’s cupboard. Sliding it open, I pushed the packet of crisps aside and dusted any crumbs from my hands before opening the lid.
The first picture, right on top of a pile of old books, made me laugh out loud. It was Z and me, probably around seven years old, at Halloween. She was dressed as a witch, and I was grinning widely, a front tooth missing, in a fat orange pumpkin suit. I’d always been the more ridiculous of the two of us, and I took the picture out and set it aside, knowing I’d want to keep it.
I busied myself digging around and sorting items into piles. Old pictures, letters, and birthday cards went on one side of the box. Notebooks, recipe books, and other books that needed further investigation on the other side. At the bottom of the box, my hand touched soft velvet, and I pulled out what looked to be an old pouch. Opening it, I gasped at a beautiful leather-bound book, with an intricate Celtic and floral pattern stamped into the cover. Taking it out of the protective bag, I leaned back onto the couch and tried to ignore the hum of excitement that had zipped through me when my hands touched the book. It was just me over imagining things, as I often did. I was sure of it.
Gently, I opened the cover, and tears immediately sprung to my eyes as I saw my name written across the front page, under a line of women who had come before me.
Liora Webster.
Ailis Webster. My mother.
Beatrice Baxter. My grandmother.
Senga Durnell. My great grandmother.
Why wasn’t Zara’s name on the list? Tapping a finger against the page, I felt that zing of energy again, and tilted my head, studying the book. Was there something more here? Turning the page, I let out a soft sigh of pleasure.