Ferry to the Past
Once aboard the ferry, Sasha left her uncle in the bar and slipped away for air she couldn’t seem to pull into her lungs. The hum of the engines thrummed through the metal deck and up into her bones, a relentless reminder that she was moving forward whether she wanted to or not.
The wind on the top deck hit her like icy claws, snatching at her hair and slapping her cheeks raw. She clutched the rail with trembling fingers that felt as cold as the steel beneath them. The coastline behind her was already dissolving into mist, Southampton shrinking into nothing, as if the life she’d known had never existed.
Her bag felt heavier than it should. Sasha dug inside with numb hands and pulled out the second letter. Its weight was wrong, its presence almost alive. Her pulse thundered as though her body already understood the danger in the words sealed within.
She found a small, glass-walled shelter on the top deck, a place where the wind softened to a whistle. Dropping onto the bench, she stared at the envelope. She wanted to open it, wanted to tear it apart and throw it into the sea, wanted to hide it from herself forever.
Her mother’s handwriting curled across the front, neat and certain. Sasha’s stomach twisted as she slid a finger beneath the flap.
She unfolded the letter slowly.
“Dearest Sasha,”
Her mother’s voice filled her head, soft and fragile as if carried from the grave. The sound of it hurt.
“By now you’ve met my brother Eamon and are hopefully on your way to my home. I know this must come as a shock, and I am so sorry for keeping this secret from you.”
Sasha’s throat closed. Why? she wanted to scream. Why didn’t you tell me? She swallowed the rising grief and kept reading.
“I know you’re probably waiting for the sale of the house to go through, so I’ve kept some money aside for you. Enclosed are the bank account details and the address of the branch where it’s held. When you’re ready, Eamon will take you there. It’s more than enough to keep you going for a few months.”
A folded slip of paper fluttered out, landing on her lap. She didn’t touch it. The words blurred, swimming through a thin film of tears.
“Finally—and this is the hardest part to tell you—your father Cian is now the keeper of Blackwater. Upon his death, it will become yours. As far as I know, he doesn’t even know you exist, and this will be a shock for him. He is a deep man and doesn’t say much, but if you stand your ground, I believe he will see the resemblance. He will know.”
Sasha’s chest tightened. A father. Mine. She had imagined him once, as a little girl, but now the thought landed like a stone. Would he hate her for existing? Would he look straight through her and see nothing?
“The estate runs a lavender farm, famous for its healing properties and fragrance. But there is something I want you to understand. This lavender is not ordinary. It’s hard to explain, but you will see. Its ancient powers will be revealed only to the rightful heir. Please trust me when I say you will come to no harm.”
Sasha’s fingers trembled. Ancient powers? The words felt foreign, dangerous. Her mother hadn’t been one for fairy tales—why would she write this?
**“The lavender is so very special—that’s why we grew it in our garden all those years. All will become clear soon.
This will transform your life—for the better, I hope.
Love you always, Sashy.
Mum xxx”**
Sasha lowered the letter, heart hammering. Blackwater. Keeper. Heir. Ancient powers. The words rattled around her skull like fragments of some ancient curse.
She forced her eyes to the folded slip of paper and opened it as if it might bite:
Bank of Ireland – Lismore
West Street, Lismore, Co. Waterford.
Her breath caught. She pressed her palms against her knees, willing herself not to shake.
What kind of man was her father? Would he slam the door in her face? Would he despise her for the blood she carried? And the lavender—what if her mother had been telling the truth? What if there was something dangerous waiting for her at Blackwater?
Or worse—what if she went there and found nothing?
Sasha buried her face in her hands and tried to steady her breathing. The ferry’s engines thrummed louder, like a clock counting down.
She wiped her cheeks roughly and looked out the shelter’s window. The coastline was gone now, the horizon a smear of silver where sea and sky bled together. She was being carried toward a world she knew nothing about, toward a man who didn’t even know she existed, and a farm that might hold secrets older than she could imagine.
Her stomach turned.
By the time she made herself go back below deck, her legs felt heavy, as though she were walking toward a gallows.
Her uncle was waiting in the ferry bar, a glass of whisky already in hand. He slid it wordlessly across the table. Sasha took it and drank, grateful for the fire that scorched her throat and dulled the ache for just a heartbeat.
The bar was dim and smelled faintly of stale beer and fried food. The low drone of a football match played on the mounted TV, and the clink of glasses from the next table felt distant, unreal. Her uncle gave her a small, reassuring smile, but it faded quickly, as though he knew what lay ahead was bigger than either of them.
Sasha pulled on her vape and stared out through the bar’s salt-speckled window. The horizon was blank, an endless sheet of cold grey.
Whatever waited for her in Blackwater was already in motion.
And deep in her gut, Sasha knew: once she set foot on that land, there would be no turning back.
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