CHAPTER 7. Lavender Heir

The Shadowed Figure

The ferry arrived at Cork beneath a heavy grey sky, and Sasha sat silently in her uncle’s car, her face turned to the window. Rolling hills unfurled in endless shades of green, stone cottages crouched low against the wind, and pubs with peeling paint flashed by like fragments of another world. Eamon barely spoke on the long drive to Blackwater, and Sasha’s eyelids grew heavy as the countryside dissolved into mist and motion. Hours seemed to pass before the car slowed to a stop.

The cottage before them looked as though it had been standing for centuries—walls of weathered stone, a door painted a brilliant blood-red, and brass fittings that glinted coldly in the fading light. Eamon lifted Sasha’s suitcase without a word. She followed him inside, her senses immediately struck by the mingled scent of warm bread and sharp lavender, a strangely comforting yet unsettling perfume.

Heather was waiting in the kitchen. Her round face broke into a smile that was almost too wide, her cheeks flushed as though she had been standing close to a fire.
“Hello, Sasha, my dear! Please, please, come in!”

Her voice carried the soft lilt of the Irish hills, musical but edged with something Sasha couldn’t quite name. Heather was a small woman with cropped grey hair that curled around her face like smoke. Her glittering eyes were so dark they might have been black, and they fixed on Sasha with a bright intensity.
“Come here, my dear, and sit. You must be tired.”

The kitchen was large but dim, the shadows pooling in the corners as if reluctant to leave. Sasha sank into a heavy oak chair at a table long enough for a feast. The ancient stone fireplace dominated the room, its cast-iron stove glowing like a heart in the hearth. Through the small glass window in its door, flames licked and twisted, throwing gold and scarlet light across the flagstones. The iron ticked softly as it expanded, the sound like the distant beat of a clock.

The earthy sweetness of woodsmoke filled the air, but beneath it Sasha thought she caught another scent—damp earth, perhaps, or something older. A black sheepdog sprawled across the floor, a wicker basket of logs by the fire, its unmoving form so still it might have been carved from stone.

Heather pressed a warm mug of tea into Sasha’s hands, her gaze never wavering.
“Get that down you, girl,” she said softly. “I’ll show you to your room soon. We’ve an early start tomorrow.”

Sasha thanked her and let her eyes drift to the window. Beyond the glass lay a rolling field washed in the violet light of evening, and on the far horizon, a castle rose dark and jagged against the sky. Its towers looked broken, as if some great storm had torn them apart centuries ago.

A sudden shiver crept along her spine.

Later, Heather led her up a narrow staircase to a small room with a metal-framed double bed. A crocheted blanket of many colours covered it, the vibrant patches at odds with the pale walls and bare floorboards. A vase of lavender sat on the windowsill, its scent sharp and medicinal. The lace curtains stirred in the breeze, whispering against the glass.

Sasha set her suitcase on the bed and stepped to the window.

The castle was still there, watching from the distance.

And then she saw it.

A figure—small, indistinct—emerging from the field, its movement smooth and unbroken, like drifting fog. It appeared to be a woman dressed in a long, colourless gown, her hair a wild tangle of deep red that burned against the twilight.

Sasha gripped the window frame.

The sun slipped behind the trees, plunging the fields into shadow, and the figure vanished as though it had never been there.

Her breath came quick and shallow. Had she imagined it?

She pulled the curtains shut with trembling hands, determined to blame exhaustion for the vision. Sliding beneath the crocheted blanket, she closed her eyes, though the image of the red-haired woman hovered behind her eyelids long after sleep claimed her.

Sleep took her quickly, but it was not a gentle sleep.

She was standing in the violet field outside the cottage, the flowers brushing against her knees like whispers. The castle loomed closer now, impossibly close, its shattered towers clawing at the sky. The figure was there too—the woman with the red hair, her gown trailing behind her like smoke.

Sasha tried to move, but her feet were rooted to the ground. The woman’s face was hidden by a curtain of tangled hair as she glided closer, her bare feet making no sound in the grass. Sasha could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, could feel the chill of the woman’s presence seeping into her skin.

Then the woman lifted her head.

Her eyes were pale and empty, glowing faintly like the dying embers of a fire. She opened her mouth, and though no words came, Sasha felt the sound vibrate inside her skull, a low keening that made the earth tremble.

The red-haired woman reached out a hand, long-fingered and impossibly cold—

Sasha jerked upright in bed with a strangled gasp. The room was black and silent save for the wind rattling the windowpane. Her nightclothes clung to her, damp with sweat, and the air was icy enough that her breath misted faintly in the moonlight. She clutched the blanket to her chest, heart hammering, and forced herself to whisper aloud, as though saying it would make it true.

“It was just a dream.”

But even as she lay back down, shivering, she could not shake the sensation that the red-haired woman was still out there in the dark, watching.