Chapter 8 Lavender Heir

Ghosts in the Day Light

Sasha woke with a gasp, the scream lodged in her throat like a splinter. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

The low ceiling loomed only a few feet above, its beams thick and unfamiliar. Moonlight had drained from the room, leaving the faint scent of lavender drifting through the cracked window. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs, as though it were trying to claw its way free.

She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, but the images clung like burrs: a girl in a white dress running barefoot through the fields, her hair whipping like a shadow behind her. She had left no footprints.

Sasha rubbed her arms briskly, trying to shake off the cold that wasn’t just in her bones but in her mind. It was only a dream, she told herself. But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true.

It hadn’t felt like a dream.

It had felt like a memory clawing its way up from the dark.

She dressed quickly, tugging on jeans and a light jumper, eager for movement, for anything to break the chill that had rooted itself inside her. The narrow hallway creaked underfoot as she padded toward the kitchen.

Heather was already there, humming tunelessly as she buttered toast. She looked up and frowned.

“You look pale,” Heather said. “Didn’t sleep well?”

Sasha shook her head. “Nightmares. It’s fine.”

But the lie tasted bitter.

Heather poured her tea and handed it over. “Best thing for bad dreams is to keep busy. We’ve got errands to run in town. We’ll go to the bank first to check on the money your mother left, then the grocer’s. You’ll feel better with fresh air.”

Sasha nodded, grateful for the distraction.

—

The bank was small and old-fashioned, with polished wood counters and brass rails gleaming in the morning light. Heather paused outside to speak with a neighbour, waving Sasha ahead.

Sasha stepped inside, her trainers squeaking faintly against the tiled floor. The bell above the door gave a sharp little jingle.

And then she saw him.

Patrick.

Her breath caught hard enough to hurt.

He was leaning against a side desk, pen scratching steadily over a stack of forms. His auburn hair was a little longer now, brushing the collar of his shirt, and there was a tiredness in his eyes she didn’t remember. He looked up at the sound of the bell and froze, the pen stilling in his hand.

“Sasha.”

Her name in his voice made something sharp twist in her chest. A dozen memories flashed – his hands warm on hers under the summer stars, his voice breaking the night they said goodbye. She swallowed hard.

“Patrick.”

She meant it as a greeting, but it came out flat, like a stone dropped in still water.

He closed the folder slowly, as though buying time. “I didn’t know you were in Ireland.”

“I didn’t know you were,” she countered, more sharply than intended.

Patrick’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I’m working on a project nearby. Restoring the old chapel up on Chapel Road. Just a few months.”

“You’re… still an architect,” she said, forcing her voice steady.

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Still am. Canada didn’t work out.”

She wanted to ask why, to close the distance between them with questions she hadn’t dared ask in a year, but Heather swept through the door behind her, peppermint and lavender on the breeze.

“Ah, there you are! Patrick, good to see you,” Heather said warmly, before turning to Sasha. “Shall we get this sorted, love?”

Patrick’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, something unspoken flickering there. “It’s good to see you,” he said softly.

Sasha didn’t trust her voice. She nodded once and followed Heather to the counter, her pulse thudding in her ears.

The bank clerk, a man in his fifties with thin glasses, took their paperwork with brisk politeness. “You’re here about the O’Brien estate?” he asked, glancing down at the documents.

“Yes,” Heather said smoothly. “This is my niece, Sasha Lambourne. She’ll be accessing the account now.”

The man’s brows lifted faintly at Sasha’s surname. “Lambourne?”

“My stepfather’s name,” Sasha explained quickly, heat rising to her cheeks.

“Ah.” His shoulders loosened, his tone softening. “I see. Well, Miss O’Brien’s accounts are in order. The transfer can be arranged whenever you’re ready.”

Sasha hesitated. “Can you tell me… how long my mother owned the Chapel Road farm? Was it always in her name?”

The man frowned. “Yes, the O’Briens bought it years ago when the De Burgh estate was selling off land to pay debts. The Chapel Road farm helped keep them in the castle.”

“The De Burghs?” Sasha asked. The name felt unfamiliar but heavy on her tongue.

He nodded. “The Blackwater family. They’ve been there for centuries. There was a… daughter, not long ago. Illegitimate, they said, though she was still meant to inherit the castle after Cian De Burgh. But she disappeared. Vanished without a trace.”

Sasha felt the chill sink deep into her bones. “What was her name?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Those records were sealed,” the man replied, his voice dropping slightly. “People don’t like to talk about it. But if you’re interested, the library keeps old ledgers and newspapers.”

Before she could press him further, Heather placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,” she said quickly. “We’ll be in touch.”

The sun was warm on Sasha’s back as they stepped out onto the pavement, but it didn’t reach the cold burrowing deeper into her chest.

—

She excused herself after lunch, claiming she wanted to get her bearings, and headed for the library.

The library was a stone-fronted relic at the edge of town, its arched windows filmed with dust. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of leather bindings and old paper. Sasha’s footsteps echoed too loudly on the worn tiles as she approached the archives, the quiet pressing in like a held breath.

She sat at a creaking oak table with a stack of ledgers and newspapers, her fingers trembling as she turned fragile pages. Names leapt out at her in bold, fading ink: De Burgh. Blackwater. Mentions of land sales. Scandals whispered but never confirmed.

A young woman, illegitimate. Promised an inheritance that never came. Gone without a trace.

Sasha’s chest tightened. Every creak of the building made her glance up, half-convinced someone was watching from the shadows between the stacks.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, and turned another page.

And then she found it: a grainy black-and-white photograph, folded carefully into an old society page. A girl with solemn eyes and a halo of red hair stood in the middle of a lavender field.

Sasha’s breath stilled.

It was her.

The girl from the dream.

She looked closer at the caption beneath the photo, her pulse drumming in her ears.

Aislinn De Burgh (1996–?), it read. Heiress presumptive to Blackwater Castle. Missing.

Sasha stared at the photograph, her fingers trembling. The girl’s red hair spilled over her shoulders in thick waves, her eyes the same deep shade as Sasha’s own. The resemblance was uncanny—like staring into the face of a sister she’d never known.

She whispered the name aloud, the syllables tasting strange and familiar all at once.

“Aislinn.”

The photograph trembled slightly in her hands.