The oppressive city air clung to Emily like a damp shroud the day the solicitors letter arrived. The parchment-thick envelope bore the faint scent of brine and something indefinably nostalgiclike childhood summers condensed into paper. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the document revealing Great-Aunt Margarets bequest: the crumbling seaside manor in Whitby where shed spent every idyllic June till she turned sixteen.
Her pulse flutteredpart grief, part exhilaration. She could already feel the cool Yorkshire breeze, hear the gulls crying over the cliffs, see the stern but loving face of Aunt Margot waiting on the weathered porch.
She rang Oliver at once. His voice crackled through the phone, impatient and tinny.
Ollie, Ive got to go, she began, steadying herself. Great-Aunt Margots left me the house. The one by the North Sea.
A pause. Then a derisive snort. That drafty mausoleum? The one you said had bats in the attic?
Its not drafty! she snapped. Its grand. Ancient. Full of stories. Every summer Id arrive with my trunk and stay till September. Aunt Margot would take me fossil-hunting along the shoreshe knew every secret cove. Later, Id go with the village children. Wed pack cheese sandwiches and ginger beer and lose whole afternoons scrambling over the rocks. Proper adventures.
How long dyou plan to be gone? His voice was flat, bureaucratic.
However long it takes. The place hasnt been touched since my second year at Durham. Thats five years ago now. Ill take leave. You could she hesitated, willing him to understand, come up after. Its just three hours by train. Take a Friday off. We could walk the moors. Proper countryside air.
Not my idea of a holiday, he muttered. Fine. Ill see what I can manage.
Those words hung between them like wet laundry. Hed see. Just as hed seen last Christmas when hed missed her parents anniversary, and in March when hed forgotten her promotion dinner.
Three days later, Emily packed her cases with a hollow ache beneath her ribs. Some foolish part of her hoped Oliver would burst in, sweep her to Kings Cross in a taxi, kiss her on the platform and promise to follow. Instead, two hours before her train, his call came.
Em, cant make it. Work crisis. Youll manage a cab, yeah? She heard the false note in his voice.
Of course, she said thickly. Dont fret.
The taxi wound through Londons grimy streets. Emily stared blankly at the passing shops until her stomach lurched. Thereparked outside The Ivywas Olivers Aston Martin. And not just parked. He stood by the passenger door, helping a willowy blonde in a floral Sundress alight. They lingered close, exchanging smiles before vanishing inside.
Stop here! Emilys voice shattered. She flung a twenty at the driver and stumbled onto the pavement. Her vision blurred as she pushed through the restaurant door. They sat at a corner table, heads bent over shared desserts, his fingers brushing hers.
Busy, I see, Emily said, her voice glacial. Dont bother explaining. Were through. Dont ring. Dont write.
She fled before he could speak, already running back to the cab, nails biting crescents into her palms.
The journey north passed in a numb hazetrain rattling through endless fields, then a hired car winding up the coastal road. The driver, a dour Yorkshireman, finally halted at wrought-iron gates choked with ivy.
Reckon this is it, he grunted.
Emily hauled her bags onto the gravel drive. The silence was absolute. The air smelled of thyme and salt and forgotten things. She fumbled with the heavy iron keyAunt Margots keyuntil the lock groaned open.
The gates creaked, revealing an overgrown garden where hydrangeas burst through the weeds like defiant ghosts. Aunt Margot had tended these beds religiously. Now, in high summer, they ran riot.
The oak front door resisted. Years of sea air had swollen the frame. When it finally gave, the house exhaled a century of stillness. No trace of Aunt Margots signature rosewater scent. Just dust motes dancing in the stained-glass light from the hall windowcrimson and cobalt splashed across the parquet.
Mine, Emily whispered. Thank you, Aunt Margot.
She wandered through cavernous rooms, fingertips leaving trails in the dust. The drawing rooms marble fireplace still bore scorch marks from their winter chestnut roasts. The dining tableoak, scarred by generationsstood sentinel beneath a chandelier draped in cobwebs. The china cabinet held Wedgwood treasures, each piece stamped 1887 in gilt.
A thud upstairs shattered the silence. Probably a loose shutter.
Upstairs, Aunt Margots four-poster bed dominated the master chamber, its velvet hangings grey with age. Emily collapsed onto it, unleashing a mushroom cloud of dust.
Thena knock.
On the doorstep stood Mrs. Pevensie from the vicarage, her face wrinkled as a winter apple.
Emily, pet! Knew it must be you when I saw the gates open. Your aunt made me promise to keep an eye on the place. My Thomasyou remember him?hes back from Leeds now. If you need odd jobs doing
Thomas arrived at noon with a ladder and a grin. The boy she recalledall knees and elbowshad become a broad-shouldered man with windburnt cheeks and laughing eyes.
Still stealing our raspberries then? he teased as he polished the chandeliers crystal teardrops to brilliance.
By dusk, the house gleamed. Thomas fixed stuck windows, unstuck doors, even repaired the ancient Aga.
Fancy the Fishermans Arms? he asked, wiping grease from his hands. Best haddock this side of Scarborough.
They ate by the harbour, laughing over village gossip. Later, they walked the cliff path as the sun bled into the sea.
That night, as Emily lay in Aunt Margots bed, Oliver called. His voice oozed false honey.
Em! Miss you. Send the addressIll drive up tomorrow.
She saw Thomass sun-crinkled eyes. Remembered the blonde at The Ivy. Heard Aunt Margots voice in her dream: Choose wisely, duck.
Dont bother, she said softly. Were done.
She hung up, switched off the phone, and slept dreamlessly.
By autumn, Emily had moved permanently. She found remote work with a York publisher. The house woke slowlyfires in the grates, bread in the oven, Thomass boots in the hall.
They married in the spring, just family and the village priest. Now, standing on the terrace, Emily rested a hand on her rounding belly as the moon silvered the waves. Somewhere inside, a crystal prism on the chandelier chimed in the breeze.
Thank you, Aunt Margot, she murmured.
And the house, at last, was alive.
