Read Chapter 24: The East Wing Revealed

The storm had retreated by dawn, leaving the gutters weeping and the sky the colour of old pewter. Eilidh found Hamish already in the east gallery, a crowbar in his gloved hand and a torch mounted on the wall beside him, its beam cutting a pale disc through the lingering shadows.

He did not turn when she approached. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I.” She set down her own kit—a hammer, chisels, a pry bar—and stood beside him. The sealed door loomed before them, its stonework older than the rest of the wing, the mortar crumbled to dust in the joints. Whoever had closed this passage had meant it to stay closed.

“I called Archie and Morag. They’ll be up with the winch and the heavier tools.” Hamish finally glanced at her, and there was something raw in his face, stripped of its usual guardedness. “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m sure enough.”

He nodded, and for a moment they stood in silence, two people who had spent weeks circling each other like wary animals, now standing shoulder to shoulder before a wall of stone and secrets.

Archie arrived first, a barrel-chested man with forearms like hawsers, followed by Morag, who carried a canvas bag clinking with tools. Neither asked questions beyond what Hamish had told them—that they were opening the old sealed chamber, that it needed doing, that it was time.

“About bloody time,” Archie muttered, running a hand over the door’s surface. “My grandfather always said there was something back here. Said the old laird had it walled up in a fit of madness.”

“Or grief,” Eilidh said quietly.

Archie looked at her, then at Hamish, and said nothing more.

The work was slow, methodical. The stone had been laid with care, but centuries of damp and the settling of the castle had loosened the mortar. They worked in shifts, chipping away at the joints, easing stones free one by one. Dust filled the air, catching in their throats, coating their clothes in a fine grey film. Eilidh’s arms ached, her shoulders burned, but she did not stop.

Hamish worked beside her, silent and focused, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. Every so often their hands brushed when they passed tools, and each time, the contact sent a small jolt through her—not electric, but grounding. A reminder that she was not alone in this.

By midday, they had cleared a gap large enough to see through.

Darkness. Absolute, impenetrable darkness, thick as velvet. The air that seeped through was cold and stale, carrying a faint, musty sweetness—old linen, dried flowers, something long sealed away from the world.

Morag stepped back, wiping her brow. “Want me to go first?”

“No.” Hamish’s voice was firm. He took the torch from the wall and angled it through the gap. The beam revealed the edge of a stone floor, a scatter of dust, and then nothing but shadows. “I’ll go. Eilidh, with me. Archie, stay here and keep the gap clear in case we need to get out fast.”

“What do you expect to find?” Archie asked.

Hamish hesitated. “The truth.”

They widened the gap just enough to squeeze through. Hamish went first, his broad shoulders scraping the stone as he pushed himself into the darkness. Eilidh followed, her heart hammering against her ribs, the chill of the sealed air washing over her like a wave.

She emerged into a room that made her breath catch.

It was a bedchamber, frozen in time. A four-poster bed stood against the far wall, its curtains of faded damask drawn back, the linens yellowed but neatly made. A vanity table held a silver-backed brush and a hand mirror, their surfaces tarnished to black. A dress of deep green silk hung from a wooden stand near the window, its fabric draped as if waiting for its owner to return and dress for the evening.

Dust lay thick over everything, undisturbed for a century or more. The air was still, heavy with the weight of forgotten years.

But the window—the window was the first thing that truly struck Eilidh. It was shuttered from the outside, thick planks nailed across the frame, sealing the room in permanent twilight. Someone had wanted this room to never see the sun again.

“God,” Hamish breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He stood in the centre of the room, turning slowly, his torch casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.

Eilidh moved past him, her footsteps muffled in the dust. On the mantelpiece above the cold fireplace stood a small portrait in an oval frame. She lifted it carefully, wiping the dust with the edge of her sleeve.

Finella.

The woman in the painting was younger than in the photograph Eilidh had found, perhaps twenty, with dark hair piled loosely on her head and eyes that held a quiet, knowing light. She wore the same green silk dress that hung across the room. There was a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth, as if she knew a secret she would never tell.

“It’s her,” Eilidh said softly. “It’s Finella.”

Hamish came to stand beside her, looking at the portrait over her shoulder. He was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight. “She looks like my grandmother,” he said finally. “The old photographs. The same eyes.”

“She was your family,” Eilidh said gently. “She was always your family.”

He did not answer. His gaze had drifted to the desk in the corner.

It was a lady’s writing desk, delicate and elegant, its surface cluttered with objects that had been left mid-task. An inkwell, its contents long dried to a dark crust. A quill, its feather brittle and broken. A sheet of paper, yellowed and curled at the edges, covered in handwriting that slanted elegantly across the page.

Hamish reached for it, then stopped himself. “I don’t know if I can.”

Eilidh touched his arm. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He looked at her, and something in his expression shifted—a crack in the stone he’d built around himself. He took a breath, then picked up the paper.

It was a letter, unfinished. The handwriting was Finella’s.

*Dear Cousin Margaret,*

*I fear I have not much time. My brother grows more desperate by the day. He speaks of physicians, of locking me away for my own good, but I know the truth—he wants the castle, wants the land, wants everything our father should have left to me. I have hidden the deed where he will never think to look. If anything should happen to me, you must—*

The letter ended mid-sentence, the ink trailing off as if she had been interrupted.

Eilidh felt cold. “The deed,” she said. “She hid the deed.”

Hamish set the letter down, his hands unsteady. “She never finished. She never sent it.”

“She was taken before she could.” Eilidh looked around the room, her eyes scanning the shadows, the furniture, the corners. “But she hid it somewhere. Somewhere he would never think to look.”

Her gaze stopped at the strongbox.

It sat on the floor beside the bed, half-concealed beneath the drooping valance of the dust ruffle. It was made of dark wood, banded with iron, its surface engraved with the MacKinnon crest—a stag’s head above a crown of thistle and heather. A key, black with tarnish, sat in the lock.

Eilidh knelt beside it, her heart pounding. She could feel Hamish behind her, hear the ragged whisper of his breathing.

“Do you want to open it?” she asked.

He crouched beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. For a moment, neither of them moved. The room seemed to hold its breath, the dust motes hanging suspended in the torchlight, the shadows pressing closer.

“Together,” he said.

She reached out and touched the key. It turned with a soft, grinding click, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.

The castle, it seemed, was waiting.