Lillian Hartley writing
Mystic Reads Occult Bookshop, Falmouth

We found Veronica’s postcard wedged beneath the old doormat. Sylvia insisted it was the postman’s fault. I rather think it was Edward’s.

And that’s no idle joke. He’s been restless lately.

For those unfamiliar: Edward Blackwood is our resident ghost — a well-spoken early 19th-century gentleman who occasionally quotes Milton and opens windows we’ve already latched shut. He was the original Blackwood to tinker (recklessly) with the Heart of Shadows, though unlike his descendant Marcus — who left ruin in his wake — Edward died peacefully in his own bed. Port wine, silk sheets, and all. It’s an irony he quite enjoys.

When I picked up the postcard, a gust of air rattled the windows. Not a draft. A presence. In fact, the poetry shelf re-ordered itself overnight. The Milton had vanished. In its place: The Portrait of a Lady.

Sylvia blamed the cat. We haven’t had a cat in years.

We read the postcard twice — once aloud, once in silence. Sylvia made a face at the phrase “something folded in time,”then poured us each a dram of Christmas sherry, muttering that whatever Veronica was “snooping around now” would bring “more ghosts than gifts.”

But I was struck by something else entirely.

“Veronica,” I said, “is not Isabel Archer.”

Sylvia groaned. “You and that bloody book.”

“But don’t you see?” I said. “She’s rewriting the ending.”

“She’s freezing on a clifftop with a haunted water bowl.”

“She’s choosing not to go back into the cage.”

Sylvia glared at the kettle. “She’d better not drag Cassandra into it.”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Sylvia paused. “You think Cassandra’s like… Madame Merle?”

“I do.”

“She’s not that clever.”

“Which makes her more dangerous.”

We stared at each other.

“And the boy?” Sylvia asked. “Cassandra’s son?”

“Pansy,” I said.

“Oh come on, Lillian.”

“Just consider it. The link. The tether. The key.”

Sylvia began tidying — always a sign she’s thinking. The spoons clinked in the drawer a little too perfectly.

Then, more softly than before:
“Why do they always go back? Why does it always end in Cornwall?”

“Because the land remembers,” I said. “Even if we don’t.”

That’s when I felt it. A pang — something old and long-settled rising inside me. I remembered the first time I met Veronica, years ago, when she was still married to Howard, and already half a ghost herself. I’d feared I’d lose her even then. That she’d be consumed by his world, his money, his shadows.

Now she’s in Cornwall. And he’s the one who’s gone.

Sylvia didn’t answer right away. But she must have felt something too — I saw it in the way her hand paused mid-stir.

And then — glancing once more at the card — she whispered:

“If Cassandra’s Madame Merle… and Veronica’s Isabel… then who in God’s name are we?”

I smiled and patted her hand.

“We’re the women who know better,” I said.
“And who are just foolish enough to go anyway.”

Behind us, a single book fell off the shelf.

Orlando.

Edward, no doubt. The timing was too perfect.

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