Page 68 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter sixty-two

Mira

T he next morning, the three of us ate leftover pie and tackled the mess from the night before.

I felt a little silly, but also a little better—just being around Anne and Dillon had helped.

I even considered scheduling a session with my therapist. Once they’d gone, though, I realized I needed to sit with some of the things that had surfaced the night before.

I could admit now that expecting Baird to reach out might have been unrealistic.

And seeing everything through Anne and Dillon’s eyes had shifted something.

Maybe the belief that he couldn’t love me—not really, not for who I truly was—had been more about my own fear than about him.

About being not good enough, not worthy of a love like that.

I found myself thinking maybe I should reach out… but I wasn’t sure how.

The rest of the day, I kept replaying our last two days together—every conversation, every look, every touch. And yes, shamelessly, the sex. Especially the sex.

That’s when I remembered the necklace. It was still in my tote bag, the one I’d shoved in the closet when I got home, too wrecked to deal with it. I hadn’t looked at it since I was with Baird .

I went to the hall closet and pulled out my tote bag.

Just seeing it there made my chest tighten—a small, ordinary thing suddenly heavy with meaning.

Its presence, small and forgotten, exposed the truth of how I’d been since I got back.

I hadn’t just set it aside; I’d buried it.

Just like I’d tried to bury the memories, the emotions, the raw ache behind all my anger and confusion.

Out of sight. Out of reach. And for the first time, I saw it for what it was: not just grief.

I’d been hiding.

I thought of Baird then. Of how he’d walled himself off after Agnes, disappearing into the silence and solitude of his life on Arran. I’d judged him for that, hadn’t I? But now I saw the reflection. The way pain makes you retreat, makes you put pieces of yourself in the dark, just to survive.

And I was doing the same.

I dug through the bag until my fingers brushed the rough canvas of my apron—the one Baird had used to cushion the necklace box. I pulled it free. The box slipped from its wrappings and tumbled to the floor with a quiet thud. I reached for it.

The moment my fingers touched the leather, it hit me.

A surge of adrenaline, sudden and sharp. My heart thundered in my chest, my pulse racing. I set the box back down, steadying myself. I needed a breath—a beat—before opening it. Something inside me knew this wasn’t just a necklace anymore. It was trying to tell me something.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and drew in a slow, grounding breath.

I wasn’t afraid.

My Sight—my gift—had already been tested, stretched, confirmed. I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, and maybe I never would be. I wasn’t like my kin in Scotland, not really. But I couldn’t deny it anymore.

It was real.

And something was coming .

When I opened the box, the beauty of the piece hit me like a wave.

It stole my breath for a moment—and beneath the edge of panic rising in my chest, there was guilt too.

Guilt that I’d let something I had poured my heart and soul into sit hidden in a closet for weeks, forgotten, just because I was afraid of the memories it might summon.

But this…this wasn’t memory.

The electric current that rippled through me wasn’t about the past. It was something else entirely—something alive.

And like always, I was powerless to resist the siren’s call of touch, that strange will that wasn’t quite mine.

The connection that brought truth, raw and undeniable. I didn’t resist. I never really could.

I reached out and let my fingertip brush the emerald at the center. Its green shimmer pulsed beneath my skin, promising magic I could almost see—if I’d only let it in.

So I did.

I let the darkness rise and take me, not resisting. Wanting—needing—to understand why my own creation felt enchanted.

And then it came. A flood of warmth, a loving embrace that wrapped around me from the inside out.

Images followed, flashing like visions on a reel: me, asleep in Baird’s bed.

Me, head thrown back in ecstasy. Me, eyes wide with fear.

Me, sitting at the counter in his kitchen, laughing.

Every moment, every frame, seen through his eyes.

Baird’s voice, my name. Mira —over and over.

And woven through them all was something undeniable.

Love.

Not the word, but the feeling—so profound, so anchored and fierce, it left no room for doubt. I felt his arms around me, his mouth against mine, the full force of his longing and devotion. And something deeper still—the universe’s quiet approval, urging me to believe.

This pendant…it had been anointed somehow, marked by the intimacy of the moment I’d worn it for him. The way he’d looked at me, the devotion in his eyes. He’d known this might be the only way to reach me. Just as he’d known to guide my hand to Agnes’s gown, hidden in the chest in the spare bedroom.

He’d always known.

Bastien had been right. Baird knew me better than I knew myself.

I came to slumped over but still upright, the pendant clutched tightly to my chest. My heart was pounding, but my breath had steadied.

My eyes were overflowing with tears of joy, and with trembling hands, I lifted the chain and slipped it over my head, needing to feel close to Baird—needing the connection this amulet carried, the one we had created separately but together.

I knew from experience that once I’d touched something, once I’d been shown what I was meant to see, the intensity never returned with the same force. I wouldn’t pass out just wearing it. And sure enough, the moment the necklace settled against my skin, what I felt was quieter, gentler.

No visions. No images flashing through my mind.

Just warmth.

A steady hum, like a heating element pressed to my chest—but instead of heat, it radiated a soft, unwavering current of love.

Baird’s love. Not memory, not projection, not fantasy.

It was real. So real I could feel it pulsing through me, grounding me, steadying me. Proof I couldn’t ignore, not anymore.

I wouldn’t deny it again. Not to myself. Not to anyone.

I needed to make this right. Baird needed to know— deserved to know —what I’d seen, what I felt, what I finally understood.

But this wasn’t something I could say in a text or fumble through on a phone call.

This needed more than words. I had to go back.

I booked my flight for the day after tomorrow.

When I told Anne and Dillon, they didn’t even pretend to be surprised. If anything, they seemed relieved—happy, even. Like they’d been waiting for me to come to this decision on my own.

That night, before slipping into bed, I set the necklace on my bedside table. I wasn’t ready to wear it as I slept, but I didn’t want it far from me either. Just knowing it was there brought me comfort.

Then I opened my laptop and typed out a quick email to Evie and Morag:

“Tell Granny Margaret I found the green-eyed man ??”

I smiled as I hit send, then closed the lid and slid beneath the down comforter, pulling it tight against the late November chill. My body softened into the warmth, and for the first time in a while, I let myself drift into sleep with hope in my heart.

I walk through a mist so thick I can scarcely see my own hands before me. Yet something draws me onward—not an insidious darkness, but something else. Something I do not fear. Step by step, I move forward.

I hear the crash of waves and smell the sharp tang of salt in the air. My bare feet press into damp grass as I follow a path leading down toward the point—the very place Baird’s cottage overlooks.

The mist begins to lift, just enough for the world to take shape again. And there it is: Agnes’s headstone. Just as I had seen it in the vision, the one I’d had when Baird found me. The stone is new, the inscription crisp and clear .

I sense a presence near me, though I see no one.

A ripple of confusion stirs in me, and then—there.

Just beyond reach, a figure begins to take form.

Not solid, but spectral, vaporous, flickering at the edges softly, like dust in a sunbeam.

She is neither fully here nor entirely gone.

Agnes—just as she appeared in the portrait. Alive, and yet not.

I glance around instinctively, searching for Baird. Somehow, I feel he should be here. But he isn’t. We are alone.

Agnes shakes her head slowly, gently, as if to say this moment is meant for only us. She steps forward and reaches for my hand. When her fingers brush mine, an impossible warmth floods my body—an emotion flowing from within her and into me.

Peace—that is the message.

A small smile curves her lips.

And then she is gone.

Sitting at the gate, waiting to board my flight to Glasgow—closer to the island than the long drive from Edinburgh—I heard the familiar ping of a text, then another, and another.

I unlocked my phone. A dozen pictures filled the screen: close-ups of jewelry—gold-filled bracelets, a few 14 karat charms, a small tangle of delicate gold chains, and an old sapphire ring set in 18 karat gold. My heart did a strange little lurch.

It was Honey.

(Honey) Any of these float yer boat?

I looked over the photos and asked for prices on the charms, chains, and one of the bracelets. We settled on a price, and then another text came through.

(Honey) Give me yer address, and I’ll let ye know how much to add for shipping.

(Mira) Hang on to it for now. I may be able to arrange a pickup. I’ll let you know in a day or two.

Happiness flooded my body just thinking about seeing Baird in a few hours.