Page 42 of Of Heather and Thistle

T he next day, Heather walked to Dr. Morrow’s office—the historian Flynn had recommended.

She clutched the old wooden box, her fingers digging into the grain.

It felt heavier today. Yesterday, it was just a curiosity.

Today, it carried the full weight of her mother’s absence, her father’s silence, and a history she’d never been allowed to claim.

She had left Byrdie at the inn, knowing she needed the time and space to focus on what she was doing.

The house had been hell, but also where her mother’s laughter once echoed. Selling it meant letting go of both. The relief of the sale unearthed everything she’d tried to bury. Pain she’d spent years boxing up was now spilling out of the seams.

By the time she reached Dr. Morrow’s office, her grip on the box had tightened. The building was old, its weathered stone cloaked in ivy—much like the man who occupied it: an eccentric, scholarly type—part of the town as much as the ivy and stone around him .

Dr. Morrow greeted her at the door with a broad smile, his round glasses perched slightly askew on the bridge of his nose. “Ah, good morning to you, lass! Come in, come in!”

His voice was warm and full of energy. He looked exactly like you’d expect a historian to look—snow-white hair in a wild halo, like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times mid-thought.

His tweed jacket was a size too big, its elbows patched with darker suede, and his plaid tie was loosely knotted, dangling just off-center like a shrug.

A chain dangled from his pocket, presumably attached to an old pocket watch, and a pair of scuffed leather loafers completed his look.

Despite his slightly disheveled appearance, his pale blue eyes had an undeniable sharpness.

They sparkled with curiosity and enthusiasm only someone deeply passionate about their work could possess.

His movements were quick and nimble for his age, as though fueled by an unending excitement for discovery.

“Ye must be Miss Campbell,” he said, clasping her hand briefly in his.

His hands were calloused and warm, with faint ink stains along his fingertips, remnants of countless hours spent poring over old texts and documents.

“Welcome, welcome! Let’s have a look at what ye’ve brought me, shall we?

Oh, I do love a good mystery!” Heather blinked, caught off guard. “Wait… do I know you?”

Dr. Morrow gave a hearty chuckle, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah, Mr. Duncan gave me a ring. Said to expect a bonnie redhead from America with a mystery box and no patience for nonsense.”

“Flynn called you?” She frowned. “I didn’t tell him I was coming.

” The older man grinned, shrugging as he motioned her inside.

“He thought I might be able to lend a hand with whatever mystery you’re trying to solve.

He’s sent me plenty of historic pieces over the years.

” He gestured toward the box in her hands.

“And from the sound of it, he was right to send you my way.”

She hadn’t told Flynn—but of course he’d called ahead.

Always one step ahead. It should’ve reassured her.

Instead, it felt like being nudged down a path she hadn’t chosen.

Still… she wouldn’t pretend it didn’t make things easier.

She exhaled through her nose. “I didn’t realize he’d called ahead, but…

I’m here now, so let’s see what you think. ”

Heather placed the box gently on his desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“I found these in storage. I think they might be connected to my family’s history, but I’m unsure what to make of them.

” Dr. Morrow leaned in, his hands resting on the desk as he examined the box like a treasure chest. “Ah, this looks promising!” He opened the lid with care, and his eyes widened when he saw the tattered flag and the piece of tartan.

“By Saint Andrew! Do ye know what you’ve brought me here, lass? ”

She shook her head, overwhelmed. Dr. Morrow’s fingers trembled as he turned the fabric, but his excitement barely registered.

His words blurred at the edges of her consciousness—something about rarity, rebellion, and erasure.

She nodded along, but it felt like she was watching the moment happen from outside herself.

Like she was the artifact.

“After Culloden, the British burned most of them to erase any trace of rebellion.”

The air wooshed out of her lungs. “So, this survived when others didn’t?”

He nodded, his voice reverent. “These flags weren’t just symbols—they were resistance.

People risked everything to keep them. And the tartan—it wasn’t just a fashion choice.

After 1746, wearing Highland dress was outlawed for nearly 40 years.

This could have belonged to someone who defied that law, who held onto their identity despite the cost. And this”—he carefully unfolded the piece of Mackenzie tartan—“this is unmistakably from your clan. What a find! What a marvelous find!” He turned his attention to the parchment, squinting at the faded text as he held it up to the light.

“April 16th… yes, yes, the date of the Battle of Culloden! This is extraordinary. A relic like this, connected to the battle… it’s a piece of history, lass. A piece of your history.”

Her throat went dry.

His excitement was palpable, his words tumbling out in rapid succession.

Heather felt a mix of awe and discomfort as she watched him.

She couldn’t help but feel the weight of the objects in a way she hadn’t before as if they were more than just old items—they were part of something far bigger than herself.

Dr. Morrow finally looked up, his face glowing with enthusiasm.

“My dear, ye’ve brought me something truly extraordinary.

These pieces—this flag, the tartan, the parchment—may hold stories lost to time.

Ye’ve stumbled upon a treasure that connects the past to the present in ways we rarely see. ”

He gestured to the parchment, his voice rising with excitement.

“This faded writing is a puzzle begging to be solved. The date, April 16th, is a powerful clue tied to such a pivotal historical moment. If you’re comfortable with it, I’d suggest sending these to my colleague at the University of Edinburgh.

She has access to advanced imaging technology that can help us uncover what’s written here—technology far beyond my means.

Together, we can unravel this mystery, piece by piece! ”

His eyes sparkled as he leaned forward. “Ye’ve brought me something remarkable, Miss Campbell.

It would be my honor to help uncover its secrets.

” Heather ran her fingers over the box’s splintered edges.

It felt like handing over the last thread connecting her to her mother.

Like sealing something shut before she could even read the ending.

What if it got lost? What if it never came back? What if she was giving away the only chance she had to understand? Her throat tightened. But she forced herself to nod. “Okay. If you think your colleague can help, then… let’s do it.”

Dr. Morrow’s face lit up, his excitement practically radiating from him. “Excellent decision! Professor Henderson at the University of Edinburgh is brilliant—an expert in her field. If anyone can unlock the story behind these items, it’s her. I’ll make the arrangements straight away.”

Heather managed a small smile, feeling lighter now that she’d made the choice. “Alright,” she said quietly. “What happens now?”

“Well,” Dr. Morrow said, carefully placing the items back into the box as though they were precious jewels, “I’ll write to her immediately, explain what we’ve found, and arrange for secure transport of the artifacts.

Of course, she’ll need a little time, but I promise ye’ll be the first to know as soon as we have any updates. ”

She nodded, the weight on her shoulders easing. “Thank you. It’s exciting to think that we might learn something so significant.”

Dr. Morrow smiled warmly. “My dear, ye’ve already done the hardest part—finding these treasures and recognizing their value. The rest is simply a matter of patience.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m looking forward to seeing what they uncover.”

Dr. Morrow handed her a card with his contact information. “If ye have any questions—or if ye happen to find more treasures tucked away somewhere—don’t hesitate to call.”

Heather tucked the card into her pocket and shook his head. “I appreciate it. And I will.”

She stepped into the crisp air, breath fogging in the quiet.

This wasn’t a loss, she told herself. It was a beginning.

That giving the artifacts away was a beginning, not an ending.

But it still felt like something had slipped through her fingers.

She stood on the sidewalk, the weight of the past pressing against her spine.

She’d planned to head back to storage. To keep sorting.

Keep pushing. But the thought of another hour surrounded by ghosts—literal or not—was too much.

She turned toward the city instead. Away from Glenoran.

Away from Flynn. He was steady. Too steady.

The kind of man you could believe in. And that was the problem—because she couldn’t afford to believe in anyone

Neither of them was supposed to pull her in. She just needed to breathe—to exist without the ache of the past or the pull of what might come next.