Beneath the Glass

“Some secrets don’t wait to be told — they bloom when they choose.” — Daniel Campbell

The morning had mellowed into the kind of spring day that Edinburgh did best—crisp and bright, with just enough bite in the air to make every breath feel sharp and clean. After their conversation in the kitchen and a quick lunch where Isla had hurried off back to the café and Rowan to meet friends, Maeve followed her father down the gravel path that wound through the estate's grounds toward the greenhouse. Her boots crunched against the stone, the rhythm oddly comforting. Overhead, a skein of geese passed in ragged formation, their calls carrying faintly on the wind.

"Come on, Dad," she urged, breaking the contemplative silence. "You've been experimenting in that kitchen all morning. You promised to show me what's happening with the plants." Her voice carried the particular mix of impatience and enthusiasm that only teenagers could perfect. She hadn't missed the meaningful looks her grandparents had exchanged that morning, nor the leather-bound journal her grandmother had pointedly left on the counter.

Daniel glanced back, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn gardening jacket—the one that had been his father's before him, patches on the elbows and pockets stretched from years of carrying tools and specimens. "I didn't say I'd show you what's happening," he corrected, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I said I'd let you have a look. There's a difference." The distinction seemed important to him, though Maeve couldn't fathom why.

She rolled her eyes but quickened her pace to catch up. Ahead of them, the greenhouse rose from the carefully tended grounds like a Victorian fantasy—all elegant ironwork and weathered glass panels, its peaked roof reaching toward the strengthening spring sky. Despite its age, the structure possessed a quiet dignity, as though it knew its own importance. Decades of Campbell secrets had been nurtured within those walls, and it wore that history like a carefully maintained patina.

Daniel retrieved a key from his pocket, its brass surface worn smooth by generations of hands. The lock yielded with a solid click that seemed to echo in the afternoon quiet. As the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, a wave of warm, humid air escaped, carrying the complex aromatics of soil, growth, and something else—something Maeve couldn't quite identify but that reminded her of the moments just before a summer storm, electric and full of promise.

The interior was a carefully orchestrated jungle. Plants lined the paths in precise rows, their leaves creating a tapestry of greens that ranged from deep emerald to subtle sage. Some specimens climbed trellises in graceful spirals, while others spread low and dense across their beds. What caught Maeve's eye, though, were the unusual specimens at the far end—plants whose leaves seemed to catch light that wasn't there, shimmering with an almost metallic quality.

And there, in a separate section, stood the Skye variation that her grandparents had been so concerned about that morning. Even to Maeve's untrained eye, something about it seemed unusual. Its blue-tinged leaves were partially unfurled, reaching toward the glass ceiling with an eagerness that seemed almost sentient. Tiny buds that shouldn't have been there for weeks were already forming along its stems.

"Wow," she breathed, moving closer to examine a particularly striking specimen. Its leaves were deep green but possessed an otherworldly sheen, as though someone had painted them with liquid moonlight. "These are different from anything I've seen before. Are these what you use in the café?"

Daniel nodded, pride warring with caution in his expression. "Some of them. They're hybrids—special varieties we've been cultivating for generations. Hardy in their way, but particular about their care." He moved between the rows, checking soil moisture with practiced fingers, his movements carrying the weight of ritual.

Maeve crouched beside a low-growing plant, fascinated by the way its leaves seemed to shift colour as she moved. "What makes them so special?" She reached out to touch a leaf, marvelling at its silken texture. "The way they look, it's almost like they're not quite real."

Her father's pause was nearly imperceptible, but she caught it—that slight hesitation before he spoke, the same hesitation she'd noticed in the kitchen when she'd asked about the plants. "It's primarily in the soil," he explained, his tone carefully measured. "We discovered its unique properties decades ago. The plants that grow in it develop... distinctive characteristics. Enhanced flavours, unusual resilience."

His gaze drifted to the Skye variation, a shadow crossing his features. "Sometimes they respond to conditions we can't immediately perceive. Like now. That plant shouldn't be showing signs of blooming for another three weeks at least.”

"Is that what Gran and Grandpa were worried about this morning?" Maeve asked, connecting the pieces. "With that old journal?"

Daniel's expression shifted, surprise briefly registering before he masked it. "You notice too much sometimes," he said, but there was pride beneath the concern. "Yes. The journal documents patterns over generations. When the plants behave unusually, it often... correlates with other events."

"And where did this magical soil come from?" Maeve pressed, sensing a story behind his careful words. "Or these plants? They can't exactly be typical Scottish flora."

"That's a tale for another time," Daniel deflected, moving to adjust a vine that had strayed from its support. His tone was light but final, the way it always was when she pushed too close to whatever secrets he kept. "What matters now is understanding why they're changing their patterns."

Undeterred, Maeve pulled out her sketchbook and settled onto a nearby stool. The greenhouse's filtered light was perfect for drawing, casting subtle shadows that highlighted the plants' unusual features. As her pencil moved across the paper, she watched her father work—the precise way he checked each plant, his gentle handling of the leaves, the quiet murmur of his voice as he made mental notes.

She sketched the Skye variation first, trying to capture not just its form but the strange sense of anticipation it seemed to radiate. The early buds appearing along its stems reminded her of sentinels, standing watch for something approaching. On the next page, she began to capture the shimmering quality of the other plants, the way their leaves seemed to both absorb and reflect light simultaneously.

"What about using some of these for the festival booth?" she suggested, adding detail to a particularly intricate leaf structure. "Just a few of the smaller ones? It would make the display unique."

Daniel's hands stilled on the plant he was tending, a seedling of one of the varieties he'd been cross-breeding, its leaves already showing that distinctive shimmer. "We need to be careful about drawing too much attention," he said slowly. "People notice these plants. They ask questions we can't always answer."

Maeve looked up from her sketch, pencil poised. "You make it sound like we're guarding the Crown Jewels or something." She meant it as a joke, but the words fell flat against her father's serious expression.

"In a way, we are." Daniel straightened, wiping his hands on the cloth tucked into his back pocket. He moved to a workbench where several smaller specimens sat in terracotta pots, their leaves catching impossible light. "These plants represent generations of our family's work. They've brought the café success, but they've also brought... complications."

His fingers traced the edge of a leaf with something approaching reverence. "The leaves you saw me grinding this morning—the ones in that small jar—they come from these plants. They're what make certain blends at Leaf & Bean special."

"Special how?" Maeve pressed, sensing he was finally sharing something meaningful.

"They enhance perception, in subtle ways. Help people see connections they might otherwise miss. When properly prepared, they can reveal possibilities, paths not yet taken." He turned to face her, his expression grave. "But that's also why we must be careful. If the plants are changing their patterns, the effects might change too."

"What kind of changes?"

Daniel seemed to weigh his words carefully as he adjusted one of the pots. "The kind that make you realise some knowledge comes with responsibility. You'll understand more when—"

"When the time is right," Maeve finished, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. "You always say that, Dad. I'm not a child anymore. I can keep secrets."

"I know you can, love." His voice softened. "But some secrets are better understood when you've had time to prepare for them. Your grandmother believes you have a natural affinity for the plants—like she does. That's rare, and valuable. But it also means we need to be careful how you learn about them."

The greenhouse lapsed into contemplative quiet, broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves in the ventilation breeze and the scratch of Maeve's pencil against paper. She was adding the final touches to her sketch—trying to capture the impossible shimmer of the leaves—when a sound broke through their peaceful bubble: a distinct thud from outside, followed by the unmistakable crunch of gravel under foot.

Daniel's reaction was instant. His body tensed, hand frozen mid-reach for a watering can, eyes sharp and focused on the door. "Did you hear that?"

Maeve nodded, suddenly aware of how exposed they were behind the glass walls. "Could be the wind," she offered, though the words sounded hollow even to her. "Or Grandpa coming to check on things."

"Could be," Daniel echoed, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it. He moved silently to the door, years of practice evident in the way he found the gaps between creaking stone tiles. Through the misted glass, the path appeared empty, the gravel undisturbed, but something had changed in the quality of the afternoon.

After a long moment, Daniel turned back to Maeve, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "We should head back," he said, his voice deliberately casual. "Still plenty to do before the festival."

Though left unspoken, Maeve understood his real concern—that someone might have been watching, listening to their conversation about the plants' unusual properties.

Maeve tucked her sketchbook away and followed him to the door, casting one last look at the shimmering plants. As they stepped outside, the cool air felt sharp after the greenhouse's warmth. Daniel locked the door with the same care he'd shown opening it, each turn of the key deliberate and final.

The wind picked up as they walked back to the house, stirring branches from the surrounding trees. Daniel's pace was quicker now, his stance protective as he walked slightly ahead of Maeve. At the greenhouse's corner, he paused to look back, his gaze scanning the grounds with the intensity of someone memorising details for later comparison.

The afternoon's golden promise had faded somewhat, leaving behind the nagging sensation that something had shifted—as though the greenhouse's secrets had drawn attention they couldn't afford. As they reached the house door, Daniel couldn't shake the feeling that their peaceful afternoon had been more than just interrupted.

It had been observed.

Inside the greenhouse, left in solitude, the Skye variation trembled slightly, though no breeze stirred its leaves. A single bud, which had been merely a suggestion when Daniel and Maeve had admired it, unfurled silently into a perfect blue flower weeks ahead of its natural time.

Beneath the glass, something was awakening.

The kitchen enveloped them in warmth as they stepped back inside, the familiar aromatics of coffee and simmering syrups washing away some of the tension from the greenhouse. Here, surrounded by worn oak cabinets and sunlight filtering through leaded glass, the strange moment outside felt almost dreamlike—a distant shadow against the comforting solidity of the space that had been the heart of Campbell family life for generations. Maeve dropped her sketchbook onto the wooden table with a soft thud, her cheeks still pink from the crisp air, her earlier unease visibly melting away beneath the kitchen's spell.

"That greenhouse really is something else," she said, claiming her usual chair—the one with the slight wobble that no one else would use but that she'd declared perfect for the way it kept her "artistically balanced on the edge of comfort." She ran her fingers over her sketches of the shimmering plants, the Skye variation with its too-early buds. "I mean, if the café doesn't win best booth at the festival, we could just show people what you've got growing out there. That would definitely get their attention."

Daniel's response was quick and firm as he moved to the kettle, his back stiffening almost imperceptibly. "The greenhouse isn't for show, Maeve. And it's certainly not for winning festival awards."

His tone carried an edge she rarely heard—the one that suggested she'd unknowingly crossed some invisible line. The kettle clicked on with perhaps more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the kitchen's comfortable murmurs.

"Relax, Dad," she said, softening her words with a grin that dimpled her left cheek just like Eloise's used to. "I was only joking. Well, mostly joking." She watched as some of the tension eased from his shoulders, though his eyes still darted briefly toward the window, seeking the greenhouse in the distance. "Although you have to admit, those plants with the moonlight leaves would make for an impressive display."

Daniel set a steaming mug of tea before her—Earl Grey with a splash of milk, exactly as she liked it—before gathering the notes he'd left scattered across the table earlier. The nearly finished festival menu lay at the centre, and he placed a fresh sheet of paper beside it, smoothing it with the kind of deliberate care he usually reserved for handling the greenhouse specimens. His hands, Maeve noticed, still carried traces of soil beneath the nails despite his thorough washing—as though the greenhouse had marked him in some subtle, indelible way.

"The plants aren't meant for display," he said more gently now, the initial defensiveness fading from his voice. "They're part of what makes the café special, yes, but not in ways that are immediately visible."

His fingers brushed against the corner of the menu where Maeve had sketched a delicate border of leaves—leaves that, she realised with a start, bore a striking resemblance to the Skye variation they'd just observed in its premature blooming stage.

Maeve picked up one of the sample menus, tilting her head as she read through the carefully curated list. "Leaves & Beans Latte, Raspberry Mocha, Portal Cappuccino..." She paused, eyebrow arched in amusement. "You really think anyone's going to understand the 'portal' reference?"

"They don't need to understand it," Daniel replied, selecting a pencil from the cup by the window—always sharp, always precisely where they should be, part of the meticulous organisation that defined his work space. "They just need to remember it. People are drawn to the unusual, the mysterious. It makes them curious." He gave her a meaningful look. "Sometimes what they don't fully comprehend is what stays with them longest."

Maeve caught the double meaning in his words—a subtle reference to the secrets he still kept from her, the mysteries of the greenhouse that he revealed in careful, measured doses. She chose to deflect with humour rather than press further, a tactic perfected over years of navigating her father's careful boundaries.

"Listen to you, sounding like you've got a marketing degree tucked away somewhere," Maeve laughed, twirling her own pencil between her fingers as she opened her sketchbook to a fresh page. "And here I thought you were just a coffee guy."

"I've picked up a few things over the years," Daniel said mildly, though his focus remained on the paper before him. She watched as he wrote something, erased it, then wrote it again—the perfectionist streak that both impressed and exasperated her. His handwriting was precise, each letter formed with the same care he brought to measuring ingredients, as though the very act of writing could infuse meaning into the words.

"You know, if you keep doing that, we'll still be writing the menu when the festival ends," she teased, leaning across the table to nudge his arm. A few drops of tea sloshed over the rim of her mug, creating tiny amber pools on the worn wood—rings that would join countless others, each marking moments in the family's history.

Daniel glanced up, and something in his expression shifted, softened. The worry that had shadowed his eyes since their moment of unease in the greenhouse receded, replaced by the warm, indulgent look that was reserved solely for his daughters.

"And if I left it to you, everything would be written in bubble letters and decorated with glitter pens."

"Don't knock bubble letters until you've tried them," Maeve shot back, affecting an exaggerated pout that sent them both into laughter.

The sound filled the kitchen, bouncing off copper pots and weathered walls, and for a moment, the strange tension from the greenhouse dissipated entirely. Daniel watched his daughter sketch, her dark hair falling forward over her face just as Eloise's used to do, her enthusiasm lighting up the room in a way that made his chest ache with familiar bittersweet recognition. In these moments, the loss felt both sharper and somehow more bearable—a reminder of what was gone, yes, but also of what remained, what continued.

Eloise had been the heart of their family, the one who could turn even the most ordinary day into something magical. Maeve was still finding her way, still growing into herself, but sometimes the similarities were so striking they took his breath away. Not just in her appearance—though that green-eyed gaze was pure Eloise—but in the way she approached the world: with curiosity, with passion, with an eye that saw beauty in unlikely places.

"She'd be proud of you, you know," he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could catch them, born of a moment's unguarded emotion.

Maeve looked up, her pencil hovering mid-stroke, surprise registering in the slight parting of her lips. "Mum?"

Daniel nodded, suddenly finding the menu before him intensely interesting, uncomfortable with the raw emotion he'd inadvertently revealed. "She always wanted you to find something you loved, something you could pour your heart into. Seeing you so excited about the café... I think it would have made her really happy."

The usual quick wit and teasing fell away from Maeve's face, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. The loss of her mother at eight had left so many questions unanswered, so many memories half-formed. These fragments of connection that Daniel occasionally offered were precious to her, windows into a relationship cut short far too early.

"Well," she said after a moment, her voice gentle, "it helps that I've got you to show me the ropes. Even if you do obsess over every little detail."

"Somebody has to," Daniel replied, grateful for the lightened moment. "Otherwise, you'd just cover everything in vines and call it artistic vision."

"Hey, vines are classy," Maeve protested, but her smile had returned as she bent back over her sketchbook with renewed purpose. Her pencil moved with the assured strokes of someone born to create, bringing life to the page with a confidence that belied her sixteen years.

Daniel stood and moved to the counter, ostensibly to tidy up the morning's experimental remnants. His hand brushed against a small, leather-bound notebook tucked between the spice jars, its edges worn soft and smooth from years of handling. The initials in the corner, E.C., were barely visible now, but he could feel them under his thumb as he lifted it, the impression still holding Eloise's presence after all these years.

This had been Eloise's private journal—her collection of observations about the greenhouse plants, her theories about their potential, her dreams for what they might become. Her elegant handwriting filled the pages with insights that still guided his work with the hybrids, observations that had proven remarkably prescient over time. Some of the festival's signature drinks had grown from seeds planted in these pages, though he hadn't told Maeve that yet.

He flipped through it briefly, stopping at a passage Eloise had written shortly before her death: "The Skye variation responds to shifts in collective consciousness, blooming early when significant change approaches. D. should watch for this sign; it has preceded major events in Campbell history at least four times that I can document."

His heart quickened. Had Eloise somehow sensed what was coming? Had she been trying to leave guidance, knowing her time was limited? There was still so much he needed to tell Maeve, when the time was right. So many connections that needed to be explained.

"Dad?" Maeve's voice cut through his thoughts, sharper now with curiosity. "What's that?"

He turned to find her watching him, head tilted in that way that meant she'd caught something significant. Her artist's eye, trained to notice details, had registered the worn notebook and his unusual stillness as he read it. She pointed at the notebook in his hands, her expression suddenly alert, as though sensing its importance.

"It's nothing," he said quickly, perhaps too quickly, tucking it into his back pocket. The weight of it was comforting, a tangible connection to Eloise that he carried close.

"That definitely wasn't nothing," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. The same sharp observation skills that made her art so precise made her difficult to deflect. Her tone carried a hint of frustration now, the accumulation of too many secrets, too many deflections. "Was that one of Mum's things?"

"Not yet," he said, keeping his tone gentle but firm. "When the time's right, I'll show you." The words felt hollow even to his own ears, a promise too often made and too long deferred.

Maeve huffed but didn't push further, though Daniel could see the curiosity burning behind her eyes as she returned to her sketching. Her pencil moved with slightly less enthusiasm now, her focus scattered by the mystery he'd once again dangled just out of reach. The slight furrow between her brows spoke of questions forming, connections being made—and Daniel knew her mind was like a puzzle box, constantly working to fit pieces together even when she appeared to have set the problem aside.

He squeezed her shoulder as he passed, a quiet apology and reassurance wrapped in one gesture. His fingers lingered for a moment, remembering when she'd been small enough to carry, when protecting her had been as simple as keeping her away from hot stoves and sharp objects. Now the dangers were more complex, the protections less certain. "Come on," he said, picking up the latest version of the menu. "Let's get this finished. The festival won't wait for us to perfect every detail."

"Fine," Maeve sighed with theatrical resignation, but her smile was returning, the resilience of youth already pushing past the moment of tension. "But I'm still adding vines somewhere, whether you like it or not."

Daniel laughed, settling back into his chair beside her. The notebook in his pocket seemed to pulse with its own gravity, heavy with secrets still waiting to be shared. He could feel the imprint of the initials against his skin, a constant reminder of promises made and responsibilities shouldered. But for now, in the warm kitchen with Maeve's quiet humming beside him, he could pretend that legacy was something that could wait just a little longer.

Outside, the greenhouse caught the strengthening midday light, its glass panels reflecting the sun like signals to unseen watchers. Inside, father and daughter bent over their work, unaware that the day’s peace had been more than just observed.

It had been breached.

In the greenhouse, silent and unnoticed, the early bloom of the Skye variation had fully opened, its petals an impossible shade of blue that seemed to absorb and reflect light simultaneously. And beside it, where no flower had been forming earlier, a second bud was unfurling—this one a colour never before seen in the Campbell hybrid plants.

The legacy was changing, evolving. And somewhere beyond the estate's boundaries, someone had noticed.