The Conscience Breach
Nathan materialises at the Campbell Estate with a desperate warning: the White Rose Society plans to raid the property within the hour, targeting Daniel's botanical research. As he helps gather irreplaceable hybrid specimens, eight months of carefully maintained deception unravels—his barista job was cover for investigating the very family he's now racing to protect.
"Sometimes being a Guardian means saving people from dangers you helped create—even if it costs you everything you've built with them."
The portal's residual shimmer dissolved behind me as my feet found purchase on the Campbell Estate's gravel path, the familiar vertigo of dimensional transit settling into my bones with the persistence of an unwelcome memory. My fingers trembled—whether from the crossing or from what I was about to do, I genuinely couldn't say. After eight months of careful deception, meticulously constructed half-truths, and strategically deployed silences, I was about to shatter the illusion I'd so painstakingly maintained.
Christ, Nathan. What are you doing?
The night air carried that distinctive Edinburgh chill, early spring refusing to fully relinquish winter's grip on the Scottish hills. I pulled my jacket tighter, the leather cold against my palms, and tried to steady my breathing. Far to the north, the city's lights shimmered against the darkening sky—somewhere beneath that glow, Edinburgh Castle sat on its volcanic perch like a stone sentinel that had witnessed centuries of secrets far more significant than mine. The thought should have been comforting. It wasn't.
The greenhouse caught my eye immediately, its glass panels reflecting moonlight like a beacon specifically designed to torment my conscience. Through those transparent walls, I could see Daniel's silhouette moving with that methodical care I'd come to recognise over months of morning shifts at Leaf & Bean. He was tending his plants—his precious plants—with no idea that within the hour, people with far less benign intentions would be doing the same.
They don't know what's coming. They have no bloody idea.
My mouth felt desert-dry, memories of what I'd witnessed through CliveMind flashing through my mind like fragments of a particularly vivid nightmare—surveillance images, extraction protocols, the White Rose Society's meticulous planning sessions I'd accessed through channels I still didn't fully understand. What had begun as a simple job—just a barista position to pay my bills while I pursued my "independent research"—had spiralled into something I'd never anticipated.
Independent research. The phrase tasted like ash now. What hubris to think I could investigate the Campbells' botanical legacy without consequence, without becoming entangled in the very web I was attempting to map.
Each step toward the greenhouse felt too loud, my boots crunching on gravel with all the subtlety of a burglar announcing their arrival. The path was lined with native heather, just beginning to show signs of new growth after the long winter—tentative green shoots emerging from woody stems that had endured months of cold. Rather like me, I supposed, emerging from months of carefully maintained pretence into whatever came next.
Through the glass, I watched Daniel check a seedling with the sort of focused attention that made him an excellent café owner and, I suspected, a formidable opponent when properly motivated. The man had served in the Royal Marines before returning to his family's botanical legacy—a detail I'd learned through CliveMind rather than through any conversation we'd actually had. Just one more secret in a collection growing uncomfortably substantial.
For eight months, I'd watched him meticulously care for these plants, never revealing how my own curiosity had led me to discover connections between the Campbell varieties and historical records that shouldn't exist. Eight months of conversations about sustainable agriculture and coffee cultivation, gradually earning trust while privately pursuing investigations into properties that defied natural law. Eight months of cognitive dissonance so profound I sometimes wondered if I'd developed a form of occupational schizophrenia.
And now you're going to break his trust by saving his life. Brilliant paradox, that.
I pushed open the greenhouse door, the faint creak of its hinges shattering the stillness with far more finality than I'd anticipated. Warmth enveloped me immediately—the carefully controlled microclimate a stark contrast to the lingering chill outside. The air carried that earthy scent of spring's awakening, intensified within the greenhouse's glass walls. This was a world unto itself, with its own ecosystem and rhythm, and I was about to introduce chaos into its carefully maintained equilibrium.
Daniel turned sharply, his face transforming from peaceful concentration to a mixture of surprise and suspicion that made my stomach clench. His hands, stained with soil, paused over a delicate seedling—hands that had prepared countless flat whites for me while I smiled and pretended my interest in his family was merely collegial.
"Nathan? What are you doing here?"
His voice carried the edge of someone whose private space had been unexpectedly invaded, the Scottish lilt that usually felt so warm at the café now holding a note of wariness that cut deeper than I'd anticipated. Of course he was suspicious. I'd materialised on his family's private estate without invitation or explanation, my presence as unwelcome as it was unprecedented.
"We don't have time," I said, closing the door behind me with deliberate care. The words felt inadequate—a woefully insufficient preamble to what I needed to convey. The ambient humidity wrapped around us like a blanket, making the air feel thick with unspoken questions. Condensation trickled down the glass panes in patterns that resembled tears, reflecting the artificial lights in miniature constellations that seemed to bear witness to my betrayal of his trust. "The estate is in danger."
Daniel straightened, setting down the small trowel he'd been holding. The metallic click against the workbench echoed with surprising volume in the greenhouse's confined space, a punctuation mark to the comfortable world I was about to dismantle.
"Danger? What are you talking about?"
His eyes—usually so warm and welcoming behind the café counter—now held that cautious edge I'd seen in the rare moments when difficult customers pushed too far. This was the man beneath the congenial café owner, someone who'd once served in the military and understood threat assessment in ways I could only theoretically comprehend.
My gaze swept across the greenhouse, taking in the rows of plants with new urgency. I recognised coffee plants, traditional varieties alongside Daniel's experimental hybrids that represented years of careful cultivation. Many were flush with new spring growth, a testament to his dedication through the dark Scottish winter. There were other specimens too—medicinal herbs, drought-resistant grain varieties, all part of the Campbell family's centuries-old legacy that I'd been researching without their knowledge or consent.
I hesitated, the weight of eight months of deception suddenly feeling like a physical burden across my shoulders. Months of casual conversations at the café, carefully building trust by sharing genuine parts of myself—my childhood in Adelaide, my work as a business analyst before coming to Edinburgh "for a change of pace," my passion for coffee cultivation. All true, meticulously true, but deliberately separated from my private research. And I'd most certainly never mentioned my relentless, yet fruitless, search for Luke Smith.
Tell him. Just bloody well tell him.
"There's a group—a well-funded, organised group—that's planning to raid the estate tonight." The words felt inadequate against the magnitude of what was approaching, like attempting to describe a tsunami with vocabulary suited for describing ripples in a teacup. "They're after your plants, your research, anything connected to your family's botanical legacy. They call themselves the White Rose Society."
Daniel's eyes narrowed, his posture shifting subtly into something more defensive, more alert. The transformation was striking—the café owner vanishing to reveal the soldier beneath.
"And how exactly do you know this?"
The question carried layers of meaning I wasn't prepared to excavate—not just about my source of information, but about me, about the nature of our relationship, about whether any of the past eight months had been genuine. Fair questions, all of them, and I had no satisfactory answers.
I avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the row of plants before me, their leaves seeming to shimmer with unusual vitality under the growing lights. Properties that defied natural law, just as my presence here defied the comfortable narrative I'd been constructing.
"I have... resources that monitor certain groups," I said finally, the explanation true but deliberately vague in ways that made me feel like the worst sort of coward. Through my work with CliveMind, I'd stumbled upon the White Rose Society's interest in the Campbell Estate—not through any official capacity, but through my own persistent, arguably obsessive research. "Sources that told me you're out of time. They're on their way now—less than thirty minutes before they breach the estate's perimeter."
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft hum of ventilation fans and the distant rustle of leaves. Daniel stared at me, and I could practically see the calculations running behind his eyes—weighing not just the truth of my words but the trust he'd placed in the young barista who'd become almost like family. The greenhouse fell silent except for those mechanical sounds, and in that quiet, I felt the full weight of my deception crushing down like atmospheric pressure at depth.
Then, without further hesitation, he nodded. A decision made, trust extended despite every rational reason to withhold it.
"What do we need to do?"
Relief flooded through me with such intensity I felt momentarily light-headed, though the knot of tension in my shoulders remained stubbornly intact. The hardest part was still ahead—protecting the Campbell family while revealing enough of what I knew to ensure their safety without exposing the full extent of my research.
Or the fact that you've been investigating them for months like some stalker with academic pretensions.
"We need to act fast," I said, moving toward the nearest row of plants with purpose that felt almost aggressive in its urgency. "Gather everything critical—seeds, seedlings, soil samples, documents. Leave anything that's replaceable."
Daniel grabbed a nearby crate, his movements quick and precise as years of military training reasserted themselves. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands as he began loading small, labelled vials of soil and hybrid coffee beans. Each careful selection represented years of research, generations of family knowledge—decisions about what to save and what to sacrifice made under impossible time pressure.
"The hybrid strains are the most important," Daniel said, his voice clipped with focus. "That's what they're after, isn't it? The hybrid varieties?"
I nodded, helping to gather sample containers, my own hands steadier now that we were moving, acting, doing something productive rather than simply drowning in the implications of my betrayal. "Most likely."
Another partial truth. From what I'd uncovered, the White Rose Society wanted more than just the plants—they wanted the proprietary cultivation techniques, the genetic profiles, everything that made the Campbell varieties unique. And they believed there was a historical connection to something more valuable than mere agricultural innovation, connections that reached back through centuries and possibly across dimensions.
As we worked, my thoughts drifted to the Campbell family café in Morningside, that warm, inviting space where I'd found far more than just employment. I thought of the sisters—Isla, Maeve, and Rowan—who'd welcomed me into their lives with such genuine warmth. They'd included me in conversations and family celebrations, treated me as more than just an employee, shared stories and laughter and confidences.
And all the while, my private research had been leading me closer to understanding just how special their family legacy truly was—not through any assignment or mission, but through my own persistent curiosity and the unusual access that CliveMind provided. The cognitive dissonance was staggering now, confronted with the immediate consequences of my actions.
I'd told myself that my research was purely academic, that my interest in the Campbell family's botanical history was separate from my growing friendship with them. But as the months passed, the line between professional curiosity and personal connection had blurred until I could no longer distinguish which was which. I found myself genuinely caring about this family, admiring their dedication, their principled approach to business, their unwavering support for each other.
And now I was here to warn them—to save them—even if it meant revealing that my interest had always run deeper than casual curiosity. Even if it meant losing whatever friendship we'd built once they learned the truth.
Better they hate you alive than mourn you dead. Small comfort, that.
"I'll get the girls," I said abruptly, heading for the door with perhaps more urgency than was strictly necessary. My heart ached at the thought of those who had welcomed me so warmly into their family's café, who'd shared their lives with someone who'd been researching them like specimens under glass. "Keep working here. Take whatever you can carry."
The greenhouse door closed behind me with a soft click, leaving Daniel alone with his precious plants and the weight of decisions that would change everything. As I jogged toward the main house, the night air pressed closer, carrying whispers of the storm that was about to break over the Campbell Estate.
A convergence of forces drawn to secrets that had been preserved through generations, and I was the idiot who'd opened the door to let them in—even as I scrambled desperately to warn the targets of my own curiosity.
Some Guardian you turned out to be, Cowdrey. Some bloody Guardian indeed.
