The Decision to Return

“Waiting keeps you alive, but it never keeps you whole.” — Isla Campbell

Three days had passed since they'd first ascended into the safe-haven above the Emporium. Three days of living in limbo, suspended between their shattered past and an uncertain future. The Campbells had settled into an uneasy routine in the cramped quarters above the bookshop—a small flat that Ewan maintained for "visiting scholars," as he'd put it with a wry twist of his mouth.

The space was modest but functional: two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen with ancient appliances, and a sitting area dominated by overflowing bookshelves. The girls had taken one bedroom, with Maeve and Isla sharing the narrow double bed while Rowan slept on a camp bed wedged between it and the wall. Daniel had been given the second bedroom, though he'd hardly used it, spending most nights poring over the documents Douglas and Ewan had provided, searching for answers until exhaustion claimed him in the early hours.

They’d each fallen into their own ways of coping. Maeve had disappeared into the archives, her mind hungering for context, for understanding. She’d emerge now and then with ink-stained fingers and eyes alight with some new thread of knowledge, only to vanish again for hours.

Rowan had begun roaming the building, slipping through doorways and forgotten corridors, testing locks and noting creaks in the floorboards. She wasn’t just wandering—she was learning the Emporium, turning it into a map in her head, like a secret world that only she could read.

And Isla had grown increasingly quiet, watching, listening, spending long stretches gazing out at the rain-slicked Edinburgh streets from the flat’s small window, as if waiting for something.

Food had come from the small café two doors down, brought in discreet paper bags by the grey-haired woman—Margaret, they'd learned—who ran the front of the bookshop. Simple fare: sandwiches, pastries, soup in thermos containers that Ewan returned each morning. No one had left the building. No one had risked exposure.

But patience had its limits. And Daniel had reached his.

The four of them had gathered once more in the hidden study that evening, the weight of Elspeth Stewart's journal and all it revealed still hanging in the air. Douglas had brought news—scattered reports of continued activity at the Campbell estate, of men in unmarked vehicles coming and going, of earth being disturbed and sections cordoned off.

The White Rose Society was still searching. And with each passing hour, whatever remained of his family's legacy was being systematically dismantled.

Daniel placed both palms flat on the table, his decision made before he'd even realised he'd reached it.

"I’m going back."

His voice was flat, certain, leaving no room for argument. But despite the steel in his tone, Ewan's expression didn't shift. He merely exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers together in a steeple, his sharp gaze unreadable. He'd clearly been expecting this.

Douglas, however, did react. His jaw tightened, his shoulders shifting slightly, not in defiance, but in the way of a man bracing for a conversation he already knew was going to be a problem. The past three days had done nothing to soften his protective instincts.

"Not tonight, you're not."

Daniel turned to him, his patience already running razor-thin after days of enforced inactivity. The stubble on his jaw had grown into the beginnings of a beard, and shadows beneath his eyes spoke of too little sleep and too much worry.

"They're still out there. The White Rose Society." His voice was tight with restrained anger. "Every day we wait is another day they have to find what they're looking for."

Ewan interrupted, his voice measured in the way of someone choosing his words with deliberate care.

"Right now, we don't know what we're walking into. Rushing back in like a wrecking ball is a good way to get yourself killed." He gestured to the maps and surveillance photos they'd gathered over the past seventy-two hours. "We've confirmed at least eight operatives still on the grounds. They've set up a perimeter. They're methodical."

Daniel's hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, knuckles whitening. The enforced idleness of the past three days had worn his nerves raw.

"And what do you suggest? That I just sit here, while they rip apart everything that's left?" The image of his home—the gardens his daughters had played in as children, the greenhouse where he'd cultivated the special beans that made his café famous, the soil his ancestors had tended for generations—all being desecrated by strangers made something primal rise in his chest.

Douglas sighed, running a hand over his face. "That's not what we're saying, Daniel."

But that’s exactly what it felt like.

Daniel could feel the anger curling in his chest, but it wasn't just anger—it was frustration, grief, exhaustion all balled into one. He had spent the last few days running, reacting, surviving, and now, faced with the cold reality of his estate—his home—being picked apart like carrion, the thought of waiting was unbearable.

He wasn't built for helplessness. Never had been. Even as a café owner, he'd been the one in control, the one who made decisions, who solved problems. This enforced passivity felt like a slow suffocation.

Across the room, Maeve and Rowan were watching carefully, their expressions a mixture of concern and quiet understanding. The past three days had changed them too. Maeve's academic curiosity had hardened into something more focused, more determined. Rowan's natural caution had sharpened, her movements more precise, more measured.

Isla, however, had her arms folded tightly, jaw clenched, something burning behind her gaze. She leaned against a bookshelf, apart from her sisters, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that emphasised the angles of her face.

She was thinking. Had been thinking, Daniel realised, for days.

Daniel wasn't the only one who had reached his limit.

And sure enough—before anyone else could speak, Isla took a step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath her weight.

"I'm coming with you."

The words landed like a hammer against glass, shattering whatever fragile sense of control remained in the room.

Maeve let out a sharp breath. "Isla—"

"No." Isla's voice was firm, unwavering in a way that made it clear she had already made her decision, had perhaps made it days ago while watching the rain from the window. She turned to her father. "You're not going alone."

Daniel blinked at her, momentarily thrown off-balance. In the days they'd spent in this strange limbo, he'd been so focused on his own frustration, his own need to act, that he'd missed the same determination building in his eldest daughter.

"Isla—"

"Don't." Isla cut him off before he could tell her she was still too young, too inexperienced, too anything. Her voice carried an edge that hadn't been there before. "I'm not a kid. I've already been dragged through tunnels, chased by people who want us dead, and now you want me to just sit here while you go running straight back into the fire?"

She shook her head, the movement sharp and decisive. "I'm not staying behind. Not this time." The past three days had clearly given her time to consider, to make up her mind. The decision wasn't impulsive—it was the result of careful thought.

Silence.

Daniel stared at her, and for a moment—just a fraction of a second—he saw Eloise.

Her mother had stood like that once, with that same defiance burning in her eyes, the same edge of frustration, the same unshaken resolve that made arguments feel redundant. It was like looking at a ghost, at a memory made flesh.

It made his chest ache.

Maeve sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. The shadows under her eyes spoke of too many nights spent on alert, of the strain of constant vigilance. "Isla, for God's sake—"

"You can't tell me I'm wrong," Isla shot back. "You know I'm not." The words carried the weight of the countless conversations the sisters must have had in their shared bedroom over the past three days, debates Daniel hadn't been privy to.

Maeve didn't answer.

Because she did know.

Douglas had remained quiet through the exchange, but when he finally spoke, his voice was calm and decisive. He'd spent the past three days making his own calculations, weighing risks, considering options.

"Fine."

All eyes turned to him.

He met Daniel's gaze, measuring, steady. "I'm going too." It wasn't a suggestion—it was a statement of fact, as immovable as the ancient stone beneath Edinburgh itself.

Daniel let out a slow breath. He should have known Douglas wouldn't let him go alone.

Ewan, standing with his arms folded loosely across his chest, finally gave a short nod. The gesture carried the weight of reluctant acceptance.

"Then it's settled." He glanced at the clock on the wall—nearly ten. "Dawn would be best. Shift change for their patrols, based on what we've observed."

Rowan shifted beside Maeve, arms crossed over the jumper she'd been wearing for three days straight.

"And what about us?" The question wasn't combative, just pragmatic—the voice of someone who needed to know where she stood.

"You stay here," Daniel said without hesitation. "Both of you." He couldn't risk all of them. Not after everything they'd already lost.

Rowan’s brows knit together, a crease forming between them.

"But what if something happens while you’re gone?"

Her voice wasn’t panicked—just practical, the kind of question someone asks after noticing more than most think she does. In the days they’d spent here, she’d wandered the Emporium with quiet purpose, noting which doors stuck, which windows rattled, which corners felt too easy to miss.

Ewan leaned against the table, exuding a quiet, unshaken confidence.

"Then you'll be safe. This place isn't just a bookshop with a secret door, lass. It's a stronghold. No one gets in unless I let them."

He ran his hand over a section of the wall that looked no different from the rest—but Daniel had noticed earlier how certain panels clicked beneath the touch, how some locks seemed to respond to pressure, not keys. It wasn’t magic. It was design. Hidden, deliberate, and old.

It wasn't just assurance. It was a fact.

Rowan shifted uncomfortably but didn’t argue. She understood, even if she didn’t like it. Over the past few days, she’d listened more than she spoke—watching how people moved, how decisions were made. She was learning when to ask questions, and when silence said more.

The energy in the room had changed. The decision had been made, the lines drawn.

Now, all that was left was to rest, to prepare.

Douglas seemed to sense it too, because he turned to Ewan. "We'll move at first light."

Ewan nodded, stepping away from the table, already shifting gears into practicality. "Margaret’s got the kettle on. Mugs are where they always are."

The words carried the weight of routine—they’d heard them each night for the past three days, a small ritual in their disrupted lives.

The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind something quieter—exhaustion, tension, anticipation. A familiar cycle after days of waiting.

Maeve and Rowan moved to their usual spots near the bookshelves without a word, each picking up a mug from the sideboard as they passed. The clink of ceramic against wood was familiar now, part of the rhythm of their evenings. Rowan curled up cross-legged, her mug cradled in both hands, while Maeve took her place on the floor, back resting against the shelves.

Isla lingered by the table for a moment, watching the steam rise from the mugs. Then, without a word, she poured herself a cup and crossed the room, settling beside Maeve. Their shoulders touched—light, steady. A quiet reminder they were still here. Still together.

Douglas sat near the door, resting his back against the wall. A soldier at ease—but never truly off guard. The same position he'd taken every night, watching over them with the quiet vigilance that had become as much a part of their new routine as Margaret's deliveries from the café.

Daniel didn't sit.

Not yet.

Instead, he moved toward the glass case where Elspeth Stewart’s journal still rested, running his fingers along its edge. He’d read it more than once over the past three days, but there were still gaps—fragments he didn’t fully grasp. The weight of it pressed at the edges of his thoughts, not yet formed into something he could name. Not yet. But something was beginning to take shape.

So much had been taken from him already.

Tomorrow, he would start taking something back.