The Safe-house

“Sometimes safety isn’t a place—it’s a story the walls choose to keep.” — Ewan Macready

The tunnels beneath Edinburgh had a way of swallowing sound. Their footsteps echoed in the confined space before being consumed by the darkness, softened only by the damp earth and time-worn stone beneath them. Each step sent whispers of sound reverberating through the passageway, only to die moments later, as if the very walls were hungry for noise.

Daniel moved through the passageway with a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the stale underground air. His shoulders hunched forward almost imperceptibly. It had been a relentless, impossible few hours, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

And now, he was following a man he barely knew through tunnels that had been carved out by rebels centuries ago, leading to yet another place he didn't know, another supposed safe-house where he and his daughters would have to regroup, hide, and figure out what the hell came next.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. The muscles in his face ached from the constant tension, a dull, persistent pain he had almost stopped noticing.

Douglas walked ahead, steady, assured, a man used to navigating places like this. There was a rhythm to his movements, a certainty that spoke of familiarity—not just with these tunnels, but with the constant state of flight, of seeking refuge in the forgotten corners of the world. His torch beam swept across the stone walls in practised arcs, revealing faded markings—old symbols, remnants of a different time, a different fight. Jacobite crosses, coded warnings, prayers etched by desperate hands. The Jacobites had used these tunnels once, but now they belonged to the Guardians. Another war, another secret. The walls had seen it all before.

"Watch your head here," Douglas murmured, his voice low and gravelly. It was the first thing he'd said in nearly twenty minutes. The beam of his torch highlighted a section where the ceiling dipped treacherously low.

Behind Daniel, Maeve, Rowan, and Isla moved in near silence. Each had retreated into their own thoughts, their own methods of processing the unthinkable. Maeve was the only one who seemed even remotely interested in their surroundings, her fingers brushing across the damp walls as if trying to soak in the history that pulsed beneath her fingertips. Occasionally, she would pause at a particular marking, her eyes narrowing in recognition or curiosity, before hurrying to catch up. Her natural inquisitiveness—something that had always both delighted and exhausted Daniel—remained undimmed, even now.

Isla was watching Douglas closely, wary but quiet. Her eyes never left his back for long, and Daniel recognised the calculating look on her face. She was memorising the path, noting the turns, the inclines, the distinctive features of the tunnel walls. Building a mental map she could use if everything went wrong. Again.

Rowan was deep in thought, her face unreadable in the dim torchlight. She walked with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a physical barrier between herself and their reality.

The tunnel narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. The walls pressed in, uncomfortably close, the ceiling low enough that Daniel had to stoop slightly. The air grew thicker, heavier with moisture. Droplets of water clung to the stone above, occasionally releasing to fall with soft, unpredictable plops that made everyone flinch.

"How much farther?" Rowan's voice was tight, controlled, but Daniel heard the edge of claustrophobia creeping in. She had never liked small spaces.

Douglas didn't turn around. "Not far now."

The answer was maddeningly vague, but Daniel bit back his frustration. There was no point in pressing for more information. Douglas would tell them what he deemed necessary, when he deemed it necessary. It appeared to be a trait shared by all Guardians Daniel had ever known—this infuriating belief in controlled information, in need-to-know bases and half-truths. Once, Daniel had been the same. Now, he found himself on the other side of that wall of silence, and the irony was not lost on him.

They rounded a corner, and the tunnel opened slightly, the ceiling rising just enough for Daniel to stand upright again. The relief was immediate, the loosening of cramped muscles almost pleasurable. The light from Douglas's torch caught on something ahead—metal, reflecting the beam back at them in a brief, sharp flash.

Douglas finally stopped at a weathered iron gate, half-hidden by the curve of the tunnel wall. The gate was old, its bars thick with rust and time, but the lock that held it closed was newer, incongruously modern against the aged metal. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a key, brass and heavy, with an intricately carved bow. With a quiet, decisive motion, he unlocked it. The gate swung open with a low groan, hinges protesting after who knew how long without use, revealing a narrow stone staircase leading up into darkness.

Douglas turned to them, the torchlight casting deep shadows across the planes of his face, making him look older. His eyes, however, remained sharp, alert.

"We're here."

Daniel didn't bother asking where 'here' was. He was quickly learning that Douglas gave answers when he decided they were necessary, not before. The resigned acceptance of this fact sat uncomfortably in his stomach.

He glanced back at his daughters, their faces pale in the weak light, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion, wariness, and stubborn determination. They had been through too much already, and this was only the beginning. The thought settled like lead in his chest.

One by one, they ascended.

The moment Daniel stepped inside, the change in atmosphere was almost disorienting.

After the primal darkness of the tunnels, the sudden shift hit him like a physical force. Gone was the oppressive weight of the underground—the air here was warmer, filled with the scent of aged paper, polished wood, and something faintly floral, like lavender or rose oil. The mustiness of centuries gave way to a carefully curated haven of knowledge, preservation, and quiet reverence.

They were standing in a bookshop, but not the sleek, modern kind with its sterile lighting and coffee counter tucked away in the corner. This was a place that had existed for generations, worn into comfort by time and use rather than designed for it. The floorboards beneath them creaked softly with each step, their timber darkened by decades of footfalls, telling stories with every whispered groan. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, packed with weathered tomes, leather-bound volumes, and yellowing pages full of forgotten knowledge. Some shelves bowed slightly in the middle, bearing the weight of their literary burden with the quiet dignity of old servants.

The lighting was dim, not because of neglect, but because it suited the place, casting soft pools of warmth over the endless shelves. Antique brass lamps with green glass shades created islands of illumination throughout the space, their gentle glow highlighting the gilt lettering on spines and casting long shadows in the corners. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams of light from the streetlights outside that managed to filter through from the leaded glass windows, giving the entire shop an otherworldly, suspended-in-time quality.

It was, at a glance, just a quiet little antique bookshop in the heart of Edinburgh. The kind of place that tourists stumbled upon by accident and locals visited with purpose, a hidden gem in a city that prided itself on such discoveries.

But Daniel knew better.

His heart rate quickened slightly as his instincts began to hum beneath his skin. He could feel it in the air, in the particular arrangement of the shelves, in the way certain books seemed to be positioned with too much care to be accidental. This wasn't just a bookshop; it was a façade, a clever piece of camouflage hiding something far more significant beneath its unassuming surface. Yet another secret door in a city built upon layers of concealment.

His daughters took it in with varying reactions, each response as revealing as a fingerprint. Maeve's eyes flickered with unrestrained curiosity, her fingers already itching to explore, to pull books from shelves and unlock whatever secrets they might contain. Her body seemed to lean forward of its own accord, drawn to the promise of discovery. Rowan was more reserved, her gaze methodically scanning each corner, each shadow, her stance slightly widened as if preparing for the inevitable hidden element beneath the surface. Isla just stood still for a moment, breathing it in, processing. Her eyes, so like her mother's, absorbed everything without revealing her thoughts—the observer, the listener, the one who would piece it all together when no one was watching.

At the far end of the shop, a small museum section stood tucked into an alcove, enclosed by a velvet rope the colour of aged wine. It was positioned in such a way that it seemed both part of the bookshop and separate from it—a carefully preserved piece of the past amid the merely old.

On display were elegant 18th-century dresses, meticulously preserved behind glass cases that regulated humidity and temperature, their fine embroidery still visible despite the passage of time. The fabrics—silks, satins, and brocades—had faded to soft, muted versions of their original colours, but the craftsmanship remained extraordinary. Impossibly tiny stitches formed intricate patterns along hems and bodices, some merely decorative, others—Daniel knew—containing coded messages that once meant life or death.

Framed behind glass were handwritten letters with elegant, flowing script, faded receipts for fabric and thread, delicate sketches of designs annotated with measurements and notes. A collection of silver thimbles and ornate scissors lay arranged on a faded velvet cushion, tools of a trade that had been both mundane and revolutionary.

And above it all, a carefully printed plaque in rich burgundy with gold lettering:

MOIRA MACKENZIE'S EMPORIUM OF FASHION: A HAVEN FOR JACOBITE LOYALISTS.

Daniel swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

He'd heard the stories, of course. Any Scot with an interest in their country's past knew of the Emporium—the tailor's shop that had once been a front for the Jacobite resistance, where Moira MacKenzie and her network had smuggled messages, hidden rebels, and sewn secrets into the very fabric of the dresses they created. Her codebooks of stitches and patterns had confounded the English for years, allowing information to pass right under their noses. It was the stuff of nationalist legend, romanticised in films and novels, the clever Scottish seamstress outsmarting her oppressors with needle and thread.

But standing here, in a bookshop that now occupied that same space, felt heavier than just history. It was a reminder that rebellion and secrecy were woven into the very foundations of this building, that the walls around them had always sheltered those who fought from the shadows.

It felt like fate.

Daniel became aware of Douglas watching him, gauging his reaction. The Guardian's face revealed nothing, but his eyes—sharp, assessing—missed nothing. In that moment, Daniel understood that bringing them here hadn't been merely practical. It had been deliberate. A message.

A figure emerged from between the bookshelves—not suddenly, but with the deliberate quiet of someone accustomed to moving through spaces unnoticed. He stepped into one of the pools of lamplight, a man in his early forties, tall and lean, dressed in a dark wool coat that made him look like he had just stepped in from the Edinburgh streets. The coat hung perfectly from his shoulders, neither too formal nor too casual—the kind of garment that allowed its wearer to blend seamlessly into any crowd, to be forgettable by design. His hair was cropped short, a few strands of grey at his temples the only concession to age, and his sharp, analytical gaze swept over the group with practised efficiency, missing nothing.

Ewan Macready.

Daniel had never met him before, but he recognised the type instantly. There was a quiet calculating intelligence to him—a man who noticed details, logged them away, and was already several steps ahead in the conversation before it had even begun. His hands were those of a scholar—long-fingered and precise—but the way he held himself spoke of someone equally comfortable with physical confrontation. The contradiction was subtle but unmistakable to anyone trained to look for it. A bookkeeper with the posture of a soldier.

Douglas shut the hidden entrance behind them with a soft click, the weight of the mechanism settling into place behind a row of worn, leather-bound volumes. The bookcase—real oak, not a flimsy disguise—slid seamlessly back into position, the gap vanishing with a precision that suggested craftsmanship older than electricity. Only the faint scent of stone and damp earth betrayed what lay behind it.

He gave Ewan a nod. "How's the shop?"

Ewan snorted, a surprisingly inelegant sound from such a composed figure. "Still standing. Still selling books to old men who think first editions make them interesting." There was a hint of Glasgow in his accent, softened by years of education but still detectable in certain vowels, in the rhythm of his speech. His gaze flicked to the Campbells, assessing them with the swift thoroughness of someone cataloguing potential threats and assets simultaneously. "I take it you weren't followed?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with implications. The secret war they were fighting was invisible to most, but its dangers were no less real.

Douglas shook his head. "No one saw us." The certainty in his voice was absolute, but there was a shadow beneath the words—an awareness that certainty itself was a luxury none of them could truly afford.

Ewan didn't look convinced. His eyes narrowed fractionally, a micro-expression of doubt that spoke of years of hard-earned paranoia. Of seeing supposedly secure locations compromised, of watching careful plans unravel at the seams.

His attention shifted to Daniel, his dark eyes cool but not unfriendly. There was a glimmer of something in them—recognition, perhaps, or professional respect.

"Daniel Campbell."

The name was spoken with a slight pause, as if Ewan was testing the weight of it on his tongue, comparing the man before him with stories he'd heard or files he'd read.

"You look like a man who doesn't know if he's in a safe-house or a trap."

Daniel met his gaze evenly, refusing to look away first. "At this point, I'm not sure there's a difference."

A flicker of amusement crossed Ewan's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came, like sunlight glancing off a blade. It wasn't mockery—closer to appreciation for Daniel's candour.

"Fair enough," he said, before glancing at the sisters. The weight of his attention shifted, and Daniel tensed, his protective instincts flaring. "I assume you're aware of where you are?"

Maeve, unable to help herself, spoke first. Her curiosity had always been both her greatest strength and her most dangerous liability.

"The old Emporium. It was part of the Jacobite resistance." There was unmistakable excitement in her voice, the academic in her momentarily overriding the gravity of their situation.

Isla shot her sister a warning glance, but it was too late. Daniel saw Ewan's expression shift minutely as he filed away this piece of information—Maeve was the one who spoke without thinking, the one whose enthusiasm might be leveraged.

Ewan nodded approvingly, but Daniel wasn't fooled. The approval was calculated, a deliberate response designed to encourage further openness.

"Aye. And now it's something more."

Daniel felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, that old familial instinct whispering warnings. They were being drawn deeper into something, and while part of him wanted to grab his daughters and flee, he knew it was far too late for that. It had been too late the moment their home was breached.

Ewan turned, gesturing for them to follow with a fluid economy of movement. The leather of his shoes made barely a sound on the aged floorboards, another small tell that he was more than the bookseller he appeared to be.

"Come on," he said. "Let's talk history."

There was a weight to the invitation that belied its simplicity. History. Not just the sanitised version found in tourist pamphlets and school textbooks, but the darker currents that ran beneath, the secret struggles that had shaped Scotland for centuries. The wars fought in shadows by people whose names rarely made it into official records.

And with that, he led them deeper into the bookshop, moving past the carefully arranged displays toward a door at the back, partially hidden behind a rotating rack of maps. Each step seemed to take them further from the world Daniel had tried to build, the normal life he'd carved out for his family, toward the knowledge they hadn't even realised they were searching for.

Isla fell into step beside her father, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her presence. She said nothing, but her hand briefly brushed against his—the smallest gesture of solidarity, of shared apprehension. Daniel curled his fingers around hers for just a moment, a silent acknowledgment.

Whatever waited for them beyond that door, they would face it together.

The bookshop's warmth contrasted sharply with the cold weight of what Douglas had led them through to get here. It wasn't just the soft lighting or the scent of aged paper and polished wood—it was something deeper, more profound. The weight of history, of stories woven into the walls, of secrets hidden in plain sight. It reminded Daniel of his own café in some ways—places that held more than they appeared to, spaces where lives intersected and changed course without anyone realising it was happening.

Muscle memory from years of managing his café made Daniel automatically note the details of the space—the carefully positioned lighting that highlighted certain shelves while leaving others in shadow, the subtle flow of the layout designed to guide browsing customers in a particular path, the worn patches in the floorboards that revealed where people most often stood. A well-designed space, created by someone who understood how to manage the movement of people without them feeling managed.

Ewan led them through the back of the shop, past a half-opened wooden counter stacked with antique volumes whose leather bindings gleamed like burnished copper in the amber light. They approached a discreet door marked "Staff Only." The sign was aged, the gold lettering slightly faded, but the lock was new—a modern deadbolt incongruous against the weathered wood.

"Through here," Ewan said, pulling a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door with a quiet click that seemed unusually final in the hushed atmosphere.

Beyond was a private study, larger than Daniel expected, but heavy with purpose. The air was thicker, closer, carrying the distinctive scent of preservation—a mixture of special waxes, leather conditioners, and archive-quality storage materials. The room was lined with wooden filing cabinets of varying ages, from Victorian oak pieces with brass fittings to more modern designs, all meticulously maintained. Shelves climbed to the ceiling, stacked with old journals, parchment-bound records, and carefully stored relics of a past most people had long forgotten.

Glass-fronted cases held items that seemed mundane at first glance—a silver brooch, a wooden box, a fragment of tartan preserved under UV-protected glass—but the care with which they were displayed suggested significance far beyond their humble appearances.

A large table dominated the centre of the space, crafted from dark oak and bearing the scars of centuries of use—ink stains, scratches, small burns from candles long extinguished. It was already cluttered with books, scattered papers covered in handwritten notes, and a glass display case that held something old, delicate, and deeply significant. A greenish banker's lamp cast the only illumination, creating a small island of light in the otherwise shadowed room.

Near the hearth, a woman moved with quiet precision, stoking the fire already burning low in the grate. Her hair was a pale crown of white pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, and she wore a charcoal-grey wool cardigan over a long, faded linen skirt. She didn’t look up or speak—just continued her task as if she’d been expecting them for days.

There was no hesitation in her movements. No need for instruction. She adjusted the fire, dusted ash from the hearthstone with a cloth already tucked into the crook of her arm, and placed two small peat bricks into the embers with unhurried care. The scent of woodsmoke deepened, blending with the aged wax and vellum air of the room.

She was no maid. That much was clear. There was a deliberateness to her presence, not subservience. She was part of the room in the way old books were—integral, silent, and absolutely not to be underestimated.

Ewan closed the door behind them with a soft finality, then gestured for them to sit in the assortment of mismatched chairs arranged around the table. The invitation was casual, but there was nothing casual about this room or what it contained.

"You should see this," he said simply, moving towards the glass case. His voice had changed subtly—quieter, more reverent, the voice of a man who understood the weight of what he was about to show them.

Maeve, already fascinated, stepped forward without hesitation, her researcher's instincts overriding any caution. Her eyes were bright with curiosity, fingers flexing slightly at her sides as if she could barely restrain herself from touching everything in sight. Rowan, ever cautious, hesitated before joining her, positioning herself so she could see both the display and the door. Her shoulders were set with tension, jaw clenched, prepared for yet another revelation to upend their world. Isla remained standing behind Daniel, watching with quiet intensity, her dark eyes reflecting the lamplight as they moved methodically around the room, cataloguing, analysing.

Douglas moved towards the table, his posture more reserved, but Daniel could see the familiarity in his stance—he'd been here before. Many times, perhaps. There was a comfort to how he positioned himself, an ease that suggested this place held no surprises for him.

"What is this place, really?" Daniel asked, his voice low. The question felt heavy on his tongue, laden with all the other questions he hadn't yet dared to voice. Why us? Why now? What does any of this have to do with my café, my life, the safety I've tried to build for my daughters?

Ewan glanced at him, considering the question with the careful deliberation of someone selecting exactly which truth to tell. The lamplight caught the grey at his temples, emphasising the lines around his eyes—lines that spoke of years spent reading in poor light, of squinting at ancient texts, of watching the world with perpetual vigilance.

"A holding ground," he answered finally. "A place where history is preserved not just as academic exercise, but as living knowledge. And where Guardians ensure that the right people have access to the right knowledge." The emphasis he placed on "right people" wasn't subtle, and Daniel felt it like a weight on his shoulders. A reminder that whatever normal life he'd thought he was building, whatever distance he'd tried to put between himself and his family's complicated past, had always been an illusion.

"And what knowledge exactly do you think we need?"

Ewan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted the lid of the glass case with careful precision, his movements those of someone trained in handling fragile historical artefacts. His hands, Daniel noticed, now wore the nearly invisible latex gloves used by archivists and museum curators. From within, he removed a leather-bound journal, its binding cracked with age, its pages yellowed and edges frayed with time. The leather was worn smooth in places where countless hands had held it over centuries, darkened by oils from fingers long turned to dust.

The name Elspeth Stewart was written in faded ink across the front, the handwriting elegant but practical, the letters formed with the efficiency of someone who wrote a great deal.

Daniel's breath hitched, a sudden tightness gripping his chest.

Maeve let out a small, barely audible gasp, her hand flying to her mouth before she caught herself. Her eyes widened, and Daniel could almost see the connections forming in her mind—the academic dots connecting to the very personal reality before her.

"Elspeth Stewart," Ewan said, voice measured, as if he were introducing them to a person rather than an object. "One of the original Guardians of New Edinburgh. The woman who made a pact with your ancestors."

Daniel's stomach tightened. A pact. Such an innocent word for something that had shaped his family for generations, that had hovered at the edges of his consciousness throughout his life. He'd always known, somewhere deep inside, that his café—Leaf & Bean—was more than just a business. That the location, the name, the strange little symbols his father had insisted he incorporate into the décor, were significant beyond mere family tradition.

The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the soft whisper of ancient paper against latex.

From the corner, the delicate clink of porcelain—quiet, but not intrusive. Margaret had returned, unnoticed, a tray balanced in her hands. She placed it gently on a sideboard near the hearth: a simple ceramic teapot, mismatched mugs, and a small plate of oat biscuits arranged with deliberate care. Her movements were graceful and measured, as though she'd done this in war rooms, in moments of history, for people long since turned to legend.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even look their way. Just placed the tray, adjusted the lid on the teapot, and turned back toward the side door.

Rowan, watching her go, murmured under her breath, "That’s not just the tea lady, is it?"

Maeve didn’t answer. She was still staring at the journal in Ewan’s hands, eyes wide.

Douglas finally spoke, his deep voice unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "This isn't just a record of her life. It's a record of what she gave up. And what she promised the Campbells in return."

Daniel inhaled slowly, steadying himself against the table's edge. The wood felt solid beneath his palm, grounding him as the room seemed to tilt slightly with the implications of what was happening. "What exactly did she promise?"

Ewan's gaze was sharp, penetrating, seeing past the café owner to whatever he believed Daniel truly was. "That's what we're here to find out."

And with that, they began to read.

The first page crackled faintly as Ewan turned it with reverent care, revealing Elspeth Stewart's flowing script—the words of a woman long dead reaching out across centuries to tug at threads Daniel hadn't even known were woven into the fabric of his existence.

Ewan carefully turned the fragile pages of Elspeth Stewart's journal. The paper protested with soft creaks that sounded unnervingly like distant voices. The pages revealed handwritten notes in elegant but hurried script, the ink faded from deep black to a sepia that spoke of centuries passed, but still perfectly legible. The entries were scattered with sketches of symbols—intricate knots and spirals that seemed oddly familiar to Daniel, reminiscent of the designs his grandmother had insisted be carved into the wooden beams of his café. There were rough diagrams of locations he recognised from Edinburgh's Old Town, and annotations made in what looked like two different hands—one flowing and confident, the other more cramped and urgent.

Daniel sat rigid, his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles had whitened. His shoulders carried tension like a physical weight. He had spent his entire life being told one version of his family's history—the version that framed them as simple landowners, coffee merchants, a family that had built a quiet but respectable legacy. The story of hard work, of beans grown in their own greenhouses and imported from exotic locales, of recipes passed down through generations.

But this—this was something else entirely. Something that recast every family anecdote, every strange tradition, every cryptic comment his grandfather had ever made in the fading months before his death.

"This is from the year 1766," Ewan said, tapping a specific passage with a gloved finger. The date was written in a different ink, almost as an afterthought. "Two decades after Culloden."

The word hung in the air—Culloden. Not just a historical footnote, but a wound in Scotland's collective memory that had never truly healed. The battlefield where Highland blood had soaked the heather, where dreams of Scottish independence had been brutally crushed beneath English boots.

Maeve, who had been leaning forward, her fingers itching to turn the pages herself, glanced up. Her eyes were bright with the hunger for knowledge that had defined her since childhood.

"That's when the Jacobites were still being hunted down. The aftermath period."

Ewan nodded, his expression grim. "And when the last of the real resistance was being crushed. When wearing tartan could get you killed, when speaking Gaelic became an act of rebellion." His fingertip traced a line of text. "When certain things needed to be hidden from those who would destroy them without understanding what they were."

He looked at Douglas, who gave him a short nod, as if silently granting permission to continue. The two men moved with the synchronised understanding of old colleagues, perhaps even friends, who had navigated dangerous waters together before.

"Elspeth Stewart was one of the few remaining known Guardians in Scotland at the time," Douglas explained, his voice quieter now, as if the weight of history demanded reverence. The lamplight caught in the lines of his face, deepening them, making him look older, more burdened. "She wasn't just protecting Jacobite fugitives—she was protecting something older. Something that needed to stay hidden long after the political struggles of the time had faded into history books."

Daniel's gaze flicked between them, tension building at the base of his skull. The gentle scent of coffee that always clung to his clothes—a professional hazard of running a café—seemed suddenly out of place in this room of ancient secrets.

"What does this have to do with us? With my family?"

The question emerged more sharply than he'd intended, edged with the frustration of a man who had spent decades believing one truth, only to find it unravelling before his eyes.

Ewan exhaled sharply, then carefully turned to another page—a single passage, underlined twice, as if to mark its importance. The underlining was darker, more urgent than the flowing script above it.

He read aloud, his voice taking on a different cadence, as if channelling the woman who had penned these words centuries ago:

"A covenant must be made. The Campbells shall hold in trust what yet remains, and in return, they shall be granted the means by which to endure. The earth hath received them; it shall sustain them, as they, in turn, shall tend and guard it."

A heavy pause settled over the room. Isla shifted her weight, the floorboard beneath her creaking in protest. Rowan's breathing had become shallower, more controlled, as if bracing for impact.

Daniel frowned, the furrow between his brows deepening. "The soil?" The question carried all his confusion, his growing unease.

Maeve was already piecing it together, her mind racing ahead as it always did. "Clivilius soil." The words emerged with breathless certainty.

Ewan nodded, glancing down at the page as if to confirm something he already knew by heart.

"Elspeth and her sisters, Violet, Katrina, and Effie, knew they were running out of time. The Jacobite and Guardian strongholds were being destroyed, their allies executed or transported to the colonies. They had access to something—something that the Crown and its forces couldn't be allowed to find."

His finger traced the edge of the page, where a faint watercolour depicted four women standing together, their faces indistinct but their stances resolute.

"So they made a deal. They entrusted part of what they were protecting to your ancestors. In exchange, the Campbells were given something back—Clivilius soil. A resource that should never have existed on Earth in the first place."

Rowan, who had remained quiet until now, finally spoke, her voice edged with suspicion. Her eyes narrowed, arms folded across her chest in unconscious self-protection.

"And why, exactly, would they trust the Campbells with something that valuable?" The question cut through the reverent atmosphere, sharp and practical. "What made our ancestors so special?"

Ewan closed the journal with careful precision, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the soft whisper of ancient leather against the protecting cloth beneath.

"Because, whether they wanted it or not, your ancestors had already become part of something much bigger." His gaze swept over each of them in turn, lingering on Daniel. "Sometimes fate chooses us long before we're aware of the choice."

Daniel's breath felt heavy in his chest, as if the air itself had thickened. Everything he had built, everything his father, and his grandfather before him had worked for—was it all because of something that had been decided long before any of them were even born? Had his entire life been following a path mapped out by people long dead, serving a purpose he'd never fully understood?

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. The pain was grounding, real, immediate.

"So we were never just coffee merchants." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, like grounds left to steep too long.

Douglas met his gaze, his eyes carrying a weight of knowledge and what might have been sympathy. His voice was even, factual, but not unkind.

"No, Daniel. You were never just anything."

And deep down, Daniel had already known that. Known it in the strange dreams that had plagued him since childhood, in his inexplicable ability to sense when beans were at their perfect roasting point, in the way certain plants flourished under his care while others withered regardless of attention. In the way customers sometimes lingered in his café far longer than a cup of coffee warranted, finding peace or clarity or inspiration within its walls.

He just hadn't wanted to face it. Had deliberately turned away from the odd coincidences, the strange patterns, the whispered family stories that had never quite made sense.

Isla's hand found his shoulder, her touch light but steady. Daniel glanced up at his eldest daughter, saw in her eyes the quiet strength that reminded him so much of her mother.

Outside, the rain began to fall on Edinburgh's ancient streets, washing over cobblestones that had witnessed centuries of secrets, of pacts made and broken, of ordinary lives caught up in extraordinary circumstances.

And somewhere beneath the city, something waited, as it had waited for centuries, for the descendants of those who had sworn to protect it.