Chapter 74: Edinburgh, Again
Edinburgh rose from the morning mist like a city from a dream.
Serene pressed her forehead against the cold train window, watching the familiar skyline emerge—the castle on its rocky throne, the spires of St. Giles, the grey stone tenements climbing the hillsides. She had left this city weeks ago, a prisoner being dragged north. Now she was returning with nothing but a borrowed coat, a satchel of clothes, and the fading bruises on her wrists.
The train slowed. The other passengers stirred around her—a mother gathering her children, a businessman checking his watch, a young couple laughing at something she couldn't hear. She sat still, invisible as always, watching them move through their ordinary lives.
She had no ticket back. No plan. No one waiting for her.
But she had Margaret. She had the gallery. She had a life here, once. She could find it again.
The train stopped. Serene rose, her legs unsteady, David's coat still wrapped around her shoulders. She had changed at the station before boarding—a dress from her satchel, stockings, the too-large shoes David had given her. She had washed her face in the bathroom mirror and pinned her hair back and tried to look like someone who belonged in the world.
She stepped onto the platform and breathed.
---
The gallery was closed when she reached it.
She stood on the cobblestone street, staring at the familiar door, the dark windows, the small sign that read "Margaret's Gallery – Open 10–6." The clock above the jeweler's across the way said 8:14.
She was early. Too early. She had nowhere to go, no one to call, nothing to do but wait.
She sank onto the low wall across from the gallery, pulling David's coat tighter around her, and watched the city wake.
A baker opened his shop two doors down, the scent of fresh bread drifting across the street. A milk cart clattered past, the horse's breath fogging in the cold air. A woman emerged from a tenement, her hair still in curlers, a basket over her arm, already calling to someone Serene couldn't see.
Edinburgh was ordinary in the morning. People going about their lives, their work, their small routines. She had been part of this, once. She had walked these streets with purpose, had painted in Margaret's back room, had saved her money and dreamed of a future that was hers alone.
She could be part of it again. She had to believe that.
---
The hours passed slowly.
She watched the sun rise higher, watched the street come alive, watched the door of the gallery remain closed. She was cold despite the coat, her feet aching in the too-large shoes, her stomach empty. The money David had given her was tucked in her satchel—enough for a room, enough for food, enough to survive until she found work. But she didn't want to spend it. Didn't want to move from this spot, in case Margaret arrived and she wasn't there.
She was so tired.
The night on the road, the hours in the station, the long train journey north—it had all blurred together into a grey haze of exhaustion and pain. She hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the broken glass on the floor, Ethan's face when he told her to leave the room.
She opened her eyes and watched the door.
---
It opened at 9:47.
Margaret emerged with a broom, her silver hair loose, her apron already dusted with paint. She swept the steps with practiced efficiency, her movements slow but sure, humming something Serene couldn't hear.
She straightened, and her eyes fell on the figure across the street.
The broom clattered to the ground.
"Child." Margaret's voice cracked. "Child, is that you?"
Serene rose. Her legs were shaking, her hands trembling, her face wet with tears she hadn't known she was crying. She crossed the street without feeling the cobblestones beneath her feet, without feeling anything but the desperate, animal need to be somewhere safe.
Margaret's arms opened before she reached her. "Oh, child. Oh, my poor child."
Serene fell into them.
The old woman held her, her hands stroking Serene's hair, her voice a low murmur of comfort Serene couldn't understand. She didn't need to understand. She just needed to be held. To be somewhere that someone wanted her. To be seen.
"I've got you," Margaret said. "I've got you. You're safe now. You're home."
---
The back room of the gallery was small and warm, crowded with canvases and paint and the comfortable clutter of a life lived in art. Margaret sat Serene by the stove, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, pressed a cup of tea into her hands.
Serene drank, the heat spreading through her chest, her body beginning to unclench for the first time in days.
Margaret didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. She just moved through the room, gathering things, her movements slow and deliberate, giving Serene time.
When she finally sat across from her, her sea-glass eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"I dreamed about you last night," she said. "I woke up and I knew—I knew you were coming back."
Serene set down her cup, reaching for her notepad. Her hands were steadier now.
I didn't know where else to go.
Margaret read the words, her face crumpling. "You never need to know where else to go. This is your place. Always."
I don't have money. I don't have work. I don't—
"Hush." Margaret's voice was gentle but firm. "You have a roof. You have food. You have a place to paint. The rest will come." She leaned forward, her hands covering Serene's. "You're safe here. That's all that matters now."
___
Margaret's apartment was three flights up, in a building that leaned against its neighbors like old friends holding each other upright. The stairs were narrow and worn, the banister smooth from decades of hands, the walls hung with paintings that had no other home. Serene climbed slowly, her legs still weak, her hand on Margaret's arm, and tried not to think about the last time she had climbed stairs in the dark.
The door at the top opened onto a room that was smaller than the bathroom at the Leo estate.
Serene stood in the doorway, taking it in. A bed in the corner, neatly made, covered with a quilt that looked older than Margaret. A table by the window, scattered with brushes and paint. A stove that heated the whole space, its chimney pipe snaking toward the ceiling. Shelves everywhere, crammed with books and jars and the accumulated treasures of a life lived long and fully.
And light. Morning light pouring through the window, turning the dust motes to gold, catching the edge of an unfinished canvas propped against the wall.
"It's not much," Margaret said from behind her. "But it's mine. And now it's yours too."
Serene turned, her hands moving before she could stop them. I can't take your bed. I can't—
"You're not taking my bed." Margaret moved past her, settling into a worn armchair by the stove. "I sleep better in the chair anyway. Have for years. Too many years in a bed with a man who snored." She smiled, the lines around her eyes crinkling. "The bed is yours. The light is better there for painting."
Serene shook her head, tears already forming. She had come here with nothing, asking for everything, and Margaret was giving her a bed, a room, a home. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve any of it.
Margaret must have seen something in her face, because she rose, crossing to take Serene's hands in hers. "Listen to me, child. I have lived alone in this room for twenty-three years. I have painted my paintings, drunk my tea, watched the seasons change through that window. I have been content. But I have not—" She paused, her sea-glass eyes bright. "I have not had anyone to share it with. Not really. Not since my husband died. And then you walked into my gallery, with your quiet hands and your honey-brown eyes, and I thought—here is someone who understands. Here is someone who sees."
She squeezed Serene's hands. "This is not charity. This is not pity. This is an old woman who has been lonely for a very long time, finally getting what she's been praying for."
Serene pulled her hands free, signing: You prayed for me?
Margaret's smile was radiant. "Every night. I didn't know your name, didn't know your face, didn't know anything about you but the paintings you made. But I prayed for the girl who painted light like she was trying to remember what it felt like to be warm. I prayed for her to find her way home."
---
She unpacked her satchel while Margaret made tea.
The room was small, but she found places for everything. The journal went on the windowsill, where the light would find it. The money—David's money—tucked into a jar on the shelf, next to Margaret's collection of buttons and ribbons. Her extra dress hung on a hook by the door, next to Margaret's coat. The too-large shoes she'd borrowed sat beneath it, waiting.
She kept David's coat.
She folded it carefully, her fingers tracing the collar, the sleeves, the buttons she had fastened against the cold. She should give it back. Should send it to him with a note, a thank you, a goodbye. But it smelled like him—clean and warm and safe—and she couldn't bear to let it go.
She tucked it into the bottom of the wardrobe, next to the quilt Margaret had given her, and closed the door.
---
They sat by the window as the morning light shifted toward noon. Margaret painted—small, quick strokes on a canvas that was already taking shape—and Serene watched. The city spread below them, rooftops and chimneys and the distant gleam of the castle. Gulls wheeled against the grey sky, their cries faint through the glass.
She thought about the last time she had been in Edinburgh. The walks through the city, the gallery, the money she'd saved. The train ticket she'd never used. She had almost left then. Had packed her satchel, counted her money, chosen her escape. And then Ethan had called, and Diyen had moved his hand, and she had stayed.
She had stayed for him. For a man who, when it mattered, had looked at her like she was guilty.
She picked up her notepad.
I was going to leave before. Before your father moved his hand. I had the ticket. I had the money. I was going to come here.
Margaret set down her brush, reading the words slowly. "Why didn't you?"
Because he called. Because he needed me. Because I thought— She stopped, her hand trembling. She wrote the rest anyway. Because I thought he loved me.
Margaret was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached out, her hand covering Serene's.
"I think he does love you, child. In whatever broken way he knows how. But love isn't enough when it hurts you. When it makes you smaller. When it takes more than it gives."
Serene looked at her. She wanted to argue. Wanted to defend him, the way she'd been defending him her whole life. He had held her. He had washed her hair. He had said he would spend every day proving he could be the man she needed.
And then he had looked at her like a stranger.
Margaret squeezed her hand. "You don't have to decide anything today. You don't have to decide anything tomorrow. You just have to rest. And heal. And let yourself be here."
___