That night Nora woke at two in the morning to the sound of gravel scattering outside. She lay motionless, listening. Then came a soft knock, three taps, a pause, three taps more. She crept to the window. Nobody was at the door. But a small light flickered at the edge of the cliff, a hundred yards off, blinking on and off in a steady rhythm.
She grabbed her coat and the logbook and slipped out through the kitchen. The wind pulled at her hair as she crossed the heath. The light stopped as she approached. When she reached the spot, there was only a flat stone with a lantern shaded by a tin cup, still warm, and a folded scrap of paper pinned beneath it.
She opened it by flashlight. Four words, in handwriting that made her heart stumble: Do not sell. Wait.
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