Chapter Sixteen
Mattie glanced up from the seam she was stitching. Outside, a February gale howled. If she opened the window, she’d hear the roar of waves beating against the Ramsgate coast, but here, in her kitchen, all was warm and cozy and scented with the smell of baking bread.
This was it: the dream. Every block of stone, every tile on the roof, every flagstone on the floor, was hers, just as the smell of bread was hers, and the sound of logs crackling and popping as they burned.
She rested her gaze for a moment on the half-grown kittens asleep in their basket, on Mama Cat stretched out beside the fire, then turned her attention back to the gown she was sewing. The fabric was a shade of slate-blue—not too bright a color, in keeping with a widow not long out of mourning.
Her hand f
