The Boggart in the Woods

By waterfallsilverberry

CHAPTER ONE:

The Man in the Woods

THE Cardiff branch of Pearl Assurance smelled of stale coffee and carbon paper. Hope Howell sat at her desk in the general office, watching dust motes dance in the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the tall Victorian windows. The imposing red-brick building on St. Mary Street had seemed so grand when she'd first started working here three years ago. Now it felt like a prison in respectable clothing.

Her typewriter sat silently before her, the half-finished letter to Mr Davies about his denied water damage claim forgotten as she found herself lost in thought. The Pearl Assurance logo loomed over her desk from the wall calendar—the company's pride and joy, their pearl-and-crown emblem a constant reminder of their self-proclaimed status as "The Crown Jewel of British Insurance."

Twenty-three years old, and this was what her life had become: endless files, ringing telephones, and the constant clatter of typewriter keys. She'd taken the job fresh out of secretarial college, dazzled by Pearl's reputation as one of Britain's most prestigious insurance firms. Just temporary, she'd told herself. Just until something better came along. But nothing better had come along, and here she still sat three years later, watching people's lives unfold through their insurance claims.

"Miss Howell?"

Hope startled, nearly knocking over her coffee cup. Mr Jenkins, the branch supervisor, loomed over her desk with yet another stack of papers. He was a small, wiry-looking man who somehow managed to loom nevertheless, with thinning black hair and perpetually ink-stained fingers—a Pearl Assurance lifer who took great pride in reminding everyone that he'd worked his way up from junior clerk over twenty-five years.

"These need to be filed before tomorrow morning," he said, dropping the stack onto her already cluttered desk. "And do make sure they're alphabetized properly this time. Head office in London has been quite particular about our filing system since the merger."

"That wasn't my—" Hope began, but Mr Jenkins had already turned away, shuffling back to his office where she knew he'd spend the rest of the afternoon doing crossword puzzles while pretending to review policies.

Hope glanced at the heavy clock on the wall, its pearl-and-crown logo matching the one on her calendar. 11:43 AM. Seventeen minutes until she could escape. Seventeen minutes until she could avoid another tedious lunch hour in the stuffy office canteen, listening to Miss Prentiss drone on about her sister's new baby while Mrs Evans complained about the quality of the shepherd's pie.

The general office hummed around her with its usual pre-lunch activities. Miss Prentiss was gossiping on the phone again, ostensibly to a client but actually to her sister in Newport. Mr Collins was having his usual mid-morning smoke by the window, despite the "No Smoking" sign visible above his head. Mrs Evans was clicking through the office in her sensible shoes, organizing the afternoon's appointments with military precision.

Hope glanced down at her sensible shoes, her sensible skirt, her sensible blouse. When had she become so sensible? She remembered being younger, dreaming of adventure, of travel, of something – anything – extraordinary happening. She'd written stories as a girl, tales of mysterious encounters and daring escapes. Now the most exciting thing she wrote were letters explaining why someone's claim for storm damage wouldn't be covered under their current policy.

11:55 AM. Close enough.

Hope stood abruptly, grabbing her handbag and coat. The stack of papers Mr Jenkins had left could wait until after lunch. They always did.

"Headed to the canteen?" Miss Prentiss asked, covering the phone receiver with one hand.

"Oh no, a doctor's appointment," Hope lied smoothly. She'd become quite good at little lies lately, small rebellions against the soul-crushing weight of her routine here at the insurance office. "Thought I'd grab something from Lyon's on the way."

Without another word, Hope hurried out before Miss Prentiss could continue to hound her about her so-called doctor's appointment, practically running down the worn stone steps of the building and out into the crisp cool autumn air, leaves skittering across the pavement in the October breeze. The streets of Cardiff were busy with the pre-lunch rush, but Hope knew exactly where she was heading. Lyon's Corner House made the best sandwiches in the area, and more importantly, they wrapped them properly for taking away. She joined the quick-moving queue once inside the restaurant, ordered her usual—cheese and pickle on brown bread, toasted—and added a bottle of lemonade as a small rebellion against her usual careful budgeting.

Instead of finding a bench in the square like she usually did on the rare occasions, she escaped the office lunch crowd, Hope found herself walking toward the dense Welsh forest that bordered the city. The late fall day was surprisingly pleasant, warm with just a touch of autumnal chill as a light breeze swept through the air. Something in her chest ached for…something. Adventure. Change. A break in the endless parade of identical days stuck at the office.

"Just for today," she told herself, stepping onto a narrow dirt path that disappeared into the trees. "Just this once. Just for lunch."

The forest was beautiful in the afternoon light, with red and gold leaves casting dappled shadows on the ground. Hope removed her sensible office shoes, carrying them by their straps as she walked barefoot through patches of soft moss. Her mother would have been horrified— "A proper young lady doesn't go traipsing through the woods barefoot!"—but for the first time all day, Hope felt like she could breathe properly.

She walked until she found a fallen log that made a perfect seat, brushing away the leaves to sit. The wood was slightly damp through her skirt, but Hope didn't mind. Around her, the forest was alive with autumn sounds—the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant call of birds preparing for winter, and the soft thud of acorns falling to the forest floor. Hope arranged her skirt carefully and unwrapped her sandwich, enjoying the quiet. No typing, no telephones, no Miss Prentiss discussing her sister's baby's christening. Just birdsong and the rustle of leaves in the chilly breeze.

It wasn't that she was ungrateful for her job, Hope reflected as she ate. Times were hard enough that any steady employment was something to be thankful for. Her parents certainly reminded her of that often enough, proud that their daughter had such a respectable position at Pearl Assurance. But surely there had to be more to life than respectability? More than filing and typing and watching the clock tick away minutes that felt increasingly like they were slipping through her fingers?

Lost in thought, Hope didn't immediately notice that the forest had grown darker, the path less distinct. When she finally lifted her gaze, the peaceful morning atmosphere had shifted into something more oppressive, with shadows that seemed to move in ways shadows shouldn't. Her half-eaten sandwich suddenly felt heavy in her hand.

It was then that she noticed it. The first sign that something was wrong was the silence. It crept up so gradually that she hadn't noticed at first—the birds had stopped calling, the leaves had stopped rustling, and even the acorns seemed to have ceased their falling. The forest held its breath, and Hope suddenly realized how far she'd wandered from the path.

A cold breeze suddenly stirred the leaves at her feet, and the quality of the light changed. The cheerful autumn sunshine seemed to dim as if clouds had rolled in, but when Hope looked up, the sky was still clear through the branches above. Yet somehow the red and golden leaves had lost their warmth, their colour looking sickly and wan in the strange light.

Something moved in her peripheral vision—just a shadow, there and gone, but enough to make her heart skip a beat. Hope stood slowly, her legs stiff from sitting on the damp log. Another movement, this time to her left, too deliberate to be a falling leaf.

That's when she heard it—the snap of a twig coming from somewhere behind her, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy, ragged breathing. Hope froze, clutching her shoes tighter, ready to use them as weapons if necessary. Her heart began to pound, but she forced herself to remain calm. Probably just another walker. Probably just someone else who'd wandered off the path for a quiet lunch.

"Hello?" she called out, proud that her voice didn't shake. "Is someone there?"

The silence swallowed her words. Hope turned slowly, trying to keep her breathing steady. The forest that had seemed so welcoming just moments ago now felt wrong, twisted somehow, like a familiar face seen from an unfamiliar angle.

A rustle of leaves whispered through the canopy above. Hope's muscles tensed as she scanned the undergrowth. Nothing. Just trees and shadows and...

There. Between two ancient oaks, something moved. A shadow that was too solid, too purposeful to be cast by branches. Hope took a fumbling step backwards, then another. Her heel caught on a root and she stumbled slightly.

The air shifted behind her, carrying with it the unmistakable warmth of another person's presence. A soft exhale brushed against her neck. Hope's blood turned to ice in her veins. Slowly, fighting every instinct screaming at her to run, she turned around.

A man emerged from between the two trees, easily the largest man she'd ever seen, looming over her, so close she could smell the metallic tang of his sweat. He stood unnaturally still, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"Oh! I-I'm sorry!" Hope stammered, trying to keep her voice steady. After all, he was probably just another walker who'd wandered off the path. "I-I didn't realize anyone else was out here."

The man didn't respond. He just kept staring, his head tilted at an angle that wasn't quite…right.

"A-are you lost, sir?" Hope tried again, taking a small step backwards. Something about the man's stillness was setting off alarm bells in her mind. "The main path is just back that way—"

The man smiled then, and Hope's words died in her throat. His teeth were wrong—too many, too sharp, gleaming unnaturally white in his too-wide mouth. He took a step toward her, moving with a fluid grace that no human body should possess.

"I-I…I should be going," Hope stammered, backing away faster now. "They'll be expecting me back at the office—"

The man lunged forward suddenly with impossible speed. Hope screamed, turning to run, but her bare feet slipped on the wet leaves. Her ankle twisted painfully as she fell, her shoes flying from her grip as she sprawled onto the forest floor.

She could smell the man's breath as he loomed over her—like decay and darkness and everything wrong with the world. Hope tried to scramble backwards, but her ankle screamed in protest, and every movement drove twigs and stones into her unprotected feet. This couldn't be real. Things like this didn't happen on autumn afternoons to insurance office workers. Things like this didn't happen at all.

That's when she heard it—a man's voice behind her, speaking words she couldn't make out over her terrified scream. Hope squeezed her eyes shut, throwing up her arms to protect her face as she waited for her would-be-attacker to strike.

There was a strange crack like thunder, the sound making her jump, followed by…silence.

"It's alright. You're safe," the man said softly, his tone carrying a gentle authority. "It was only a Boggart. You can open your eyes."

His voice was soft and calm, a stark contrast to the earlier shout. Hope kept her eyes tightly shut, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear the words. But that strange word pierced through her fear, making her eyes snap open.

"A… what?" Hope whispered, very confused, and suddenly very aware that she was sitting in a heap of leaves with her hair coming undone and her stockings probably torn. She felt her cheeks grow warm as she glanced up and noticed just how handsome her rescuer was, in an understated, scholarly sort of way.

Her would-be attacker was gone—vanished without a trace. In his place stood a tall, rather shy-looking man, seemingly in his early thirties. Despite his striking features—strong dark brows over thoughtful hazel eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard along his jawline—there was something distinctly bookish about him. His light brown hair fell in natural waves, already touched with grey at the temples. Hope noticed he was hurriedly, almost nervously, tucking something—a dark wooden stick?—out of sight into his coat pocket.

"I—ah—I'm terribly sorry," he stammered, his hand half-raised as if unsure what to do with it. A faint flush crept across his cheeks. "I didn't mean to startle you. More importantly—are you hurt? I saw you fall. It looked… well, not ideal."

"My—my ankle," Hope managed, her voice shaky. She glanced wildly around the clearing, trying to spot where her attacker had gone. "That man—what did you call him? A Bog-something?"

"Best not to worry about that now. He's gone. He won't trouble you again," the stranger said quickly, his words tumbling over each other. Then, as if remembering himself, he crouched beside her with careful, deliberate movements. "Here, let me—ah—help you up." He extended his hand, but hesitated mid-gesture, clearly second-guessing. Hope had already reached for it, though, creating an awkward little pause before their hands finally met.

"I'm Lyall," he added as he helped her to her feet, his grip warm but tentative. "Lyall Lupin."

Hope swayed slightly on her injured ankle, and he steadied her with a gentle grip on her elbow. She found herself looking up into those kind hazel eyes again and completely forgot what she was supposed to say next.

"Oh!" she exclaimed after a moment of flustered silence, mortified at her manners. "I'm Hope! Hope Howell. I should have... I mean, thank you for..."

"You're welcome," he said softly, then seemed to realize he was still holding her elbow and quickly let go, causing her to wobble slightly. "Oh—I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—"

"N-no, it's fine, I just—" Hope tried to put weight on her ankle and winced. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm again for support. They both glanced down at where her hand rested on his coat sleeve, then quickly looked away, though neither moved to break the contact.

Lyall's expression softened, his brows knitting with quiet concern. "Are you—would you feel comfortable walking somewhere with me? I realize I'm a stranger, and after… well, everything, I'd understand if you'd rather not."

Hope looked up at him, touched by Lyall Lupin's gentle consideration. Despite her racing heart and aching ankle, something in his soft-spoken manner and those worried hazel eyes made her feel oddly safe.

"I… there's a café just at the edge of the woods," she said. "Morgan's, on the corner. I—I don't think I can walk much further than that, but I'd like to thank you properly." She glanced at her wristwatch and felt her stomach drop. "Though Mr Jenkins is going to have my head for being so late getting back to the office…"

"Mr Jenkins?" Lyall asked, still steadying her with careful, almost tentative support.

"My supervisor at Pearl Assurance," Hope explained, already dreading the awkward excuses she'd have to make.

Lyall hesitated, then said with quiet certainty, "I wouldn't worry about him."

There was something about his tone—mild but oddly assured—that made Hope glance at him curiously. "Oh?" She arched an eyebrow, momentarily forgetting her shyness. "And why would that be, Mr Lupin?"

Lyall flushed slightly as if realizing he'd said more than he intended. "Ah—well. Just a hunch, I suppose." He cleared his throat, shifting his weight as though that might somehow distract from his words. "In any case, if you're amenable, I'd be happy to walk you there. That ankle really ought to be rested properly."

Hope wanted to press him further about his strange confidence regarding Mr Jenkins, but her ankle throbbed again, and curiosity gave way to practicality. "Yes, alright. It's just this way." She hesitated, then added shyly, "And thank you. For… whatever it was you did to scare that man away. I insist on buying you lunch, by the way. To thank you. My treat."

"Oh, I—I couldn't possibly," Lyall began to protest, his voice quick with reflexive modesty, but Hope cut him off gently.

"Please," she said, finally mustering the courage to meet his gaze properly. "I'd still be running from that… Bog-man, if not for you. Though I still don't know what that means…"

She watched with interest as Lyall seemed to wrestle with some internal debate, his free hand drifting toward the coat pocket where he'd tucked away that strange wooden stick, then falling back to his side.

"Most people," he said quietly, with the careful precision of someone choosing his words, "prefer not to dwell on things they can't explain. It's easier to convince themselves it was all in their imagination."

"Well, I'm not most people, Mr Lupin," Hope replied, surprised by the firmness in her voice despite how flustered she still felt. She noticed how Lyall's eyes flickered to her face at her words, lingering for a moment longer this time before he looked away, a faint pink blush rising in his cheeks again.

"No," he said softly, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm beginning to see that you're not."

Hope spotted her shoes and the remains of her lunch scattered among the leaves - her sandwich crushed beyond recognition, and her bottle of lemonade shattered against a tree root, the special treat she'd splurged on now soaking into the autumn leaves. She moved to retrieve her shoes, but Lyall was quicker, scooping them up with an apologetic smile, though he seemed uncertain whether to hand them back or continue carrying them for her.

Lyall held out her shoes with that same careful hesitancy that seemed to characterize his every movement. "They're a bit muddy, I'm afraid," he said apologetically. Hope took them gratefully, steadying herself against a tree trunk as she slipped them back on. Her stockings were beyond saving, laddered and mud-stained, but at least she wouldn't have to walk barefoot through the woods.

The walk through the woods was slow going, but together they made their way along the leaf-strewn path, with Hope limping slightly and trying not to lean too heavily on Lyall's arm, though the warmth of him beside her was oddly reassuring. The autumn air felt colder now after her fright, and she was grateful she'd at least managed to keep hold of her wool coat.

"It's just past those oak trees," Hope directed, gesturing ahead. "There's a small gate that leads right onto Church Street."

"Ah, yes, I see it," Lyall replied, carefully guiding her around a muddy patch. His gaze flicked to her face whenever she winced, his brow furrowing slightly with concern. "I don't mean to presume, but… are you certain you can manage? I could perhaps…" He trailed off, looking conflicted, his hand drifting unconsciously toward his coat pocket before stilling. "That is, I wouldn't want to… overstep."

"Could what?" Hope asked softly, her curiosity piqued by the unfinished thought.

"Nothing," he murmured, his hand dropping from his pocket. "Just… lean on me a bit more if you need to. Please."

Hope felt her cheeks warm at his gentle tone, but she did lean more heavily on his arm as they approached the gate. The path here was rougher, scattered with acorns that threatened to turn her ankle again if she wasn't careful. Lyall reached the gate first and fumbled with the latch one-handed, seemingly unwilling to let go of her arm even for a moment. The old iron creaked as he pushed it open, and Hope couldn't help but notice how his other hand twitched toward his pocket again at the sound as if instinctively reaching for that strange wooden stick.

"Morgan's is just there," she said, tearing her gaze away from his coat pocket and nodding toward a cheerful little storefront across the street. Its red-painted door and window boxes still bright with the last of the autumn flowers made it look particularly welcoming after their strange encounter in the woods. "They do lovely tea and sandwiches, though…" Hope glanced down at her stockings, now definitely laddered beyond repair, and her leaf-covered skirt. "I'm afraid I'm not exactly presentable."

"You look—" Lyall started, then seemed to catch himself, the tips of his ears turning pink. "That is, I'm sure no one will mind."

Hope found herself wondering what he'd been about to say, but before she could ask, her ankle protested again and she stumbled slightly. Lyall's grip on her arm tightened instinctively, drawing her a little closer to his side.

"Sorry," they both blurted at once, then shared a shy laugh at the synchronicity.

"We're very nearly there," Lyall murmured, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of academic precision and gentle concern. "Just a few more steps, if you can manage."

The bell above Morgan's door jingled as they entered, and Hope suddenly felt self-conscious about the leaves in her hair and the mud on her stockings. The café was mercifully quiet for the end of the lunch hour—just a pair of elderly ladies by the window and a solitary man reading his newspaper in the far corner.

Mrs Morgan herself was behind the counter, her grey hair neat under its cap as she polished the teacups. She glanced up at the bell and her eyebrows rose slightly at the sight of Hope being half-supported by a tall stranger.

"Hope, dear, what's happened to you?" she asked, hurrying around the counter. "You look like you've been through the wars!"

"I had a fall in the woods," Hope explained, acutely aware of Lyall tensing slightly beside her. "Mr Lupin here was kind enough to help me when he heard me."

Mrs. Morgan's concerned expression softened as she studied Lyall intently, her painted red lips pursing in a thin line as she assessed the shy, clever-looking man who'd come to Hope's aid. "Well now, that was good of you, Mr Lupin. Come, sit down, both of you. That table in the corner's nice and private, and I'll bring you both something hot straight away."

Hope started to reach for her handbag to pay, but Mrs Morgan waved her off. "Settle up after, dear. Let's get you sitting down first, shall we?"

The corner table had comfortable chairs with cushions, and Hope tried not to show how grateful she was to finally take the weight off her ankle. Lyall helped her to sit with that same old-fashioned courtesy, though he seemed unsure what to do with himself afterwards, hovering awkwardly until Hope gestured to the chair across from her.

"Please stay," she said softly. "Unless you really do need to go…?"

"No, I—well, I suppose I could," Lyall replied, glancing toward the door before his gaze drifted back to Hope, a flicker of hesitation softening his thoughtful expression. After a beat, he lowered himself into the chair with careful precision, though he sat as if he might need to stand at any moment. A faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It would seem rather careless of me to leave without making sure you're truly alright. After your… well, after everything."

Mrs Morgan appeared with a teapot and cups before Hope could respond. "There we are, dears. And would you like something to eat? We've fresh sandwiches today."

Hope winced, thinking of her already strained budget and how she'd be having nothing but toast for dinner the next few nights to make up for today's splurge. But her missed lunch decided for her as her stomach gave an audible growl. She felt her cheeks flush, but when she glanced at Lyall, he was looking at her with such gentle concern that her embarrassment faded.

"Yes, please," she said. "Cheese and pickle for me, and…" she looked questioningly at Lyall.

"The same would be lovely," he said softly, then added, "But please, let me—"

"My treat," Hope said firmly. "After what you did… well, it's the least I can do."

Mrs Morgan smiled approvingly and bustled away, leaving them in a suddenly awkward silence. Hope busied herself with the teapot, grateful for something to do with her hands.

"Milk?" she asked, then realized she was about to pour tea into his cup without asking if he even wanted any. "Oh! I mean, would you like tea? I shouldn't assume—"

"Tea would be wonderful," Lyall said quickly. "And yes, milk, please. No sugar."

Their fingers brushed as she passed him his cup, and they both withdrew their hands so abruptly that some tea sloshed onto the saucer.

They ate their sandwiches in a slightly awkward silence, though Hope found it wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Something was soothing about Lyall's presence, even if he did keep glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

Finally, Hope gathered her courage.

"That strange stick you carry… what is it?" she asked carefully.

Lyall's teacup froze halfway to his lips. He set it down slowly, his posture stiffening slightly, and Hope watched as the colour drained from his face. His hand drifted instinctively toward his pocket, though he seemed to catch himself mid-motion, trying to disguise it as nothing more than adjusting his coat.

"Ah… that's merely a—well—a professional implement," he said softly, his gaze suddenly fascinated by the rim of his teacup. "A rather specialized tool for my work with the Ministry. For various… measurements and observations." He winced, just slightly, as if hearing how unconvincing it sounded even to his ears.

It was such an obviously flustered lie that Hope almost smiled, especially when she saw the faint flush creeping up his neck, betraying his embarrassment.

"Please," he added quietly, his voice gentle but threaded with a note of quiet urgency. "I… I wish I could explain, but I can't. I'm sorry." He glanced up then, his hazel eyes filled with genuine regret. "You must think me terribly odd. And I wouldn't blame you if you did. But there are… reasons. Important ones."

Hope noticed his hands trembling slightly as he reached for his teacup again. Whatever her mysterious rescuer was hiding, it clearly caused him real distress to keep it from her. She found herself wanting to reach across the table, to steady his shaking hands, to tell him it was alright—that he didn't have to explain anything.

Instead, she offered him a small smile. "The sandwiches here are quite good, aren't they? Much better than what they serve in the office canteen."

The grateful look he gave her made her heart flutter, even as she felt a twinge of disappointment at the mysteries left unsolved. The relief that softened his features made her heart ache a little, though she told herself not to be silly.

Whatever had happened in the woods, whatever he'd done to save her from that man, he couldn't—or wouldn't—talk about it.

But something was endearing about the way his shoulders relaxed, the tension easing from him as he returned her smile with a shy one of his own.

They finished their lunch talking about safer things—autumn weather, the upcoming Guy Fawkes celebrations, how Cardiff was changing since the war. When it came time to leave, Lyall insisted on walking her back to Pearl Assurance, though Hope assured him her ankle felt much better.

"Please," he said softly, that old-fashioned courtesy surfacing again. "I'd feel better knowing you got there safely."

The walk back felt shorter than Hope would have liked. They moved more slowly than the usual lunch-hour rush, partly because of her ankle—and partly, she thought, because neither of them was in a hurry for it to end.

All too soon, the red-brick building of Pearl Assurance loomed before them. Hope paused at the steps, turning to face Lyall. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For… everything."

"You're far too kind," he murmured, studying the pavement as if it held some fascinating secret. "I merely happened to be in the right place at the right time. It was nothing. Truly. I only did what anyone else would've done."

"It wasn't nothing," Hope replied firmly. "Whatever it was that happened in those woods, whatever you did… thank you."

Lyall glanced up then, meeting her eyes properly for the first time since the café. Something passed between them—fleeting, fragile, but real—making Hope's breath catch slightly.

"I…" he started, then seemed to think better of it. "You're welcome, Miss Howell."

"Hope," she said softly. "Please, call me Hope."

She hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her handbag. The words tumbled out before she could second-guess them. "Would you… would you like to have lunch again sometime?"

Lyall blinked, clearly caught off guard. A faint flush crept up his neck, and he glanced down as if the answer might be written somewhere on the pavement. "I—I'd be honoured," he finally managed, his voice a touch breathless. "Yes. That would be… very nice."

Relief—and something warmer—bloomed in Hope's chest. She smiled, unable to help herself.

Lyall gave a small bow—an actual bow, as if he'd stepped out of the pages of an old novel—and turned to go, though he stole one last glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the lunch-hour crowd.

Hope watched him until he was gone, her fingers absently brushing the clasp of her handbag where she'd tucked away the slightly squashed sandwich Mrs Morgan had wrapped for her dinner—Lyall had insisted on buying it when he'd noticed her counting out her change.

Turning to climb the steps to Pearl Assurance, Hope found herself hoping she hadn't seen the last of Lyall Lupin. There was something about him—something beyond his mysterious stick and whatever had happened in the woods. Something in those kind hazel eyes and that shy smile made her want to know more.

She rather thought she'd be taking her lunch in the woods again tomorrow. Just in case.

Mr Jenkins was surprisingly amenable about her late return, though he did seem slightly confused by it. Hope didn't question her good fortune. She spent the rest of the afternoon typing letters about insurance claims, but for once, she didn't mind the monotony. Her thoughts kept drifting to a pair of thoughtful hazel eyes, soft brown hair, a gentle voice, and the mysteries she was determined to unravel.

For the first time in years, Hope Howell found herself looking forward to tomorrow.