Letters Delivered to No One

Wind combs the heather. The SKY is too bright, the air too sharp — like the world is freshly made.

MARA ELLERY and CALLUM SLOANE stumble out of a shimmer in the air — a hairline tear that zips shut behind them. Mara clutches the THISTLE-ETCHED KEEPSAKE, breathing hard.

No one followed. Tell me no one followed.

I— I don’t know how to know that.

Callum reaches for her hand. The contact steadies them both.

Then we stay close. We don’t split. We find Kerr.

Mara nods, but her gaze flicks to the keepsake — it seems heavier now, almost warm.

A FIGURE crests the rise ahead: ALASDAIR KERR, wary, coat flapping like a banner. He spots them, relief flashing — then suspicion returning as quickly.

You two again. You’ve a talent for appearing where you oughtn’t.

We need somewhere hidden. Just for tonight.

And why would I do that, when every time you arrive, trouble follows like a dog?

Callum steps forward, earnest.

Because you did before. Because you’re honorable.

Alasdair studies them — the mud on their boots, the fear they’re trying to swallow.

Aye. Fine. Come.

As they move, the camera LINGERS on the moor behind them.

A second SHIMMER — quiet, surgical.

ISOBEL CROWE steps through in tailored black that doesn’t belong in 1826. A smile like a blade.

There you are.

A low stone room. Peat smoke. A small table with bread, a knife, a tin cup.

Mara sits near the hearth, rubbing warmth into her hands. Callum stands guard by the door, listening to the wind like it carries footsteps.

Alasdair sets down a plaid blanket.

You’ll sleep here. At first light, you go.

Thank you.

Don’t spend it yet.

A KNOCK. Not timid. Certain.

Callum’s head snaps up.

No.

Alasdair moves to the door, hand drifting to the small blade at his belt. He opens it a crack.

ISOBEL stands there as if she’s been invited. She takes in the room, the smoke, Mara by the fire.

Alasdair Kerr.

Alasdair’s eyes harden.

Do I know you?

Not yet. But you will.

She steps inside without waiting. Callum blocks her path.

Leave.

Isobel looks him over — amused — then meets Mara’s eyes.

Hello, Mara.

Mara goes still, color draining.

Callum…

Callum clocks it. His body tightens.

You know her.

I know all of you.

May we speak privately?

You’ve entered my home and started giving orders.

Then let me give you something else.

She reaches into her coat and produces a LETTER — thick paper, crisp, impossibly clean.

ISOBEL (CONT'D)

This is addressed to your grandson.

Alasdair scoffs, but his hand betrays him — it hovers.

I’ve no grandson.

Not in your “now.”

Mara rises, alarmed.

Alasdair, don’t—

Isobel cuts her off with calm cruelty.

Your line ends in three winters. Fever. Hunger. A roof that fails in a storm.

I’ve read the parish record.

Alasdair’s jaw clenches. A man trying not to show where he’s bleeding.

You’re a witch.

I’m a woman with information.

She offers the letter again.

ISOBEL (CONT'D)

In my time, your family’s name survives — but only in one version of events.

Callum steps closer to Mara, protective.

What do you want?

Isobel finally glances at the keepsake in Mara’s hand — hunger contained behind elegance.

The thistle.

Mara closes her fist around it.

No.

Not from you.

From him.

Alasdair looks between them — this strange pair he’s sheltered… and the stranger who speaks his future like it’s a map.

You’re asking me to betray guests.

I’m asking you to save your blood.

She leans in, voice intimate, surgical.

ISOBEL (CONT'D)

Hand over Mara Ellery and the keepsake.

And I will ensure your croft stands. Your children live. Your clan endures.

Mara steps toward Alasdair, desperate.

She’s lying. Or— or she’ll twist it. That’s what she does.

Isobel smiles — not denying it.

History is a braid, Mara. I simply choose which strands get to matter.

Callum’s hand finds Mara’s. A silent vow.

Alasdair… don’t.

Alasdair stares at the letter. At the promise inside it. His knuckles whiten.

If I refuse?

Isobel’s eyes flick to Mara’s fist — the keepsake’s thistle edge visible between her fingers.

Then your family dies the way it always has.

And I will take the thistle from your ashes.

A beat. The fire POPS. The room feels smaller.

Alasdair inhales like he’s swallowing a decision that tastes like iron.

Give me till dawn.

Isobel nods, gracious — victorious.

Of course.

She turns to leave, then pauses beside Mara.

ISOBEL (CONT'D)

That’s the trouble with love, Mara.

It makes people generous… with other people’s lives.

Isobel exits. The door thuds shut.

Silence. Wind worrying the stones.

Mara looks at Alasdair — searching his face for the man she trusted.

Are we safe here?

Alasdair can’t meet her eyes.

I don’t know what you are.

But I know what I am.

Callum tightens his grip on Mara’s hand.

And what’s that?

Alasdair finally looks up — torn, furious, afraid.

A man with a family to bury… or to save.

Mara’s keepsake THRUMS once, faintly — as if time itself is listening.