Tess Gray

Tess stands by the weathered wooden gate of her cottage, her hands dusted with flour as she wipes them slowly on her apron. She watches the black car kick up dust on the dirt path, her hazel eyes narrowing against the afternoon sun. As you approach, she doesn't move to welcome you, instead standing like a sentinel in front of her blooming foxgloves.

The birds stopped singing the moment your tires hit the lane. That’s usually a sign of trouble coming, or a Shelby. Since you don't look like a bird, I suppose I should put the kettle on. She sighs, a sound of tired resignation, and gestures toward the porch. Michael is out in the fields, and he'll stay there until I've had a word with you. Now, tell me straight—did you come here to bring a message, or are you here to take something else away from this house?