They had already been informed of the labelled items—Gran had made no secret of the fact she’d already decided who got what, and over the years it had been a family joke about having your label swapped if you misbehaved. The special things had already been claimed—the china and crystal and the jewellery, none of which Elle had particularly wanted, save one necklace with a crystal dragonfly pendant that she had always loved.

‘The house is to be sold immediately,’ Mr Bartholomew continued, looking over the top of his glasses once more. ‘This was a strict stipulation. Mrs Kinnaird was adamant that the house be put on the market as soon as this will had been read,’ he went on, before glancing back down. ‘And my estate left to my son, Alister Kinnaird.’

Elle frowned as his words caught her attention. The house? She’d known of course that it would be sold eventually, but she assumed that her parents would delay this for a while since she was still living there. What was the hurry?

‘I bequeath a sum of ten thousand dollars to each of my grandchildren, Lachlan, Lauren, Elspeth and Malcolm to use in any way they see fit. It is my wish that my ashes be taken by my granddaughter, Elspeth, to Scotland, where I have always wanted to return. I have set aside money to cover this request in Elspeth’s name, and my title, Lady of Glencoe, is also to be passed on to her.’ The solicitor leaned across the desk. ‘Lady Elspeth,’ he said and handed Elle an envelope as everyone swapped bemused, if not slightly amused, glances at the mention of her new title.

Elle sat back in her chair, the words from last night echoing in her mind as she stared at the envelope in her hand. It will all be explained tomorrow. If this had all been in Elle’s head, how had Gran known about the will being read today?

‘Elle.’

She flinched as her brother called her name. ‘You coming?’ Mal asked, now standing beside her chair. She looked around and realised everyone else was already walking towards the door.

‘You really don’t look good,’ Mal told her, shaking his head.

‘I don’t actually feel that good,’ she said, biting her lip anxiously as she considered asking her brother if maybe he had also been hearing voices lately, then dismissing the idea immediately. If anyone would look at her as though she were crazy, it would be Malcolm. He would tell her that scientifically there would be some logical explanation for it all, and then probably tease her about it forever more. That was the problem with her academic family—they were always so … logical.