The Women Of Hilltop Haven: Ancestral Calling

The smell of burning pine pulled Cassie out of sleep before the sound did. A roar rose with it, thick and human, the kind of noise a crowd made when it wanted blood. Her eyes opened onto the dim walls of her studio. Clay still clung to her fingers, gray and drying in the creases of her knuckles. The half-finished form on the wheel stood in the weak morning light, its shape unmistakable now that she was awake. A stake. Rough-hewn, tapered, ready for rope.

She sat up too fast. The cot creaked under her. For three nights the dream had come the same way: cold iron around her wrists, the weight of judgmental eyes in a village square, and heat climbing from wood stacked at her feet. The woman tied to the post had worn her face. Same red hair matted with sweat. Same gray eyes wide with a terror that felt older than anything Cassie could name.

Her pulse hammered against her throat. She pressed two fingers there and counted, the nurse in her automatic even while the rest of her shook. Too fast. The air in the studio still carried the phantom scent of salt and smoke.

The door opened without a knock. Tracey stepped inside, already dressed, her expression shifting the moment she saw Cassie's face. She crossed the room in three strides and took Cassie's wrist, finding the radial pulse with practiced ease.

"One-twenty and thready," Tracey said. Her voice stayed level, clinical. "How long have you been awake?"

"Minutes." Cassie's mouth felt dry. "Same dream. Third night."

Tracey's thumb stayed on her pulse a beat longer than needed. She checked Cassie's pupils next, then the color under her nails. The doctor in her moved through the checklist while something tighter worked behind her eyes.

"You're cold," Tracey said. "Come to the kitchen. Heat. Fluids. Then we talk."

Cassie let herself be guided. Her bare feet found the stone path between the studio and the main house. Morning sun already struck the polished granite counters inside, laying warm bands across the floor. The light did nothing for the chill under her skin. Tracey filled a mug and pressed it into her hands. Cassie's fingers left faint gray prints on the ceramic.

"It isn't just images," Cassie said after the first sip. "I can smell the salt air. Hear them chanting. The same name over and over. Elowen." She looked at the clay still ground into her cuticles. "And I woke up making that."

Tracey followed her gaze toward the studio door, though the stake itself remained out of sight. "Physiological symptoms track with acute stress. Elevated heart rate, peripheral vasoconstriction, residual tremor. Given the bank robbery, a trauma recurrence isn't outside expectation."

"This feels different." Cassie wrapped both hands around the mug. "Deeper. Like I'm remembering something that never happened to me."

Boots sounded in the hallway. Jesse came in smelling of motor oil and fresh coffee, a second mug already in her hand. She stopped when she saw Cassie's color. The easy set of her shoulders hardened into something protective.

"Bad one?" Jesse asked.

"The worst so far." Cassie managed a thin smile that didn't hold. "I sculpted a stake in my sleep."

Jesse set the coffee down and pulled a chair close enough that their knees touched. The solid weight of her presence settled into the space the way it always did, a physical counterweight to whatever spun inside Cassie's head. She took Cassie's free hand and brushed dried clay from the palm with her thumb.

"You look like you ran a race you didn't sign up for," Jesse said. "Want me to smash the damn thing? The sculpture."

"No." The answer came faster than Cassie expected. "Leave it. I need to see what my hands already know."

Tracey leaned against the counter, arms folded. Morning light caught the clean lines of her face and made the concern underneath harder to hide. "We should document the content. Frequency, sensory detail, any triggers before sleep. If this continues, I want a full workup. Sleep study. Labs. Rule out the medical first."

"I know the protocol." Cassie kept her voice soft. "I'm not refusing it. I'm saying the robbery doesn't explain a name I've never heard or a face that looks like mine burning in 1600s clothing."

Silence held for a moment. Outside, wind moved through the trees along the ridge. Inside, the refrigerator hummed its low steady note. The house carried its own quiet tension these days. Jesse's recovery still showed in the careful way she moved some mornings. Morgan's MS left its own marks in the tremor that came and went, in the cane that leaned near the security desk. Everyone watched everyone a little closer than before.

Jesse squeezed Cassie's hand once. "Whatever it is, you're not carrying it alone. We ride the rough roads together. Always have."

Tracey nodded, the medical mask slipping just enough to show the partner underneath. "Drink the rest of that. Then shower. Warm water, not hot. I'll stay with you through the morning clinic if you want the company."

Cassie looked down at the gray clay still freckling her skin. The chant of the name lingered at the edge of hearing, faint as smoke. Elowen. The stake waited in the studio, unfinished, as if her hands had only started the story they meant to tell.

"I'll be all right," she said. The words felt thinner than she wanted. "I just need the dreams to make sense."

Jesse's thumb traced a slow circle over her knuckles. Tracey refilled the mug without being asked. Sunlight climbed higher across the granite, bright and ordinary, while the scent of burning pine refused to fully leave the room.