Page 20 of Spellbinding Spirit

Her voice catches, and I grip the phone tighter. “And then what?”

“And then... he was executed,” she says, quieter now, like she’s weighing every syllable. “For cowardice. June 1915. It’s him. I’m sure of it.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. George. Executed. I lean back in my chair and stare at the wall as her words sink in. “Cowardice,” I echo, barely able to wrap my head around it. “He was fighting for his life and they... they shot him?”

“It was more common than many people realise,” she says, her tone shifting to that professorial calm she always gets when she’s explaining something. “Men suffering from shell shock… what we’d call PTSD now, were often labelled as deserters or cowards. Hundreds of them were executed. Even though most of them were just... broken.”

Broken. The word hangs in the air between us. I think of the letters, of George pouring his heart out to Sally and holding onto her memory like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. Could Sally really still be waiting for him after all these years? Maybe.

“Tell me everything,” I say, sitting forward. “What else did you find?”

“I’ve got his profile up,” she says, the sound of typing in the background. “It’s part of a site dedicated to soldiers who were posthumously pardoned. They’ve got his service number and regiment details, even a copy of the court martial record. It says he was found behind the lines after a particularly brutal attack. Witnesses said he was confused and unable to give a clear account of how he got there. He just kept mumbling the words: I need to get to her. They accused him of desertion.”

I shake my head, anger bubbling under my skin. “Desertion? He was probably in shock. He was twenty-two years old, for God’s sake.”

“I know,” she says softly. “The record even mentions that he seemed... unwell. But back then they didn’t understand. They called it cowardice and made an example of him.”

I stand, pacing the small space of my office, the phone pressed to my ear. “And all he wanted was to return to his love. Why didn’t Mrs Harris mention it?”

“She couldn’t have known,” Cat says. “Families weren’t told the details, especially not in cases like this. The stigma was unbearable. His name was probably left out of local memorials too. It’s like he was erased.”

The thought makes my chest tighten. George wasn’t just erased from history, he was erased from Sally’s life, leaving her withnothing but unanswered questions and an empty space where his love should have been.

“What do we do with this?” I ask, my voice quieter now. “What’s the point of digging all this up if we can’t... I don’t know, fix it?”

“We can’t fix it,” she says, a note of sadness creeping into her tone. “But we can give Sally the truth. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all she needs to move on.”

Her words sit in the air and I stop pacing, leaning against the desk instead. “Do you think... she knows? Wherever she is now?”

Cat hesitates. “I don’t know. But I want to try to tell her. If she’s still here, still waiting for him... maybe this is what she needs to hear.”

I rub a hand over my face, trying to process everything.

“Alright,” I say finally. “What’s your plan?”

“Well,” she says, and I can practically hear her shifting into work mode, “I’ve got the number for the charity that runs the website. They might have more details like witness accounts or letters from his regiment. I’m going to call them but I wanted to tell you first.”

I glance at the notepad on my desk, blank except for the nameGeorge Moyesscrawled in my messy handwriting. “When you have more please let me know.”

“I will. And I could come up on the weekend… to talk to Sally.” There’s uncertainty in her voice.

“Sounds good. I’m working during the day on Saturday. It’s Valentine’s Day so we’re fully booked. But I finish at six and we can have dinner and then head to the attic,” I suggest.

“Not sure I want to frequent a restaurant on Valentine’s Day,” she laughs.

“I’ll cook.”

“That sounds good.”

“Great.”Guess I’m going on a double date with two ghosts and my best friend on Valentine’s Day.

Chapter 11

Catherine

The kitchen smells amazingthough I’d never admit it to Sebastian. He’s humming to himself, chopping herbs with the kind of precision that makes me think he’s secretly auditioning forMasterChef. I sit on a stool at the counter watching him work with a glass of wine in my hand.

“This is a lot of effort for ‘just friends,’” I tease, swirling the wine. “I feel like I should’ve brought flowers or something.”

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