Chapter 1 – Undercurrent

Easterwich sat a mile inland, the sea ever-present in its bones. Blackmere Point lay three miles east along the cliffs—a place most locals avoided, though no one ever said exactly why.

The town had grown in recent years. More streets. More strangers. It hadn’t always been like that. There’d been a time—before the turn of the century, before the quiet exodus—when a certain kind of people lived here. People like Mabel.

They were never called by name. Not publicly. But the old families knew. They kept to themselves, mostly. Held fast to strange customs, and older truths the rest of the village forgot—or chose not to see.

Now, only a few remained. The ones who hadn’t died. The ones who hadn’t left. Mabel Shirley was one of them.

Tall for a woman of her time, she carried her 5-foot-8 frame with quiet poise—neither showy nor timid, but measured, as though every movement had purpose. Her features were finely drawn: an oval face, fair skin warmed by sunlight and salt air, and eyes—grey or blue, depending on the light—that watched the world with thoughtful detachment. Her dark hair, rich as ink, was swept into a tidy Edwardian updo, though wisps at her temples softened the formality. She had her mother’s graceful posture and her father’s stubborn chin. Nothing about her appearance sought attention, but those who met her seldom forgot her. There was something set apart in her bearing, as if the old ways still lived quietly behind her eyes.

It was that same quietness that sensed the land itself was changing. That something had closed, long ago. A door, perhaps. Others claimed it was just the way of things. Magic had its time. Then it moves on.

But there again they used to say Easterwich was a village watched by its dead.

Not in a superstitious way—no rattling chains or headless monks. Just a quiet certainty that those who had walked its lanes before hadn’t quite gone. You felt it in the way the woods held their hush. In the corner of your eye at dusk. In the stories the older women refused to tell, and the silences they left instead.

Mabel Shirley had grown up in that hush.

She was nineteen now. The spring of 1906 had come early, but there was no warmth in it. Not for her. Something was shifting—inside her, and in the world around her. The old ways were thinning. The others were gone. Only a few of them remained. And she, if she passed the test, would be one of the last.

Today, the letter had come.

Not from Aunt Fliss, who said little and revealed even less. But from a government office. Sealed with red wax, marked in ink that shimmered faintly in lamplight. The request was formal, the address unmistakable.

The letter had been taken in by Elsie Fabbit, an old friend of the family—and of Aunty Fliss, though neither would admit how far back their acquaintance went. These days, Elsie helped out at the greengrocer’s Mabel had inherited, the same shop her father once ran with a ledger, a tobacco tin, and the patience of a saint. What began as part-time help had slowly become full-time necessity, now that Mabel’s magical workload was beginning to overshadow stock rotation.

Mabel still handled the ordering and balanced the books, but the rest had quietly slipped into Elsie’s capable hands.

It wasn’t until early evening, with the day’s last customer gone and the shutters drawn, that Mabel finally sorted through the small pile of post by the till. Most of it was nothing—requests, circulars, and a folded note from the local police sergeant asking if she might “take a look” at another curious case involving a garden and a singing tree.

One envelope stood out.

Thick paper. A red wax seal pressed hard enough to leave a ridge. The address written in a sharp, deliberate hand—ink that shimmered faintly under lamplight.

She hadn’t even broken the seal, and already it spoke to her.

There was a feeling in the letter. A signature, not in scent or sound, but in something deeper—an energetic imprint only someone like Mabel could sense. Psychometry wasn’t always loud; sometimes it came as a tension behind the eyes, a tightening in the throat, a flicker of instinct you couldn’t name.

This one smelt of the abuse of power. Not dark, exactly—but entitled. Measured. Arrogant. The writer hadn’t sent a request. They had sent a summons. She hadn’t read a word, and already she could feel the weight of it, heavy with expectation.

She set the envelope down.

Not out of fear. But out of caution.

Then she poured herself a cup of tea—just as Aunty Fliss had taught her. “If it feels like it might change everything,” she’d once said, “let the kettle boil first. The right kind of tea gives your senses time to settle—and the wrong kind of letter time to blink first.”

It wasn’t just superstition. Some energies scattered under heat. Others clung tighter. Either way, it gave Mabel the space to centre herself before diving into the unknown.

She let the steam rise, hands wrapped around the mug, watching the envelope from across the room.

It hadn’t moved.

But its presence was still loud.

She took her time.

Finished her cup. Let the moment settle. Then, and only then, did she rise to open the letter.

“Miss Shirley,

“It has come to our attention that, in the past, your community has offered its services to the Crown. We are also aware of your community’s secrets and associations. Should you prove reluctant to assist us in a matter of state security, we will have no choice but to invoke the Witchcraft Act of 1735.

“You are hereby ordered to report to Whitehall this Friday for instruction.

“Failure to comply will result in immediate arrest.

“Yours faithfully,

Captain Alistair Finch

Naval Intelligence Department”

Mabel read it twice. Then set it aside with the same dispassion one might reserve for an overdue gas bill.

She also knew the community’s secrets.

Knew how, across history, they’d placed kings on thrones and quietly removed the ones who didn’t listen.

And she knew exactly who to contact at the Admiralty.

One telephone call. A quiet chat with an old friend. By the following morning, Captain Alistair Finch had been offered early retirement—or, failing that, a posting in a South American country embroiled in a civil war.

He chose retirement.

Tendered his resignation the next day.

The first move on the chessboard had been made. The knight was gone—quietly removed from play.

The question remained: what would their next move be?

And how would she counter it?

──✿──

Two days later, Commodore Dunstan-Smythe came to the shop for afternoon tea.

He arrived precisely at four o’clock, wearing a naval coat too heavy for the weather and bearing a box of lemon creams from Fortnum’s, along with a bottle of something brown and expensive that was clearly not for afternoon consumption.

He apologised with perfect diction, a stiff back, and only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“We’re terribly sorry about the mix-up, Miss Shirley. Bit of a misunderstanding, entirely avoidable. Captain Finch was… enthusiastic. No longer with us, of course.”

Mabel poured the tea.

“Was he ever with you, Commodore?”

He didn’t answer—just offered a rueful smile and accepted a biscuit.

They talked for half an hour. About weather. Trade routes. Salt stocks. And, eventually, Brockthorn Abbey.

By the end of the visit, it was understood—without being said—that her involvement was voluntary, her conditions respected, and that she would be the one writing the report.

The Commodore reached into his case and withdrew an envelope.

“This,” he said, handing it to Mabel, “bears the Royal seal. Should you require assistance—military, naval, or civil—you present this. Don’t explain yourself. Just show them.”

He handed it to her. It wasn’t sealed. She drew out the letter carefully. As he sipped his tea, she read in silence.

“Could this be revoked in the future?” she asked. “A change of monarch, perhaps?”

“No. It’s a legal constant—from the realm itself—in recognition of your community’s work over the centuries,” he replied. “Just enough to bypass bureaucracy and misogynistic officials. Keep it with you when on active duty. Two more copies have been sent to your solicitor for safe keeping.”

He paused, watching her take it in.

“That letter will open doors few ever get near.”

With the business concluded, they shared fond memories of her mother, her father and the community into the early evening. Until, the Commodore remembered a promise he had made. He offered his apologies to Mabel and left for an important appointment in the village.

Bidding him farewell, she closed the front door and smiled, she knew very well what the ‘very important appointment’ was. She was the one that had planted the seed.

The word had got about that Arthur was back in town. Invitations had been extended, and the landlord at the Brown Bear had offered him a hot supper and a seat by the fire. Arthur Dunstan-Smythe—an old name, a friend to many in Easterwich—his return was a chance to relive old glories, and an opportunity for Arthur to quietly gather real intelligence. The community, though diminished, still kept its network intact.

That night, as Mabel readied herself for bed, she turned Arthur’s words over in her mind. As ever, she didn’t fret. Instead, she offered the problem to her dream-scape—let it sink into that deeper place where answers sometimes surfaced unbidden. With her thoughts calmed and her mind clear, she let sleep take her.

And in that gentle drift, she felt it—a thread tugging at the edge of her thoughts. He was close. Sooner than expected, though not to her. She knew how he operated.

Inwardly, she smiled.

Malkin was on his way.

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