Chapter 5 – Undercurrent

True love carves its own winding path—be it through the fire of passion or the shelter of protection. In both, the heart offers freely, without promise or expectation.

It was a new day, though little felt renewed. Mabel woke depleted—emotionally threadbare.

The shop would need opening, and she’d need to wash and dress. She also had to spend the day with Sam.

How the hell was she going to cope?

The clock read a quarter past five. No deliveries due today—just enough time for a soak before the shop opened at eight.

The bathroom greeted her with its silent dignity, a mosaic of porcelain and cool tile—a sanctuary unmarred by the chaos waiting beyond its door. She closed it gently behind her, as if sealing away the world.

Leaning forward at the copper geyser, she struck the match. The tiny flare trembled in her fingers before she touched it to the valve, summoning the flame with a hiss. It flared to life—blue and orange and dancing—casting long, restless shadows on the walls.

She stared into it, mesmerised. There was something in its hunger that mirrored the ache in her chest. Would the day devour her, as this fire consumed air? Or might this quiet flicker begin to soothe what love had left undone?

She lingered there—not to delay, but to let the warmth inch its way into her bones. The first spark of healing didn’t announce itself. It just arrived, quietly, like the steam that had begun to rise.

She ran the bath, poured in her best salts, and stirred the water into foam. Her mind stayed blank, trying to let him in—just for a moment—without the weight of her mission crowding in.

The bath full, she disrobed and slipped beneath the water. The heat welcomed her like an old friend. Enamel kissed skin, and the water enveloped her in a gentle hush that muffled even memory.

For a breath or two, she let herself drift—neither past nor future, just the faint throb of a heart beginning to soften.

She let her eyes close, lashes damp, and imagined him beside her—not as he was, but as he might have been, had things been simpler, kinder. In the safety of steam and solitude, it was allowed: one moment where love didn’t ache, only lingered.

──✿──

The slow soak in the bath had relaxed her enough to face the day with a little more dignity. Dressed and ready, she opened the shop.

As she reached for the shop door, her eyes fell on a folded note resting on the mat. Sam’s handwriting. He’d found a skipper willing to take them out to sea. Unfortunately, no carriage was available that morning. Could she make her own way there by nine? He would meet her on the dockside.

Mabel had never owned her own horse and carriage. ‘One less thing to manage,’ she always said. Hiring suited her better—no stables, no feeding, no fuss. It allowed her to move freely, without the weight of obligation or eyes too eager to question.

The harbour was only a mile away, and she decided to cycle. A woman on a bicycle in these times still raised eyebrows, not all of them polite. But Mabel had long since learned the art of dismissive grace. She pedalled through the cobbled streets in a tailored skirt and high-laced boots, her posture composed, her gaze steady. The whispers behind lace curtains meant nothing to her anymore.

The harbour shimmered beneath the early light, where masts rocked in their moorings and gulls stitched silver across the morning sky. Her tyres hissed along the promenade, each rotation a quiet act of resistance, her defiance carried forward on two wheels.

She didn’t cycle to provoke. She cycled because it belonged to her—this movement, this moment, this breath of freedom before the weight of the day returned.

──✿──

As Mabel cycled closer to the harbour, the very air of the fishing port shifted: louder, saltier, more alive. The brash cries of gulls mingled with the deep, rhythmic thrum of boat engines and the sharp clang of metal on metal, a raw symphony of industry. Over it all hung the scent of the sea—a briny pungency, thick with fish, tar, and coal smoke. It was a wild, untamed sensory tapestry, alive with the shouts of fishermen and the restless slap of water. A place where the harsh truths of the ocean met the unyielding spirit of human endeavour.

Towards the end of the jetty, she spotted Sam talking to a man near a small steam trawler. Sam’s hands moved with their usual animation, both men smiling. She had seen him like this so many times, building instant rapport with anyone, prince or pauper. He was the right man in the right job.

A few yards from them, Mabel dismounted, suddenly uncertain of her welcome. Had he brooded overnight? Was he lost to her now?

As she approached, Sam caught sight of her. He turned and smiled. That same smile he always reserved for her, from childhood through everything the world had thrown at them. A smile that said he was glad she was there.

She froze, trembling, her hand rising to her mouth. She fought for composure.

Sam quietly excused himself from the fisherman and came to her. He knew her better than anyone. Without a word, he touched the hand still resting on the handlebar and looked into her eyes with that familiar, knowing gaze.

She tried to steady herself. His touch softened her tension.

With a trembling voice, she said, “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“We both know what forever is, Mabel. A kindred spirit is never lost. Sometimes, its deepest truth is in a hand held, not a kiss shared.”

She sighed, letting the warmth of his hand anchor her. She closed her eyes briefly, gathering herself.

Then it rose—quiet and sure. She opened her eyes to meet his, and smiled.

It was the same smile she had given him all those years ago in the schoolyard, after the bully had been chased off and he had offered to lift her from the dirt. Her protector. Her dearest friend.

They held the moment, brief and unspoken, until Sam broke it with a quiet smile.

“We make a good team, you and I. It’s enough, don’t you think? We’ve made our choices. Now we get on with it. You’re still the magic in my day, Mabel—but I’d never let passion ruin that.”

Her trembling eased. She reached for his hand, then thought better of it.

Sam saw, gave a small sigh, and smiled again. No disappointment. Just kindness.

“We’ve work to do. Strange things to face. And, unfortunately”—he nodded toward the harbour—“a fishing trawler that stinks to high heaven.”

She looked in the same direction. The fisherman by the boat raised his hat and smiled.

“Come and meet Captain Scarness,” Sam said, giving a small nod toward the figure by the trawler.

He took the bicycle from her, then offered his hand.

She took it without hesitation. They were children again, setting off into the unknown with nothing but trust between them. So much had changed, but not that.

──✿──

“What are you looking for?” Sam enquired.

They stood on the bow of the trawler, both clad in oilskins, the salt breeze stinging their faces. Below, the bay beneath the abbey came slowly into view.

“Time to get a feel for what’s in there,” Mabel replied. “I know it by name, but not by nature. Not its true intent. Ten minutes up top wasn’t enough. I’m guessing the quay in the bay is unguarded—and that the watchman we encountered knows nothing of what’s gone on inside the abbey. I sensed it, Sam. In our encounter with him. There was an underlying feeling of abandonment. He’s set to remain at his post until told otherwise. And if he fails, he’ll be punished. But there’s not a living soul inside that abbey. Not now.”

Sam turned to study the quay. Then, without a word, he made his way to the Captain. There was a nod between them, and he returned.

“The Captain says it’s safe to moor at the quay. But the tide will turn in half an hour. Will that be enough?”

“Plenty,” Mabel said. “But I’ll ask that you and the Captain stay aboard. The sea will disconnect you from any danger within the abbey.”

“And what of your safety?”

“I’ll be fine, Sam. The entity knows what I am—it knows I’m of the Old Blood. It will tolerate me, at least for now. The time for confrontation hasn’t come.”

Captain Scarness, hands steady on the helm, guided the Sea Serpent toward the quay. He eased back on the steam, letting the vessel’s remaining momentum carry her forward. With a subtle shift of the wheel and a precise surge of power, he brought her alongside. The hull kissed the dock as softly as a sigh.

Mabel jumped ashore. She was a child of the coast, raised just a mile from the sea. Her father had kept a boat. She’d done this all her life.

Once docked, she turned and began her ascent to the abbey. The stone steps had seen recent use. They were not moss-covered as expected. The worn treads bore fresh scratches—signs that heavy equipment had been dragged upward.

The path to the abbey wasn’t merely steep; it was deliberate, carved into the very face of the cliff. Man-made, yet oddly organic, the steps rose in stages, each flight ending in a broad, flat landing.

Mabel was searching for plant life—something whose roots reached up into the abbey itself. Two flights up, she found it: ivy, clinging with tenacious strength. It was her favoured conduit, its tendrils like the sinews of the earth’s silent network. To Mabel, ivy was more than a plant—it was nature’s whispering tongue.

Standing before the ivy-covered wall, just within arm’s reach, she stilled her thoughts and called upon the old ways. Then, with great gentleness, she reached out and touched it.

The ivy stirred.

It sparked to life, shifting slowly, curling up her arm beneath the oilskin sleeve, stopping just below the elbow. She closed her eyes and connected.

A green-tinged rush flooded through her—a sparkling surge of communication. She flowed into the ivy’s network, bright as a lit pipeline, its living walls pulsing with information: weather patterns, shifting air, soil moisture. Yet there was more. Echoes, like the trees she had once seen through—ghost-memories. Whispers of the dead drifting through the building above.

And beneath it all, almost lost in the noise, a faint plea. An energy, old and nearly consumed. Its voice, ancient.

She swam toward it, deeper into the roots, dodging the screaming remnants of the dead as they howled past her. Closer, closer—

Until—

Mabel gasped. The connection snapped.

She stumbled back, trembling, her breath shallow.

Could it be?

A shout from below broke the moment.

“The tide’s turning! We have to go!” Sam called up.

──✿──

The journey back to the harbour passed in silence, save for the occasional smile exchanged—gentle, kind. Sam understood when she was lost in thought. He left her to it, knowing she needed time to process.

Mabel was quiet. She was trying to make sense of that ancient voice—how something so old, so deep, could exist amid such turmoil. How had such a power ever been twisted, perverted? She remembered tales Malkin and her father had once told her, stories of the Tyrwraith—of how they murdered and captured souls through the same method. But this wasn’t about being powered.

This was about being consumed.

To what end? she wondered. That was the conundrum.

She knew she needed someone who could help her make sense of it. Malkin perhaps. Reverend Batkin, maybe. But no—Amos Baxter. He would understand.

An hour later, she stood at his door, unannounced.

Amos was a stickler for etiquette. Visitors followed the proper Edwardian order. It was noon—too early for Morning Calls, which, in spring, were generally made between two and five.

The maid answered.
“Sorry, ma’am. Mr Baxter isn’t receiving callers at this hour. Would you be kind enough to return after two?”

“Please tell him it’s urgent,” Mabel said gently, handing over her calling card. “My name is Mabel Shirley. Could you inquire for me?”

The maid closed the door. Mabel turned to face the street, hands in her coat pockets, heart still full of that haunting whisper from the abbey.

A few minutes passed.

Behind her, the door opened again. Expecting the maid, she turned. But there stood Amos himself, grinning wide beneath his white mop of hair.

“Miss Shirley! What an honour—please, come in.”

She stepped inside.
“Marian!” he called into the house. “Tea and biscuits for our honoured guest!”

The maid bustled away to the kitchen.

“Do sit down, Miss Shirley,” he said, gesturing toward an armchair. “This is indeed a rare pleasure.”

Amos Baxter was shy with strangers, but among the Constant community, he was one of their own—a relic of the old village, a man who had once found himself trapped in a realm he should never have entered. He was shorter than most, just on the heavier side of lean, with an ever-present smoking cap atop a shock of white hair.

His living room was less a room than an archive. Books lined every wall, many dog-eared, all well-loved. He had read every one—more than once, more than a hundred times. The rest of the house was the same: a library, a sanctuary of ink and paper.

“I haven’t seen you in years,” he said. “You were just a child when Frederick last brought you here.”

“I’m sorry for coming uninvited,” she said. “They always told me how much you valued your privacy. I didn’t want to impose.”

“Amos, please, Miss Shirley. And thank you for the consideration. May I call you Mabel?”

“You took the words out of my mouth,” she replied with a smile.

“Ha! That’s your father in you. I can hear it—sharp edge, soft heart.” He leaned forward, his tone shifting. “Now then. I usually only get visits from our kind when something needs solving. How can I be of service?”

“Brockthorn Abbey—do you remember when the Knights of Friþgeard brought the Sluagh under control, locked it beneath the earth where the abbey now stands?”

“Yes, indeed,” Amos replied, his mind locking onto the memory. “I was one of them. Young then, in a different form. Strong. Tall. With the fire of magic coursing through my veins.”

“It’s been freed,” Mabel said, almost afraid to speak the words aloud.

“Ah…” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “And you’ve come to find a way to seal it again?”

“No.” Her answer, sharp and decisive, carried her father’s tone. “I intend to release it. And ensure it never harms another soul—ever again.”

Amos stared at her, brow raised. “You do realise how many magical beings it took to subdue it the first time?”

“I do,” she replied. “But that was about subduing. I mean to release it—free all the tormented souls within. I have an idea of how to achieve it, but something’s missing. A name. A figure from ancient history. That’s where you come in.”

“Be specific, Mabel,” he said, his curiosity now piqued. “How ancient are we talking?”

“Titan-era. That strange overlap between the Titans and Zeus. I heard a name—spoken by the entity. Bitterly. But at times, almost like a plea. As if it didn’t understand why it had been condemned.”

“You’ve communicated with it?” he asked, alarmed. “Please be careful, Mabel. It could consume you.”

“It can’t consume its own.”

Amos went quiet. She could almost hear the cogs turning in his mind. He frowned, then glanced at the ring on her finger. Something clicked.

“A psychopomp,” he whispered. “A spirit guide? Wait… a deity within it?”

“No,” said Mabel, softly. “A deity transformed into a psychopomp. A form created to oppose her true form.”

“Her?” Amos blinked.

Mabel hesitated. “Yes… I hadn’t realised until now—but the voice. It felt feminine.”

“That narrows the field to six,” Amos muttered. “Rhea, Themis, Tethys, Theia, Mnemosyne, and Phoebe. But who would carry out such a sentence? Not Zeus—he’d never dirty his hands. Nyx, perhaps… but why?”

Then it struck him. His eyes widened.

“Mnemosyne,” he breathed. “The Titaness of Memory.”

He rose slightly from his seat, gesturing as the pieces aligned in his mind.

“Mabel, only a primordial force like Nyx—goddess of the night—could have imposed such a task. Her motive? Perhaps to cleanse the Earth, choked by unpurged evil. To restore a cosmic balance. Zeus, for all his thunder, would’ve played no direct role—this was far older than Olympian law.

“But Nyx… Nyx would’ve chosen Mnemosyne not just for her power, but for the irony. To force the keeper of perfect memory to bear the darkest recollections of the damned. It wasn’t just cruel—it was efficient. A Titaness turned into a vessel for the world’s despair.”

Mabel took a slow breath and let the weight of it settle.

“Now we know who. And why. And if I’m like her—if I really am of the Old Blood—then maybe I’m the only one left who can reach her.”

“Not confront her,” Amos said gently. “But call for help. Use your bloodline to summon it.”

She frowned. “Chanos—the ferryman? Why him? He’s not exactly welcome in this realm.”

“No. But through Thanatos, he might be… chaperoned,” Amos said.

She opened her mouth to retort—then stopped.

Her gaze dropped to the ring.

His followed.

And together, as if the thought had spoken itself:

“Scrying bowl.”

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