Deception Bay E-Book

N N Parker

• Herausgeber: Dolman Scott Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 488

Beschreibung

In an isolated town at the beginning of the eighteenth century, the disappearance of girls is treated by villagers as a frightening but accepted norm. That is until eighteen-year-old Lacey spots a shadowy figure holding a sack on Deception Bay on the very day it is reported a girl accidentally drowned there. Lacey sets her mind to discovering the truth. When strange occurrences start happening around her she has only her best friend Mateo to confide in. With her life at risk from those who want to keep secrets buried Deception Bay is a fast paced darkly thrilling read.

Leseprobe

DECEPTION

Bay

Published by BookPublishingWorld in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Natasha Parker

Cover design by Youness Elh

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-1-915351-23-4

Published byBookPublishingWorldAn imprint ofwww.dolmanscott.com

For Jemma, Emilio and Audrey

Prologue

Lacey wore new gloves the day her mother was hung. They were supposed to be a birthday present, but her birthday had fallen between the days her mother was charged and executed and had as such been forgotten. So, the morning of the hanging, after finding them, her father had ordered her to put them on. They fit very well. Being the younger sister, and wearing only hand me downs, they were the newest thing Lacey had ever worn. She felt an almost repulsive rush of pleasure at feeling how soft they were against her small fingers.

In lieu of gallows, (the town of Lower Lynch being so small, executions were all but unheard of) the councilmen had ordered the hanging take place from the Old Oak Tree at the bottom of Main Street. A cart was brought down to carry the body to Deception Bay where it would then be taken by boat to The Island. As she had been sentenced for witchcraft, Alice Emerson had forfeited her right to be buried on the mainland.

Being only seven, Lacey understood little of this. She walked down to the Old Oak Tree between her sister, Bella, and her father, with her hands clasped in front of her, staring down at them as though they were not a part of her body. Her scalp ached from her hair being plaited too tight, but still, a few black and white strands managed to escape and fly across her face in rebellion. Bella’s in comparison stuck obediently to her head like a cap.

A crowd had already gathered, and when her mother was bought forward with her hands tied, they began to boo. Lacey glanced around at her neighbours’ faces full of hate. Though it was August, the weather had turned unseasonably cold, the chill intensified by a wind coming in from the coast. The noose wriggled and whipped, finally having to be held steady by one of the villagers while the mayor read Alice her last rites.

Lacey began to cry when the hood was placed over her mother’s head, her little body vibrating with fear. Her father’s arms wrapped around her, his mouth against the side of her head, shushing her. She felt his tears wet against her face, mixing with her own. Bella silently squeezed her hand in comfort. Alice called out her daughters’ names, her hooded head twisting wildly, desperately trying to find them. She attempted to run, but a swift jerk of the rope around her wrists brought her to her knees.

Still, her cries didn’t stop. She continued calling to Lacey and Bella as the men lifted her to her feet and carried her towards the noose, her boots dragging on the grass. Lacey saw how the mayor in his wide brimmed black hat nodded to the executioner and the rope was looped around the head. Then, suddenly, the other end was pulled, and her mother was no longer calling her name. Her boots kicked in the air as though she were levitating. Lacey stopped sobbing. The angry crowd grew quiet. Even the wind died down, so that the sound of her skirts could be heard rustling as her legs danced violently, the rope quivering above her.

After a few endless minutes, the rope straightened, and Alice’s body ceased to move. Her toes pointed to the ground. The branch above her creaking slightly, the noise resounding through the crowd. She was cut down and laid in the back of the cart like a sack of flour. Lacey stared in mute horror as the councilmen, led by the mayor, began to push her in the direction of The Island. Her mother’s skirt hanging off the edge, trailing in the dirt. Before long, they disappeared into the wood line. Lacey looked down and saw a little red dot seeping into her new gloves. A few more dropped and landed on her palm. Her nose was bleeding. She stared in silence as the three small spots spread and swelled like blossoming flowers.

Chapter One

When Lacey first saw the figure, she thought it was a Forest Beast. She had lost track of the hour. It was not often that she would still be out at this time, with darkness falling, and the woods still between herself and home. She had stayed too long staring out across the water. Deception Bay was the only point on the mainland where you could see The Island. The mist would break for a moment and then it would reveal itself.

It sat far out, past where the waves rose and fell, past even where they flattened to soft muted glass. It would appear all at once, then dissolve into cloud, only to reappear some time later. Each time shifting a little to the left, or to the right, as though it were moving, floating just above the surface. There might have been birds on it, but from the shore, they could neither be seen…nor heard. In the almost constant fog, that clung and wrapped over the land and sea, it was unclear whether grasses grew, or whether it was all just rock. Only the shape, when the fog parted, was visible. Jagged and uneven, with three sharp peaks, it was like a crown, beaten into cracked submission by years of unrelenting waves. 

She had sat all afternoon, with her skirts pulled up above her knees, so as not to risk the chance of her hem touching the water. Now more girls were disappearing, she knew that soon she would not be allowed to walk alone in the woods, or along the coast. She moved up towards the sand dunes, chased in by the tide. She felt a wariness of the water here and was fearful of its malevolent, predatory ascent up the shore. Further down the coastline, she would not be so afraid. Indeed, were it not such a grey day, where clouds hung above close enough to touch, people might be swimming. Splashing and playing in the tide, but not at Deception Bay. Even on the sunny days, that in truth did not come often, there would still then be no swimmers at this bay.

She had seen, not from the sun for that was too well hidden to accurately tell the hour, but from the progress of the tide, that it was time to go home. She would need a while, before night fell, to wash this morning’s pans so that they would be ready before the bakery opened tomorrow. The dusk had caught her by surprise, so it was with a quick, regretful step that she had jumped up from her spot on the beach, the pebbles beneath her revealing the indent left behind from where she sat. She picked up her book, slipping it into her pocket. Then tying her cap tight and pulling her shawl around her, she made her way up the loose shingle to the wood line.

Then she had seen it. It heaved and dragged its round backed shape towards the sea, slouching a little to one side and stopping every few steps to look out at the water, and then back towards the woods. She felt an instinctual jolt of fear, her body reacting before her mind even had time to process it. An uncontrollable shiver of dread ran through her body. She was sure it couldn’t see her, you need only take a few steps into the forest, for the dense darkness to swallow you. Here amongst the wet pines, and creeping ferns, she was safe.

She had only happened to look back to take one more glance at The Island, when the movement had caught her eye, making her freeze on the spot. She never saw anyone on this bay, especially not at this time of day, as the sun, hidden by the clouds, had begun to slowly slip below the horizon. When the dimming grey light blurred the edges of things, and shadows began to crawl out from behind them.

She stood, as still and stiff as the trees around her, staring down at the shape in the dim light. It was only a shade darker than the grey rock behind it, walking in the shadow of a wall of slate, that cleaved into the far side of the bay. Lacey squinted, trying to see a little clearer. There are no such things as Forest Beasts,shethought to herself, and as though in response, the figure stopped and turned towards where she stood. Its face was hidden in shadow beneath a dark hood. Lacey took a small, silent step backwards. She drew back behind a low branch, the leaves in front of her face fluttering slightly as she exhaled.

The Beast then seemed to detach part of its own self and lay it on the ground. It stood, stretching its back. It was a man, she could just make out his arms and legs beneath a thick cloak, he had been carrying something atop his back. Something heavy that had distorted his shape and gait. There came no wave of relief in finding the figure to be of her own kind; she stood still tense, still watchful. It was something in the furtive look of him, the way his hooded head flicked back and forth, something sly and intensely private about his movements, which made her heart beat unevenly in her chest. She lifted a foot and gently took another step back. The noise of the branch snapping beneath her boot sounded deafening in the silence. The dark figure’s face snapped in her direction. Not knowing whether she had been seen or not, acting purely on instinct, Lacey turned and ran.

The wood was dark. The trees hung in close, conspiratorial lines, blocking out what little light there was. It was close on dusk, but were it midday, with clouds like this overhead, and fog like this underfoot, no light would have penetrated the forest. Moss climbed almost halfway up the tree trunks. A rich, dark green velvet, soaked in years of rain. Between them weaved Lacey, one hand clasping her shawl to her chest, the other holding her skirt high. The toe of her boot glanced off a root, and she almost stumbled, but just managed to stay upright. She was unable to avoid such dangers in the inescapable mist that rose in curls above her ankles. She did not look back once, she could not tell if the sound of footsteps were hers alone, or another’s accompanying her, only a few steps behind. Though she wanted to, she knew better than to look back. Even she who spent many hours in this wood knew not to lose sight of the path in front of you. It would take only a few steps in the wrong direction for you to find yourself lost in a sea of trees.

With a feeling of an acute, unfastening relief, she came through the other side of the forest. She exhaled in a whistle, tilting her head back, catching her breath. The sky opened above her, wide and calm, with the night just behind the clouds. It took only a few deep breaths beneath it for her panic to fall away. It seemed suddenly silly now, running like that. She exhaled a short laugh and inwardly chastised herself for thinking she had seen a Forest Beast. She was no longer a child; she should stop thinking like one. It had surely been a fisherman or some other man from the village.

The forest had fallen away in an abrupt, unified line, and below, she could see the field where a few cows grazed lazily. Beyond it, in the dimming light, the sharp edges of the village rooftops were just visible against the sky. The whole scene painted a watercolour blue, with small points of firefly yellow, where her neighbours had already lit their fires, and the light shone through their windows. At the bottom of them, down by the line of the field, sat the bakery where she lived.

Lacey walked unseeing past the bushes studded with berries. Were she not late, she would not have been able to resist stopping to pick a few. When she was young, every child in the town walked through the streets with purple stained lips and fingertips. The girls, with their skirts pulled wide like fishing nets full of them, and the boys with bulging pockets, where deep red stains appeared, revealing their bounty. Nowadays, the children were too afraid to venture out of the village.

Lacey’s town of Lower Lynch lay between the edge of the Hooked Forest to the South and the Lakelands to the North. It was established by the First Settlers who came to these shores three hundred years before. All who lived there now were the descendants of those that built it. The closest village, Upper Lynch, was two days’ walk, half a day if a boat was chartered across the first, and widest, of the lakes. But almost no villagers had the money to do that. Besides, there weren’t so many boats left on the lake since the fish had all but disappeared. During the winter months, the village was totally isolated. It sat frozen in time, waiting, surviving, until the ice thawed and the thin line to the rest of the world was reopened.

From halfway down the field, she could see Bella taking down the linen in their back yard. A few blue-white sheets still swayed on the line. She nodded to Lacey, her mouth half full of pegs, waiting for her to climb the fence before speaking to her.

‘I’ve finished your washing up,’ Bella said, handing Lacey the edge of a sheet so that she could help fold it.

‘Oh, thank you, Bella,’ Lacey sighed in relief. ‘I thought I’d have to do it in the dark.’

‘I don’t need thanks. I need help. I have enough to do as it is, Lacey, without adding your chores to my list. It might be nice for you walking around daydreaming, but for the rest of us, there is work to be done.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Lacey glanced nervously towards the house, ‘Is Father home yet?’

‘No; has the bell rung?’ Bella asked, stretching her neck to see the steeple at the end of the street. ‘I don’t think it has. He may still be at Evensong.’

Each holding the end of the sheet, they pulled it taut, then came together to fold it, Bella looking into her younger sister’s face as she took her ends. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I can tell there is something wrong; you have that little line between your brows. You get it when you are worried.’ Bella reached up towards Lacey’s face, pointing at her brow. Lacey patted her hand away.

‘I have no line,’ she said, turning to walk into the house, with her back to her sister, quickly raising her fingers to her forehead to check. Bella walked in behind her, carrying the basket of folded sheets. As they opened the door to go inside, the church bell began to ring, the notes rolling in like waves across the mist.

‘How have you spent the afternoon?’

‘I went for a walk,’ said Lacey, removing her cloth cap, careful to avoid her sister’s scornful glances at the rebellious curl of her hair. Only with the salty sea air was it inclined to coil in such a way.

‘Not on the coast,’ Bella said sharply, neither a question nor a statement.

‘No,’ responded Lacey quickly, making sure not to catch her eye.

‘Not on Deception Bay.’

‘No,’ lied Lacey.

‘I should hope not. You know how dangerous it is now. No more walking through the woods alone either. Besides, Father’s legs will not last the year, then all the work will fall to us. How will you be able to run the bakery from the woods?’

‘I’m here now,’ Lacey responded shortly. ‘Is that beef?’ She nodded in surprise towards a black pot atop the fire.

Bella, placing the basket down, crossed the room to stir it. The warm, salty smell of meat filled the little house. ‘No. Turnips.’

‘Again?’

‘Mr Yates was kind enough to give me some bones for the stock. It makes all the difference.’

‘It smells nice,’ said Lacey, masking her disappointment at the prospect of another turnip dinner. She climbed up the wooden stairs to her attic bedroom, stooping below the low ceiling. With both hands, she moved the pile of books that had accumulated on her bed to the floor, placing the one in her coat pocket on top and making a mental note to return them to Professor Arnott before the week’s end. She sat in their place, leaning down to pick at the laces on her boots, the bed frame creaking beneath her. The two sisters had slept in the same little wooden bed when they were children. It had grown smaller and more cramped as each year passed. In the summer months, the girls pushing and kicking, a mess of arms and legs, desperate for an inch of space. In the winter, curling close, folding around one another like animals, searching for any morsel of warmth beneath the blanket. Before their mother was killed, Lacey could remember her laying extra grain sacks over the two of them in an attempt to keep out the cold. Finally, a few years earlier, Bella had moved to her own room downstairs.

‘Do not leave your boots there,’ Bella called up to her, somehow omniscient in the small house. Lacey swung her legs off the bed, and picking the boots up, carried them back downstairs and through to their rightful place by the front door. The street outside the windows was almost black now; her mind drifted back to the figure on the beach. The way his head moved, as though he were afraid to be seen.

‘Lacey,’ said Bella, ‘get your head out of the clouds. I’m talking to you!’

‘Sorry,’ said Lacey.

‘I asked; do you know what thread Mrs Hall uses?’ Bella repeated, pulling the plates down from the cupboard and placing them on the little table. ‘Does she use a black or brown? I’m in need of some brown thread for the vicar’s hem.’

‘How would I know?’ answered Lacey.

‘She lives in the house next to Mateo’s,’ said Bella, picking a hair pin from the edge of her apron, then slotting it in place at the side of her neat, low bun. Gently touching it, with the tips of her fingers, making sure of no rogue locks. 

‘So?’ asked Lacey, turning from the window.

‘Do not play coy, Lacey, you are there almost daily. You two are inseparable.’

‘No, we’re not,’ she responded indignantly, ‘and even if we were, why would I have noticed what colour thread his neighbours use? Do you know the thread our neighbours use?’

‘Mrs Andrews uses black, and Mr Bradford uses a light blue, a colour far too bright for a man of his age. Oh, look, there’s that little line again,’ said Bella, pointing at Lacey’s brow. Lacey exhaled loudly and stalked back up the creaking stairs.

After an hour, their father still had not returned. The sky outside was so dark, all the windows showed the girls was their own reflection. Lacey sat slumped at the kitchen table, her chin in her hands. She spoke in a low whine, ‘Bella, I will starve if we don’t eat soon.’

Bella, who had been working on her sewing, stood and looked again at the window. Feeling her own stomach growl painfully, she said, ‘It is indeed rather late for him to not yet be home. I hope there is no upset in the village. Besides, I worry about him walking in this darkness, with his legs as they are.’

‘He’s probably sitting with Mr Tibbs at the Inn, discussing whatever it is men discuss.’

‘Themselves mainly,’ said Bella, leaning against the sill, peering down the street. ‘But no, he isn’t there; I bade Mr Tibbs good evening as I was taking the washing down. He was heading home with a rabbit under his arm for supper.’

‘Lucky Mr Tibbs,’ muttered Lacey.

Bella didn’t respond, only chewed on her lower lip, considering what action might least displease their father. Finally, she clapped her hands together and said, ‘We will take a quick walk through the village to see if we cannot find father ourselves. Only down Main Street.’ Seeing Lacey’s eyebrows rise, she added, ‘We’ll be fine.’

Bella took the time to lace each of her boots and fix her cap in place, even checking in the small mirror that she was happy with her appearance. Lacey, wearing only her indoor slippers and pulling her shawl over her head, did not even bother to wear a cap. She didn’t always cover her head when leaving the house. As she was getting into her later teens, though, she felt the pressure to do it more often now. Besides, she was more likely to draw attention than the other village girls. From birth, her hair had a distinct feature that drew the villagers’ eyes, and though the years had long since passed where it caused any notable interest, she was still immediately recognised by it. One half of her hair, the left, was a deep black, as dark as a starless night, falling in loose tangles down to the base of her back. The other, though just as long and just as wavy, was white as a pearl. The two colours split down the centre at her parting.

The sisters walked close to the houses along the street, their shoulders high and heads stooped to protect themselves from the cold. They linked arms and trod quickly, occasionally glancing back when their footsteps on the cobblestones echoed throughout Main Street, bouncing off the dark windows.

The village changed at night. The setting of the sun brought a strange sense of dread to the townsfolk, especially the women. The forest swelled with darkness and pushed at the edges of the town. The shadow of the trees, as the sun sunk behind them, spread across every rooftop in the village. Even the air changed. A cold air, creeping down from the coast, settled in around the houses. At night, you could see how hard the land was. Only this small patch, cut out from the woods, bordered with a fence, could sustain human life. Just beyond, it was as dark and unknowable as death.

Each house a uniform, neat square of panelled wood with a low thatched roof and stone chimney. One or two, like Lacey’s, had a shop front, with a wooden board above, bearing its name. A few chimneys emitted smoke this evening, and if Lacey looked down the street, she could see, between the gaps in their shutters, thin slivers of light coming from the fireplaces inside. As they followed the street round, the noise from inside the Golden Tavern could be heard, and before they turned the corner to it, they could see shadows dancing along the ground outside. Elongated, distorted figures flickering in the candlelight, jugs of mead in hand, heads tipped back in talk or song. The girls were a short way off when the door swung open, the sound of men’s voices and the chinking of glass suddenly clear. A huddled figure stumbled out. He didn’t appear to notice them, and fumbling with the fastenings on his britches, took a few swaying steps round the side of the inn before leaning against the wall and relieving himself. 

The two girls walked past, Bella tutting beneath her breath, Lacey stifling a laugh. 

‘What shameful behaviour,’ whispered Bella. ‘And so close to the church as well!’ Lacey stopped smiling at that, and turned her head slightly to glance up at the church to their left. It sat quiet and neat in its manicured white wood. A loose ribbon of mist wrapping around the base, the steeple jutting into the sky above. The picket fence, newly painted in stark, unforgiving white, bordered the decaying tombstones. Her eyes fell on the piercing points of wood, like a row of shining teeth, and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Beside the church sat the town hall. Wide and high, with broad stone steps leading to pillared doors, it stood far taller than any other building in the village. It looked to Lacey as though it was carved out of one single stone. Heavy and immovable, it seemed to dwell in the darkness of its own shadow. Apparently, it had taken a year to build, with village men working day and night to finish, the mayor himself laying the last stone. 

A tall, thin figure stood at the top of the steps, his face in shadow. One handheld the end of a long pipe, delicately cradling the bowl with the tips of his fingers, the other wiping something from his eyes. He looked out in the opposite direction to the girls and released a long, low sigh, his breath clouding around him in misty puffs, mingling with the smoke. The buckle on his hat shining, so bright in the darkness, Lacey knew immediately who it was; no man in town polished the buckles on his hat and shoes so fastidiously. When they got closer, she could see that he was not alone. He was talking to someone, standing in the shadows. They spoke in hushed whispers. Lacey overheard him say, as if repeating to make sure he had understood, ‘A stranger?’

Upon hearing their approach, the mayor turned to them quickly, and in that unguarded moment, a strange look flashed across his face. It was something deeper than surprise, something more fearful. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, and replaced with a thin, courteous smile. The other figure had vanished back into the shadows. The mayor cleared his throat and tapped the ash from his pipe, the embers fading to black before they hit the ground. He descended the steps towards them, his heeled shoes clicking lightly as he went. He was as tall as he was thin, and his legs had the look of a spider’s. His black cloak dragged on the stone behind him.

‘Ladies, good evening,’ he said, touching the brim of his hat with a gloved finger.

‘Good evening, Mr Mayor,’ replied Bella, bending slightly in a bow.

‘What are you doing out after dark?’

‘We did not want to…but–’ Bella was interrupted as a peal of laughter came from the Golden Tavern. Each one of them turning their heads to look.

Mayor Abner made a sort of clicking sound as he watched the door of the Inn swing closed. He had a narrow, sharp jaw, beneath which his neck was wrinkled and lined. When Lacey and Mateo were alone, he would make her laugh by saying the mayor’s neck looked like the gills of a mushroom. The loose skin tucked neatly into the collar of his coat. ‘It is a sadness to me that the laughter we hear is not just that of the men. I understand some of the village women now pass their evenings in the tavern,’ he shook his head slowly, and sorrowfully. ‘But not you ladies, I see.’

‘No,’ answered Bella, ‘we were only out to find–’

‘You are missing a father I believe,’ he interrupted, looking down and picking an invisible bit of dirt from his cape with his gloved fingers. Lacey had never once seen him without his hands wrapped tightly within black leather.

‘Yes,’ said Bella. ‘He is yet to return home from Evensong.’

Mayor Abner nodded, ‘He is inside,’ tipping his head towards the hall behind him. The blank, grey facade betrayed no sign of there being anyone within. ‘He is meeting with the council on…’ He paused for a moment, his tongue suspended in his mouth, picking the correct word. Lacey could see, under the shadow of his hat, his wet eyes lined with thin, red veins, and the skin beneath was coloured a sickly, pale primrose purple. ‘On a delicate matter.’

The air seemed to tighten around them. Bella’s hand rose to the collar of her coat, beneath which hung her crucifix. ‘All is well I hope?’

The mayor brought the handkerchief once again to his eyes, which suffered from persistent moisture. ‘I think it would be best if you were to return home. It is not advisable for young ladies to be out alone after dark. I will be sure to tell your father you called for him.’

Lacey and Bella exchanged a glance. Lacey spoke, for the first time, ‘Has it happened again?’

Then, as though only just realising Lacey’s presence, the mayor turned to her, his manner changing, his lips pulling back in a yellow toothed smile. Ignoring her question, he said, ‘My son, Sebastian, speaks very highly of you, young Lacey.’

Lacey, not knowing how to respond, answered only, ‘Does he?’

Bella being older, and better practiced in conversation, responded quickly, ‘And her of him, Mayor.’

‘He mentioned to me only this morning that you are growing to be a fine young lady.’

‘Did he?’ said Lacey shortly.

‘And he quite the gentleman, Mayor,’ smiled Bella.

In order to do anything other than engage further in the conversation, Lacey took her handkerchief from her coat and wiped it across her nose. It slipped between her fingers as she returned it to her pocket and fell to the floor. But before it had reached it, the mayor, with the speed of a snake, whipped his hand out and caught it. The white lace even whiter against his black gloves. He held it a moment, his leather clad fingertips tracing over her embroidered initials. L.E.

‘Lacey Emerson,’ he said slowly, in whisper, as though speaking only to himself. Then louder, addressing her he said, ‘It would please me greatly if you were to spend a little time together. You and Sebastian.’

The small frown line appeared again on Lacey’s brow as she returned the mayor’s gaze. She did not respond, only held her hand out to receive her handkerchief. Bella broke the silence, linking her arm to her sister’s. ‘A fine idea. I’m sure she would like that very much. Now we will leave you to your important work, Mayor. Good evening.’ She bowed her head, before turning and walking away. The mayor nodded slowly, the rim of his hat moving down to eclipse his face.

The girls walked home in silence, their heads to the ground as they passed the dark doorways. After bidding them goodnight and turning to leave, the mayor had waited a few seconds before calling after them. ‘Your father may be a while still, make sure to lock your door upon returning home.’ The word lock pronounced in such a way that the k seemed to echo through the street. Lacey glanced behind her to see his narrow back as he made his way up the steps, the mist curling around his feet, and she thought again of that flicker of fear on his face when he had first seen them. 

Once they were home, neither girl had an appetite for supper, and they left the stew in the pot, to eat for breakfast the next day. While they waited, Bella sat in silence, by the fire, her sewing on her knee, dismissing Lacey’s questions of why the council might be meeting. Lacey, eventually giving up with a huff, resumed her position at the table.

After a time, Bella laid down her mending and walked towards the backroom, leaning on the door frame, her arm’s crossed. ‘Did you hear what the mayor said of his son? And how he talks of you?’

‘Yes, Bella, I was standing right beside him as it was said.’

‘It’s clear he has designs on you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they waited very little time before a proposal.’

‘A proposal?’ exclaimed Lacey, raising her head. ‘It’s too soon.’

‘Don’t pull that face. You are seventeen, Lacey; you are the perfect age. Besides, I cannot think of a more eligible bachelor in the village with whom to take the blood vow.’

Lacey exhaled angrily.

‘Once a proposal is made, there can be no more running around in the woods with Mateo. No more running anywhere with Mateo.’

Lacey sat up abruptly, a scowl across her face. ‘If you like the idea of a proposal so much, why don’t you marry him?’

‘If I looked like you, I would,’ Bella replied coolly. That quieted Lacey. Bella, being too proud to let her see her face, turned and busied herself with folding.

The familiar sound of their father’s dragging footsteps could be heard on the street outside, as he reached the front door. His slow, pained gait, more pronounced after a long day; though, nowadays, even in the morning, he walked as though he was ready for bed. Bella, abandoning their conversation, crossed to unbolt the lock. He stepped through, wiping his feet on the mat, handing his hat to her, but shaking his head when she held out her hand for his coat.

‘What was your business at the hall, Father?’ Lacey asked, jumping up, ignoring Bella’s disparaging look. ‘Is all well? We saw the mayor; he told us to bolt the door.’

‘I saw,’ he answered gruffly.

Their father took a seat at the table. Unperturbed by Lacey’s questions, he sat in a still silence, staring ahead until Bella placed a bowl of soup in front of him. Now cool, it sat grey and unappetising in the bowl. He took a couple of sips but had little taste for it, pushing it away after a moment. 

Frank Emerson had been strong as a young man. Years of kneading dough as a boy had given him muscular hands and arms. He had been a good swimmer too and were a boat in trouble off the coast he could be counted on to help. Twice had he swum out in stormy weather to rescue a local fisherman whose hull had hit the rocks. But time and work and mourning had worn him down. The years sat heavy on his shoulders. His dark hair now all but gone, save for a few patches of grey above his ears and around his temple. His legs and hands were both ravaged by arthritis. When Lacey looked now at his hands, warped like a tree root, it was strange to think that they had ever been strong and healthy. He could hardly knead dough on account of the pain, and now as he held the spoon, it sat awkwardly, half balancing between two fingers.

Frank swallowed, then said in a low voice, ‘Another girl is missing.’

‘No,’ breathed Bella.

‘She was last seen this afternoon at,’ Frank swallowed, ‘Deception Bay.’

Lacey blinked. 

Bella gasped and held her hand at her mouth, then making the sign of the cross on her chest, said, ‘Not again. Dear Lord, so soon. Who?’

‘The Morgans’ youngest.’

‘When?’ asked Lacey, but Bella spoke over her. 

‘The little girl with the curly hair?’

Frank nodded slowly and closed his eyes as he said the name, ‘Mary.’

‘When was she seen there?’ asked Lacey again.

‘At some point this afternoon. One of the village children saw her there. She probably fell from the slate on the far side, or else paddled too far out in the water.’

Lacey frowned.

‘Not another,’ whispered Bella, her voice shaking.

‘It would seem our warnings aren’t enough. She is the third girl or young woman this year.’

‘This afternoon. For sure?’ Pressed Lacey.

‘Yes.’

Bella, one hand still on her chest, the tip of her index finger touching the cross she wore there, asked, ‘Have you seen Mr Morgan?’

‘No, but he spoke to the councilmen. Of course, he is still hopeful that she will be found. But so many haven’t been. And those that wash up are…’ Their father stopped then, and for one terrifying moment, the sisters thought he may cry, which would have been greatly out of character. But he only swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘Mr Morgan was by all accounts quite distraught, staying only briefly with the council. He went home to be with his wife, who I hear is overwhelmed with worry. The council then called a meeting of the village men at the hall, so that those of us with daughters may be made aware. The mayor has reinstated The Watch, for protection.’

Bella exhaled a low whistle.

‘Are you certain it was this afternoon?’ asked Lacey.

‘Why?’ Bella snapped at her. ‘Why do you keep asking that?’

‘No reason,’ she said, withdrawing with a shrug. ‘I was only wondering.’ Bella looked at her with narrow eyes, before turning again to their father.

Looking at neither of them, he said, ‘We cannot guess what God’s reasons are. We cannot guess why this keeps happening. We cannot know why the village girls do not heed our warnings of the perils of Deception Bay.’ In the corner of Lacey’s eye, Bella shook her head vigorously. ‘We can only be grateful that you two know the dangers. And,’ he said, lowering his head once more, ‘we can pray for the safe return of the Morgan girl.’

The family went to sleep in silence. The girls left their father, still in his coat, sitting at the kitchen table, his bible unopen in his hands. Bella dressed for bed, occasionally tutting sorrowfully and shaking her head as though in conversation with herself. Upstairs, Lacey laid in bed, with low questioning eyebrows, staring at the ceiling above her. She saw the waves, grey and rolling in the wind. She saw The Island black and dead in the distance. Then, the wide shouldered shape of the cloaked figure, its strange lumbering gait. The misty dark gathering around it like dust. The heavy sack falling from its shoulders, the quick, secretive movement of its head as it looked around.

She dreamt that night of The Island, as indeed she did most nights. The predatory swaying malevolent shape of it, like a shadow in the mist, moving closer. In the wind, she heard the voice of her mother calling to her. As dreams often are, it was a mix of memory and invention. She saw her on her knees in the church, blood smeared all over her. It ran across her dress, staining her forearms and her mouth. White feathers stuck to the blood, some in thick clumps, some stray feathers floating down in the hazy light coming through the stain glass window, finally resting on the floor or in her hair. Her face contorted into a soundless scream, her mouth stuffed with feathers. Then Lacey looked down and she was the one on her knees, wearing a bloodied white dress. She tried desperately to claw it off. But it wrapped to her like a second skin. She cried out as her nails splintered and split as she tried in vain to pull it from her, blood pouring from her fingers. She could hear the men in the yard outside, their horse’s hooves, impatient and angry on the street. Their fists rapping in fury on the wooden door. 

Chapter Two

In the bakery, the dawn arrived in a mist of blue and grey. Lacey watched it lift each shadow in her attic room, leaving it awash with a milky, pale light. She laid with her eyes open, as she had done much of the night. The straw stuffed mattress dug painfully at points into her back. She picked absentmindedly at the patches where the straw poked through, pulling out strands and tossing them to the floor. Downstairs, she could hear Bella lightly snoring; the sound of it comforted her. Twice in the night, Lacey had sat up in her bed to go to wake her. But she had changed her mind. She couldn’t quite find the right words, so instead, she spent the night sleeplessly watching the walls, blank and ominous reflect her own worry back to her. 

No one really knew where the girls were going, they would simply vanish. They were there and then they were not. Some would be seen going on a walk, and never returning. Others, it would seem, would disappear in the blink of an eye. One, Lacey remembered from when she was a girl, had vanished from her front porch in the time it had taken for her mother to step inside to fetch her coat. When she had returned, her daughter was gone. That was when it was one girl every year or two. This past year alone, three girls had disappeared from Lower Lynch.

At first, it was feared to be witches, then Forest Beasts, but as the years went by, rumours began. In the hours after a girl went missing, when every man in the village was out in search, there were whispers that she had been seen walking toward Deception Bay. Though the origin of the rumour was never clear, after a few bodies were found washed up there, that was enough. The beach was off limits, even for the men.

After each disappearance, the town seemed to fold in on itself. The borders were patrolled, outsiders treated with the utmost suspicion, and all liberty surrendered to The Watch. Every mourning mother and father, who decried with tear-soaked faces how out of character it would be for their obedient child to venture to the bay, were met with fresh warnings of the wayward mind of girls in the village, fresh restrictions of movement, and drawn out church sermons on the risks of not heeding the words of God.

After a while, the town would move on, and life rolled inexorably forward. Work continued, the fields were ploughed, the sea fished, bread baked. Baby girls were born to mothers who held them tightly and sobbed in dismay. Only a new headstone in the graveyard, like a mark on a tally, to show that anything had happened. But every girl in town, and her parents too, could not help but wonder if they would be next. If their life was to be the one so finally and inexplicably snuffed out.

Pulling her night dress up, Lacey bent over the pot and pissed, yawning as she did. Hearing Bella below her doing the same, she crept downstairs, and seeing her sister still in bed, slipped beneath the blankets beside her. Frowning, she placed her fingertips on the skin under Lacey’s eyes, where the lack of sleep had turned them dark and puffy. ‘More bad dreams?’ she whispered, so not to wake their father. Her voice was a little muffled as she huddled down beneath the blanket, not yet ready to face the raw cold of the dawn.

Lacey nodded.

‘I could hear you up there tossing and turning all night.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘If I can sleep with the miaowing of Mrs Andrews’ cat, I can bear sleeping below you.’

‘I haven’t heard it for a few nights now,’ said Lacey, glancing at the window. ‘Perhaps it was eaten by a Forest Beast.’

‘Then they will have done us a favour,’ answered Bella wryly.

Lacey usually enjoyed these moments when Bella’s matriarchal role slipped, and she was softer, more honest. But not this morning. ‘I will thank them when I see them,’ she said soberly.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Bella.

For a moment, she contemplated confiding in her sister. ‘I’m…not sure,’ Lacey said, semi truthfully, one finger coming to her lips, her teeth gently gnawing at the skin around the nail.

‘Well,’ said Bella impatiently, drawing back the blanket and sitting up, ‘if you won’t tell me then I can’t help you.’ Lacey remained lying as Bella climbed out. ‘Come, we’d better start the fire.’

The girls, as always, began their day quietly, in the still sleeping street. Bella stirred their father, who had slept in both his boots and his coat, on his small mattress beneath the shop counter. Though, on the account of his hands, he could no longer bake, he always asked to be woken early. Lacey lay kindling in the grate, which was still warm from last night. It took a little time to nurse the embers into flames again, but before too long, she had it properly lit. Feeling somehow more cheerful at the sight of the fire, she tied her apron round her waist and set to work.

The shop had been in the Emerson family for generations, and over the years, very little had changed. Lacey’s father had been born in the back room, onto a sack of flour. His mother had died giving birth to him, she had passed when the doctor couldn’t stop her bleeding. In her death, she had stained all the flour red. Her husband had mourned not only the passing of his wife, but also his loss of business that month. Now that room was where they kept the proving drawers, two bulky cupboards lined with wool, smelling of yeast. It was also Bella’s bedroom.

The front room had the fire, oven, shop counter, and a small table and chairs where the family took their meals. The house, due to the almost constantly burning fire, was warm and cosy. The walls sloped slightly at the corners, as though they were bending in old age. The wooden beams warped and whittled away at points, eaten by termites. Sometimes in the evening, you could even see mice running along the edges of them.

They opened the shop window by seven, the smell of the first batch of fresh bread floating out on the morning air and spreading throughout the village. Lacey leaned out, with her arms resting on the windowsill, and looked down at the street. She saw the black backs of two Watchmen disappearing round the corner at the end of the road, doubtless on their way home to bed after an evening shift. She watched Mr Turner laying out the fish on a table outside his shop, his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows. He used to sell catch from the lake. Even eels sometimes. But now it all came from the fishermen brave enough to risk the open sea. She observed their little shiny lifeless bodies. Dozens of surprised looking fish heads stared back at her. She was glad to not be a fishmonger’s daughter. 

Lacey watched as Frank and Bella left to buy sugar from the docks. Bella looping her arm within her father’s in support. The street was quiet, no one was visiting the neighbouring shops, no carts passed, nor riders on horseback. Sam Cogsworth, a young boy of eight or nine with short hair matted at the back, rounded the corner, absent-mindedly tossing a ball between his hands.

‘Sam,’ Lacey called to him, then beckoning him closer. He approached, ‘What news is there of the Morgan girl?’

‘They’ve found her,’ said Sam, his eyes still on his ball.

‘Alive?’ asked Lacey, holding her breath.

‘Nope, she washed up this morning.’ He tossed the ball high, his hands cupped to receive it. ‘Fisherman Wallace saw her come in on the morning tide. The council and Kinch went down to Deception Bay to collect her an hour ago. She probably drowned. Stupid girl.’ Lacey closed her eyes as though that might supress the wave of sadness surging within her. She slowly turned and withdrew back into the bakery. ‘Got any cakes?’ he asked, poking his head through the window. Without looking, Lacey took a loaf of bread and placed it on the sill. A small hand snatched it and hurried away.

Lacey sat alone in the empty bakery, staring at the fire. In every flick of the flames, she imagined the shape of Mary Morgan’s little body, face down in the tide. The Island watching in the distance. The door swung open, and Lacey snapped out of her trance. Her mood dropped even further upon seeing who it was. Elisa Littlewood nodded a curt good morning to Lacey, her hair, boot leather black, tucked neatly beneath her cap, her white gloved hands clasped together as if in prayer. If Lacey hadn’t already known how old she was, she would have been hard pressed to accurately guess her age. She had the height and frame of a child, but the drawn, tight face of an older woman. She took her time to orbit the shop, picking up loaves and buns and prodding at them with a gloved finger before dropping them in distaste.

‘Have you nothing sweet?’ she asked eventually, her voice high and tight.

Lacey, in an attempt to avoid conversation, was needlessly rearranging the jars on the shelf above the counter. Without turning, she answered solemnly, ‘No, we are low in sugar.’

Hearing her desolate tone, Elisa’s eyes flitted eagerly in Lacey’s direction. ‘So, you’ve heard the news of the Morgan girl.’

‘Her poor parents,’ said Lacey quietly in response.

‘Her parents should count themselves lucky. Most don’t get a body to mourn.’

‘They aren’t lucky, Elisa.’

‘These girls know the dangers well enough. But even the ones our age don’t seem to heed the warnings. How old was Eleanor? Sixteen? Only a year our junior, her body never even washed up. Time after time they are told that the villagers are forbidden from Deception Bay. If they don’t listen, it is their own sorry fault. They are getting more unruly; it wasn’t like that in our day.’

‘Girls disappeared when we were young.’

‘Not as many. Besides, that was different, that was witchcraft…’ She hesitated, slyly pleased she had happened upon a point of pain. ‘Well, I don’t need to tell you.’ Lacey stiffened, clenching her jaw. ‘Apparently, Commander Kinch is to announce a curfew.’ She poked her finger into a rye loaf, feeling at the crumbs. ‘At least the boys have more sense. They never disappear. Once you have your sugar, will you be making spiced buns?’ Lacey, sensing anger rising in her chest, not trusting herself to speak, only shook her head. ‘What about apple cake?’ she asked, bending to squint at a roll. ‘Mother and I have a gentleman coming for tea; apparently, he has a taste for sweet treats.’

Since rumours had begun that Sebastian Abner had taken a liking to her, Lacey had come to accept comments such as these from Elisa on a regular occurrence. Over recent months, Sebastian would loiter outside the bakery almost daily, leaning against the wall opposite, plumes of pipe smoke engulfing his face. He was in no need of bread. Loaves were shipped to the manor from the Upper Lakes at the beginning of each week. It was her he came to see. Having the idea that the manor might start buying their bread from them instead, Lacey’s father was most pleased with his presence. Lacey was not. Something about the way Sebastian watched her through the window made her feel like a fish in a barrel, having had its lid prized open with a fisherman’s head over the rim, inspecting his catch. Eventually, she had come to tolerate his being there as one of her daily chores, making a point of never looking in his direction.

‘Even if we had the sugar, we don’t bake sweets on a mourning day,’ Lacey said, turning to Elisa, ‘perhaps, you can make your own. I will happily sell you a bag of flour.’ Her eyes travelled purposefully down the girl’s bird like frame, ‘Though you might need help carrying it.’

Elisa’s eyes narrowed, one brow arching cruelly, the mock sweetness gone from her voice, ‘I wouldn’t be seen walking down Main Street with you, Lacey Emerson, even if you were carrying my flour.’

‘Then perhaps you should ask your gentleman to carry it.’

Elisa glared at her. ‘Sebastian might be momentarily willing to overlook your family history. But we aren’t. The people of this town have long memories, no one has forgotten what your mother did.’

Lacey blushed from her neck to her cheeks. She looked down at her flour covered hands. A pulse beginning to throb in her neck.

‘Never mind,’ said Elisa after a moment, her tone returning. ‘I’m sure I will be sweet enough for him.’ With that, she turned and walked primly through the door and out onto the street.

Only once she heard the door close did Lacey look up. ‘I hope you are,’ she said to the empty shop.

Soon, Frank and Bella returned, but by the time noon arrived, they had served only a handful of customers. Lacey had drawn up a chair to the counter and was reading her book. Frank sighed as he sat down, and, reaching behind his back, untied his apron. He stretched his swollen fingers, thin strips of flour embedded in the crease of his red knuckles. ‘Another quiet day,’ he muttered beneath his breath.

In an attempt to appease his mood, Bella said, ‘Almost no one is out on the street, Father, and those that are, are not wanting bread. Death takes a toll on people. I saw Mr Lewis that day last year when he found the Grey’s daughter washed up.’ Frank gave no response. Talking nervously, fearful of her Father’s silence, Bella continued, ‘He had the look of a haunted man. He didn’t eat for a week.’ Tentatively, she pulled up a stool to sit beside him. ‘It is only to be expected, Father; the whole town is in mourning.’

‘I know that!’ he snapped suddenly, slamming his fists against the table. Across the room, Lacey shut her book quietly. The sudden flare in his temper causing Bella’s pale cheeks to flush a deep, mottled rose. His voice, like gravel in a barrel, his low, lined brow, compressed into a frown. Bella hovered, for a moment, like a scolded child, unsure of whether or not to take a seat. From across the room, Lacey heard her swallow.

‘I know that, Annabella,’ Frank said again, this time, his voice a little softer, a little less stern. But his hands still locked in fists. Bella eventually lowered herself, shifting the stool a little further from him. His face now rearranging itself back into its usual shape, the heat of his anger draining away, replaced with his usual look of stern weariness. ‘We haven’t taken even half what we might have last year. Before next winter, I will be…’ he trailed off, looking down at his legs. It was at this table Doctor Prior had told Frank he would be likely bed bound before they year was out. ‘What will become of us then?’

‘We will make do,’ said Bella, her voice shaking slightly. ‘Lacey and I have taken on more laundry and sewing. That will bring in extra money. You are doing all you can. Remember, it is under doctor’s orders that you must not exert yourself.’

‘I will not succumb to idleness,’ said Frank bitterly, shaking his head.

‘It isn’t idleness, Father. Your hands–’ she glanced down at his hand, lying like a knot of rope upon the table.

‘Enough,’ he interrupted her, closing the topic in a word and pulling his hands down to rest upon his lap.

‘I will pick us some blackberries,’ suggested Lacey, changing the subject, ‘we might make some pies this week. Pies always sell well.’

Frank sighed, and beneath the table, stretched his fingers. He nodded once in consent. ‘But only those from the field here. The woods are too dangerous. There are dangers there you will not learn from your reading,’ he gestured with contempt to her book.

‘I will be alright, Father,’ said Lacey.

He turned then and looked up at her. ‘Do as I say,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you listening to me? Not in the woods.’

Lacey nodded.

Frank took a loaf wrapped neatly in a handkerchief and tied with a black ribbon to the Morgans’ house. He walked off down the street holding it carefully in front of him as though it were made of glass. Once he had left, Bella turned the shop sign to closed and began work on the mending. Her fingers deftly moved in the light from the open back door. Lacey, unable to concentrate on her book, took her coat from the hook on the wall and left too. She walked aimlessly for a time. Strolling along the edge of the field, looking at the cows chewing grass, staring ahead with their hollow, blank eyes. She held her hand out and stroked the soft domed heads of the calves who were less weary of human touch than their parents.

Most of the trees had turned now, their leaves curling, as though on fire, changing from their vibrant, summer green, to a bright, glowing orange. Beyond the village, a thin carpet spread across the forest floor, making a sweet, crisp, crunching sound underfoot. The woods were ablaze with autumn, you could taste it in the air, that sweet, nutty scent of decay. The sun was slowly retiring. The year was winding down. Every night arrived earlier and stayed later than the one before. The endless, optimistic heat of summer had been exchanged for the gentle cool of autumn, the buffer before the knife edge cold of winter.  

Lacey turned and walked into town, though not along Main Street, for though she didn’t admit it to herself, she was afraid to pass the Morgan house. At the beginning of the year, she had attended the service of Lucy Cobb, the last girl lost at Deception Bay, and she hadn’t forgotten the looks on her parents’ faces. The raw mask of anguish and pain had filled her with a dread she could feel even now.

Beside the village green, a small group of children held hands, dancing and singing in a circle. The Old Oak Tree swayed in the breeze above them, the wind rustling its leaves, its acorns scattered around their feet. Lacey glanced up once at its branches before swiftly looking away. The girls already wore little black mourning bows in their hair, their voices carrying through the quiet street. Lacey knew the tune, they had sung it when she was a child, it turned her blood to ice: