Chapter 3 Three Letters and a Storm Brewing

The sky over Denbridge had turned the color of pressed violets again moody, almost theatrical. And yet nothing was ever urgent in Denbridge. Not even the rain.

By the time the first droplet fell on the roof of Miss Everley's boarding house, Mrs. Hayworth was already halfway through sweeping her front steps for the second time that day. She looked up, made a sound in her throat, and pulled her shawl tighter around her narrow shoulders.

Across the square, the door of the post office creaked open and remained ajar. That always meant Olivia was reading someone else's letter again.

Inside, Olivia sat behind the tall counter, her boots barely grazing the stone floor. She was seventeen, bored, and entirely unapologetic about her curiosity. Her grandmother used to say she had the eyes of a church mouse and the heart of a theatre actress always watching, always rehearsing.

She held one letter delicately between two fingers, like a perfume sample. It was sealed in black wax, no return address, and had been left in the drop box with no name but "M."

"She's not going to like this," Olivia muttered.

"She never does," said the man leaning against the far wall.

Julian Blight. Always overdressed, always lurking. He claimed to be apprenticing with the town notary, but no one ever saw him write anything down. He watched Olivia with his arms folded, like he expected something to catch fire.

"You sure it's for her?" he asked, nodding to the envelope.

"She's the only 'M' who gets hand penned calligraphy in crimson ink," Olivia replied. "Unless there's a Countess Masquerading out in Crowswell Lane."

Julian smirked. "Still. Black wax. That's either someone with too much flair or something you don't want read aloud."

"Don't care," Olivia said, stuffing it hastily into a canvas pouch. "It's her business, not mine."

"Didn't stop you last week."

"That was poetry. Bad poetry. This is something else."

Outside, the wind had picked up, and the shutters on the abandoned tailor shop began to rattle again. Nobody had lived there since Mr. Calborne disappeared six months ago. Just vanished. One slipper still sat on the stairs inside.

Miriam, meanwhile, had no idea that a letter was waiting for her.

She was in the back garden of the bakery, kneeling by the herbs she tended out of habit more than necessity. The earth smelled sharp and sweet. Tiny buds of sage were pushing up between rocks. The rosemary was browning.

Thom was trying, again, to trim the ivy away from the rain barrel. He was also trying not to stare too obviously at the street-specifically at the corner where Cilla usually passed around this hour on her way to violin practice.

"She's late today," he said for the third time.

"Then she's late," Miriam answered, brushing dirt from her hands. "Don't hover like a stray."

"She smiled at me last week."

"She also smiles at hedgehogs. It's not a marriage proposal."

He sighed, then yelped as the shears slipped and he caught his thumb.

"You're bleeding," Miriam said flatly.

"Great," Thom muttered. "Blood attracts cats, right? Maybe Cilla likes cats."

Lena leaned out the back door. "If you're done with your romantic injuries, a man came asking for you."

"For me?" Miriam stood, wiping her hands on her apron. "Who?"

"He didn't say. Left no name. Just asked if you'd be at the chapel again tonight."

Miriam frowned. "Did he have an accent?"

Lena hesitated. "Not really. But he did walk like a sailor."

By dusk, the town felt different.

The clouds had thickened without fully darkening. Gulls circled lower, noiseless now. The tavern lanterns lit up early, flickering like uneasy thoughts. The fountain in the square had stopped trickling-nobody was sure why.

Miriam passed through the alleys quietly, her shawl tugged tight. Her boots struck the cobbles like thoughts she didn't want to finish. She did not go to the chapel.

Instead, she took the long way down by the docks, where old ropes hung limp and seaweed painted the steps green. A boy played a wooden flute near the water, something sad and uncertain.

She stopped.

"Who taught you that tune?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "Been hummin' it for weeks now. Dunno where I heard it."

It was familiar, but not comforting.

Meanwhile, Elias sat at his rented desk above the old fishmonger's and reread the letter he had burned two weeks ago. Not that he needed to read it again. Every word had been written too carefully not to remember.

He poured another measure of whatever he'd bought from the woman on the coast something strong and bitter and leaned back.

From his window, he could see the chapel spire.

He did not like how often he found himself looking at it.

And across the town, in her parlor full of wilting lilies and ticking clocks, Mrs. Runnel fed her cat with one hand while flipping through a ledger with the other.

"Three gone now," she said aloud, not to the cat, but not not to it either. "If the fourth doesn't return by Sunday, we'll know it's started again."

She didn't elaborate. But the cat blinked slowly, as if it understood.