Chapter 1

The rain never came.

Each dawn arrived dry and dull, hanging over Whitcombe Hollow like a curse no one dared name. The fields lay cracked and pale beneath a sky the colour of cold ash, and the hedgerows shrivelled under wind that carried only dust.

Mara Whitcombe rose before the church bell struck six, as she always did. From the narrow window of the loft she watched morning creep across the hollow: stone cottages huddled together, their walls patched with moss and age; the crooked fence that kept nothing out; the dead orchard beyond. A thin mist clung to the ground, swirling in pale eddies before vanishing into the heat.

Somewhere down the lane, a crow called once — sharp, almost scolding. Mara tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, pulled her braid tighter, and turned away.

Below, the small kitchen smelled faintly of yesterday’s tea and woodsmoke. Lizzie sat at the table, hair unbrushed, pencil moving quickly over the battered notebook she guarded like a secret.

“You’ll go blind if you keep writing before the sun’s up,” Mara teased softly.

Lizzie looked up, green eyes bright even in the dim light. “Just notes,” she said. “I don’t want to forget my dream.”

“Another one?”

Lizzie hesitated. “The same one,” she admitted. “About the factory.”

The word settled between them like a stone dropped into still water. Mara felt it tighten behind her ribs — a dull pressure she’d carried for years. She moved to the hearth, stirring the ashes back to life, needing the small ritual to steady herself.

“Dreams are only dreams, Lizzie,” she said, though the words felt thin.

Lizzie’s pencil paused. “Do you ever think about it?” she asked, voice low. “About where he went?”

Mara didn’t answer at once. Outside, the village stirred: the rattle of a cart, the low murmur of voices, a dog’s bark chased away by distance. Beyond that lay fields burned by sun and neglect — and, far further still, the factory no one had seen and yet everyone spoke of in half-whispers.

“Every day,” Mara admitted at last.

---

They ate in silence. Thin oat porridge, the last of the dried apples. Catherine had always managed better meals — she’d made so little stretch so far. But Catherine was gone now, too, vanished in the same way their father had, swallowed by the fog that hung beyond the hollow.

Some said she’d gone to find Ned Whitcombe. Others, that the grief had driven her away.

Mara had lain awake many nights replaying every word, every silence, searching for signs she’d missed. Lizzie, younger then, had cried until there were no tears left; now she turned her grief into ink, scratching it into the pages she kept from everyone else.

---

The church bell finally tolled, slow and heavy, calling the village awake. Mara tied back her braid, wiped her hands on her apron, and nodded toward the door.

“Come on,” she said. “Old Mr. Kembry asked for help patching his fence. And the day won’t wait.”

Lizzie slipped the notebook into her satchel, still watching Mara with that quiet, stubborn hope that sometimes felt like a blade pressed too close.

Outside, the air smelled of dust and warm stone. They passed the Hembury cottage, where faded lace hung limp in the window, and crossed paths with Nora Penrose, the oldest living soul in the hollow. She stood leaning on her stick, sharp eyes hidden under the brim of a black bonnet.

“Morning, Miss Penrose,” Mara called politely.

“Morning to you, girls,” Nora rasped. Her gaze lingered, unsettlingly steady. “Strange times,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Strange times indeed.”

Mara offered a careful smile, but Lizzie stopped. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Nora’s mouth twitched, half a smile, half something darker. “Just keep your wits about you,” she said, tapping her stick against the road. “Some doors, once opened, won’t close again.”

She turned and hobbled away, leaving the air colder in her wake.

---

They walked on, past hedgerows where no birds nested, past the old signpost pointing east — the way their father had gone that last morning. The sign’s letters had worn away under sun and rain, leaving only splinters.

Lizzie glanced sideways. “Do you ever wish we’d done something sooner?” she whispered.

Mara kept her eyes forward. “What could we have done? We were children.”

“But now we’re not,” Lizzie said, voice firmer than before. “And they’re both gone.”

The words hung there, fragile and terrible.

A gust lifted the dust around them, carrying a scrap of paper that caught against Lizzie’s skirt. She plucked it free, frowning.

Mara stepped closer, and her heart gave a dull, heavy beat.

It was a poster. Printed words, plain and careful:

Steady Work. Food & Board Provided. Enquire by Letter.

At the bottom, an address neither of them had seen before.

The same promise that had taken their father, and maybe their mother too.

Lizzie looked up, wind catching her hair, eyes bright with something Mara feared and recognised all at once.

“Mara,” she whispered, fingers tightening around the paper, “maybe it’s our turn to go.”