Chapter 3

The van waited at the end of Bramble Lane, just as the letter had promised.

It stood in the morning mist like something forgotten: dull grey paint, mud spattered up its sides, windows darkened until they reflected nothing but the pale sky. A man leaned against the bonnet, coat buttoned high despite the warmth, gloved hands folded before him.

Mara felt Lizzie’s steps slow beside her. She tightened her grip on her sister’s hand, forcing her feet to keep moving. The road felt longer with each step; the air itself seemed to resist them, as though the hollow itself wished them to turn back.

The man raised his head. His face was thin, eyes a pale, washed-out blue that didn’t quite meet theirs.

“You’re the Whitcombe sisters,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Mara found her voice. “Aye,” she said. “I’m Mara. This is Lizzie.”

He nodded once. “You have what you need?”

They had nothing but what they carried: a single canvas bag each, spare clothes, Lizzie’s notebook, and the paper with the factory’s summons.

“We’re ready,” Mara answered.

For a heartbeat, something flickered across the man’s face — regret, perhaps, or resignation — but it vanished almost before it formed.

“Blindfolds,” he said quietly, producing two lengths of dark cloth from his coat pocket.

Lizzie’s breath caught. “Why?” she whispered.

The man didn’t answer. He only held them out, waiting.

Mara took one, the coarse weave scratching her palms. She glanced at her sister, saw the fear bright in Lizzie’s green eyes — and the spark of stubborn resolve beneath it.

“It’ll be quick,” Mara murmured, though she had no way to know. She helped Lizzie tie hers first, careful over her hair, then pulled her own into place.

The world dissolved into darkness.

---

Hands guided them into the van’s back. The floor smelled of damp wool and oil. The door shut behind them with a dull, final thud.

For a moment, they sat in silence, breathing in the close, musty air. Then the engine roared to life, shuddering through the wooden bench beneath them.

Mara tried to track the turns, the bumps in the road — anything to mark the way. But the van moved unpredictably, swaying left and right, slowing without warning, sometimes stopping altogether before rumbling forward again.

Sweat prickled beneath the blindfold. Lizzie’s hand found hers in the dark, fingers cold but steady.

“Are you frightened?” Lizzie whispered.

“A little,” Mara confessed. “You?”

“Yes,” Lizzie breathed. “But more curious.”

The words echoed in the dark, sounding braver than they felt.

---

After what felt like an hour — or perhaps longer; time had no shape in darkness — the van slowed. Gravel crunched under its wheels. The air grew cooler, tinged with something sharp: smoke, oil, and something faintly metallic.

The van stopped. Doors opened.

“Out,” the man’s voice commanded, softer than before.

Hands guided them down. Their boots crunched on gravel. The air felt stiller here, as if walled in. Mara heard faint clangs of metal, the hiss of steam, and — somewhere further off — the slow beat of a hammer.

“Wait,” the man ordered.

For a moment, there was only the rasp of their breathing and the distant, muffled life of the unseen place.

Then cloth slipped away from Mara’s eyes. Blinking against the pale morning light, she tried to make sense of what lay before her.

---

They stood at the end of a narrow yard, surrounded by tall brick buildings blackened by years of smoke. A gate of iron bars loomed behind them, half-shut, creaking slightly in the breeze.

Above, chimneys rose like broken fingers into a sky the colour of tarnished pewter. Wisps of steam curled from vents along the roofs, vanishing as they touched the cold air.

Beyond the yard, low-roofed cottages clustered together, their windows shuttered and dark. Smoke drifted lazily from a few chimneys, but no faces showed at doors. It was a place that breathed, but did not live.

A man in a leather apron walked past, head bowed, eyes fixed to the ground. Another figure — a woman in plain grey — moved silently across the yard, her face as empty as a mask.

No one spoke. No one looked at them.

---

The man who had brought them gestured to a narrow door in one of the buildings.

“You’ll stay here,” he said. “Someone will come.”

Mara found her voice. “What is this place, truly?”

His gaze flickered, and for an instant, she saw weariness, even sorrow. “A place for work,” he said. “Nothing more.”

Before she could ask again, he turned and walked back to the van. The door slammed shut, and the engine grumbled into life.

Mara and Lizzie stood alone in the silent yard.

---

Inside, the room smelled faintly of coal and soap. Two narrow beds against opposite walls, a single small stove, and a washbasin chipped at the edges. A wooden table sat under the single window, its glass clouded with grime.

Lizzie crossed to the window, wiping a clear patch with her sleeve. “I can’t see the road,” she murmured. “Only walls.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Mara said softly.

Lizzie looked at her, eyes shadowed. “Do you think they’ll let us leave?”

Mara didn’t answer.

Instead, she set her bag on the bed, running her hand over the coarse blanket. It felt real enough — solid, scratchy against her skin — yet the air itself hummed with a strangeness she couldn’t name.

Far off, a whistle blew, long and hollow, echoing between walls until it faded to nothing.

Somewhere in that sound, Mara thought she heard the same silence that had swallowed their father — and wondered what price they might pay for coming here.

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