Chapter 4

Morning turned to afternoon, though in the narrow room the light barely changed.

The factory town seemed built to keep secrets: high walls, shuttered windows, and lanes that twisted until even the sky felt far away. From their window, Mara and Lizzie saw only the backs of low buildings and the silent passage of figures in grey.

No laughter. No voices raised in greeting. Only the slow rhythm of unseen machines beating faintly through brick and stone.

---

By noon, a knock sounded at the door: three quick raps, then silence.

Mara opened it to find a woman standing there — older, hair bound tightly under a dark scarf, apron worn and patched at the corners.

“You’re the new ones,” she said, voice flat but not unkind. “Come. You’ll meet the others.”

Lizzie glanced at Mara, eyes wary. Mara nodded, and they followed.

The hallway smelled of soot and boiled cabbage. Lamps burned low along the walls, though daylight seeped through cracks in the bricks.

They passed rooms with doors ajar: glimpses of narrow beds, shelves of plain mugs, boots lined neatly in pairs. No decorations. Nothing of the world beyond these walls.

---

In a wider room that might once have been a storehouse, a group waited. Men and women, most in grey or dark brown, their faces turned toward the sisters with the same tired curiosity.

No one spoke at first.

Then the woman who had brought them cleared her throat. “These are the Whitcombe sisters,” she announced. “They’ll work here now.”

A man at the back, tall with shoulders stooped from long labour, gave the faintest nod. A younger woman with straw-coloured hair flicked a glance at Lizzie, her expression unreadable.

Lizzie shifted closer to Mara, fingers brushing her sister’s sleeve.

---

The woman led them to a table. A single loaf of coarse bread sat on a cracked plate, with a dull knife beside it.

“Share,” she instructed. “You’ll eat here when the whistle blows. Work ends at dusk. Curfew at the third bell.”

“What work will we do?” Mara asked.

The woman’s gaze flickered. “Whatever is needed,” she said. “You’ll be told when the time comes.”

“And if we want to leave?” Lizzie’s voice was quiet, but it cut the room sharply.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then the woman sighed, as if the question itself was heavy. “No one leaves,” she said, almost gently. “Not until it’s allowed.”

---

They ate the bread, though it tasted of nothing. Around them, the other workers returned to quiet tasks: mending sacks, counting nails, sweeping the already clean floor.

Not a word passed between them.

Mara tried to catch someone’s eye, to find any sign of friendship or shared doubt. But each gaze slid away, as if the very act of looking too long was forbidden.

Only one man lingered near them. Older than the others, with greying hair and a limp that bent his left leg. His eyes, pale and watchful, held something the others lacked: a spark of curiosity — or perhaps memory.

“You’re Whitcombe’s girls?” he asked, voice low.

Mara’s breath caught. “You knew our father?”

The man nodded slowly. “Aye,” he said. “Ned came through here years ago.”

Lizzie leaned forward, hope burning across her face. “Is he alive? Did you see him?”

The man hesitated, gaze darting toward the woman by the door. “I can’t say,” he murmured. “Not here. Too many ears.”

Mara felt the words settle into the space behind her ribs like a stone dropped in deep water. “Will you tell us later?” she whispered.

He hesitated again, then nodded, the motion small and weary. “After the bells,” he said. “At the old forge. Quietly.”

---

The whistle blew: long, hollow, and strangely mournful.

The woman beckoned them to follow. “Work now,” she ordered.

They stepped into a long hall lined with iron machines, their shapes half-swallowed by steam. Heat pressed close; the air smelled of oil and scorched cloth.

Workers moved between the machines, silent as shadows. Each task was done without question, every movement measured and practised.

The woman pointed to a bench piled with tools needing cleaning and oiling. “Start here,” she said. “Keep your heads down. Speak little.”

---

Mara’s hands worked without thought, cloth and oil, cloth and oil. Beside her, Lizzie did the same, though her gaze kept flicking across the room, searching for something — or someone.

Above the hiss and clatter of the machines, Mara thought she heard it again: a slower rhythm, deep and hidden, like a heartbeat far below the floor. A pulse that seemed to watch them back.

She shivered.

---

Dusk fell unnoticed inside those walls, until the third bell rang: three slow, echoing chimes that vibrated through stone and bone alike.

Tools were set down in silence. The woman led them back through the hallways, past locked doors and windows turned inward.

At the threshold of their room, Mara dared to ask. “What’s your name?”

The woman paused, eyes unreadable. “Mrs. Tew,” she said. “That’s all you need.”

She left them then, the latch clicking shut behind her.

---

In the quiet, Lizzie whispered, “Do you think he’ll come? The man who knew Father?”

Mara sat on the edge of the bed, the heat of the forge still burning in her palms. “I think he’ll try,” she said. “But we must be careful.”

Lizzie nodded, eyes wide and solemn.

Outside, the lamps guttered in the wind, and the deep beat of hidden machines went on and on, like a heart refusing to sleep.

And somewhere in that pulse lay answers the sisters had come to find — and dangers they had not yet begun to imagine.

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