Where the Fog Holds Its Breath

The lanterns in the Dornmouth Cove tavern burned low and orange, the kind of light that made everything look like a secret.

Julian Thorne sat wedged between a sticky table and a cracked window, the smell of salt and fried fish thick in the air. Outside, fog pressed against the glass like it was trying to listen in.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be in Bristol, bidding on a Roman coin collection. He'd had a train ticket and everything.

Then the journal arrived.

It came wrapped in oilcloth, no return address — just his name on the front in handwriting he hadn't seen in four years. His father's handwriting.

Julian turned it over in his hands now, thumbing the worn leather cover. He hadn't opened it yet.

Across the table, Bram the innkeeper refilled his mug without asking.

"You look like a man who's about to do something stupid," Bram said cheerfully.

Julian grinned. "I prefer *bold*."

What the Parrot Heard

Julian finally opened the journal.

The handwriting was cramped and fast, like his father had been writing in a hurry. Most of it was notes about tides and tunnel depths. But one page near the back made Julian go very still.

*They know I found it. If something happens to me — ask Father. He'll know where.*

Julian stared at the word *Father*. His grandfather. Edmund Thorne.

"You alright?" Bram asked.

Julian looked up. At the end of the bar sat an old woman he hadn't noticed before. She had bright silver hair pinned up crookedly and a large grey parrot perched on her forearm — the kind with a hooked beak and clever orange-ringed eyes. The parrot was watching Julian with unsettling focus.

"*Open it,*" the parrot said clearly.

The woman didn't even blink. "He says that to everyone."

Julian shut the journal. "Who are you?"

"Maren," she said simply. "And I knew your father. Quite well, actually." She set her mug down. "He was afraid of Edmund long before he disappeared."