Ina’s mouth tightened. There were people who lived in ignorance—and then there were people who chose it. The latter were worse. Knowledge wasted was a liability, dulling instinct and blunting edges.
She slid the kendo stick back onto the rack with care. Like most of the weapons in the Hideaway, it had passed down through generations. She reached for the crossbow next, turning it slowly, checking the wood and tension of the string.
A bolt slipped loose and rolled to her feet. She stopped it with her boot, bent and loaded it in one smooth motion. The movement was automatic—muscle memory drilled into her by years of repetition and correction.
Ina drew a steady breath, pivoted on the ball of her foot, eyes already closing as she fired.
The bolt buried itself deep in the scarecrow’shead behind her. She didn’t smile; there was no need. The Wolfendens didn’t miss.
She pictured a shoal of Selkie breaking the surface and felt nothing, but a tightening focus settle through her limbs. Numbers didn’t scare her. Hesitation did. She had no room for doubt, no patience or consideration for outcomes she didn’t intend to survive. Failure simply wasn’t part of the calculation.
Grunting, she yanked the bolt free. The scarecrow’s neck tore further, sagging loose and lopsided. She wiped her hands on her trousers, and returned the crossbow to its place.
Ina stood in the middle of the room and listened.
The Hideaway was soundproof—voices and noise couldn’t reach it—but vibrations always did. Footsteps on the wooden floor above. The familiar slam of the back door.
Her jaw tightened. She looked up at the ceiling, waiting longer than she needed to.
Silence.
She crossed to the far corner and pressed her foot down on a wooden plank. The floorboard creaked—hollow. Ina didn’t move straight away. Her heel still planted as if the sound itself had started something loose inside her. She hesitated, pulse ticking louder than it should have. No footsteps or doors. Still her stomach tightened at the unwelcome pull of anticipation edged with fear.
Crouching, she leaned her weight onto her haunches and ran her hands along the floor until her fingers found the seam. Her nails slipped underneath it, chipping the polish. The panel lifted with a soft scrape and a puff of dust billowed into her face.
Ina coughed, eyes watering, and waved the plume away. The smell hit next—old wood and leather. She froze. Notfrom fear of being caught, from the sense that she had crossed a line. That lifting what lay hidden meant breaking an unspoken rule she’d enforced for decades. She tilted her head, listening again, every muscle taut.
She drew in a breath, reached into the hollow space, and pulled out a book.
Daddy’s journal.
Her fingers tightened around the spine, as if it might vanish if she loosened her grip. She hadn’t seen it since she was a child, but she’d always known where it was, safely hidden, undisturbed for decades. She could never bring herself to read it, because opening it meant admitting Daddy wasn’t coming back. And if she admitted that, everything else followed. Mummy dying of a broken heart. Sylvie’s disappearance. The weight of being the only one left standing who couldn’t shift.
Ina breathed in slowly. Dust caught in her nose and she sneezed, swiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
She wiped the cover clean. The faded gold Wolfenden sigil emerged beneath her touch—the lines softened now, the gold leaf worn thin. The same wolf Archie had chosen for The Wolf’s Den, without ever knowing why it felt right. Her finger traced the shape, and her vision blurred.
Daddy used to write while she sparred with Sylvie, pen scratching as the blows landed, corrections barked mid-swing. This book would hold everything he knew about Latharna and everything he never said aloud.
Ina opened it. The looping handwriting swam instantly. Her chest tightened, breath catching sharp and high. She shut the journal—hard—before the sting behind her eyes could turn into something worse.
She lowered the book back into its hiding spot and slid the floorboard into place, pressing it down until itsettled back into position. There was no seam, no sign it had ever been disturbed. Her hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if sealing more than wood.
One day she would read it. One day she’d tell Archie it existed. But that would mean letting go of hope. Hope clung to her like armour. She didn’t know how to stand without it. Without it, there was nothing but defeat, and she’d have to face everything else she’d locked away—Sylvie, Mummy, the cost of surviving when others hadn’t…
Ina straightened slowly, rolling her shoulders back until her spine aligned and her breath steadied. Her familiar posture returned, the one that left no room for collapse. There was work to do.
Chapter 23
Malachi
Malachi sat on the wall overlooking the sea legs dangling over the drop, the stone cool beneath his palms.
He’d managed to leave the house without Ina escorting him like a prison guard—a minor miracle. The thought earned a faint, humourless huff. He’d promised to meet his friends at Lucky Crumbs, knowing full well she wouldn’t want him anywhere near the water.
A half-truth wouldn’t hurt. Not when the beach below was already filled with holidaymakers—families spreading towels, dogs tearing along the sand, children shrieking as the cold surf nipped at their ankles. Too many witnesses for anything to happen. Too much daylight. The Selkie wouldn’t surface here, and if Jeff was going to kick off, better here than inside a café with half of Latharna there to witness it.
He was usually the one running late. Today, he’d left early, needing distance from Riverside before it closed in on him again. Dad had paced the floor outside his bedroom formost of the morning, floorboards creaking in the stop-start rhythm of footsteps Malachi knew too well.
