They told me not to bother going inland. Something about mud, or tractors, or Jack muttering that “there’s nothing operationally significant about Hartlebury.” Which is exactly the sort of thing that makes a place interesting.
So I went anyway. The castle sits there like it’s remembering something—red stone, quiet, the sort of quiet that presses against your ears. Even Pedro felt it. He wouldn’t come out of my pocket, and he once tried to fight a seagull twice his size, so that tells you something.
It was nearly dark when I saw the light. One window, high up. Not flickering. Not warm. Just… present. I assumed caretaker. Or trespasser. Or ghost, obviously—one must keep a balanced mind.
I walked the perimeter. Locked doors. Still air. No sound except something small moving in the leaves—too soft for a rat, too deliberate for the wind. When I looked back up, there was a figure in the window. Not moving past. Not turning. Just there. Watching in the way that makes you feel like you’ve interrupted something rather than discovered it.
I raised a hand—politely. The light went out. Gone. Completely. I waited longer than I care to admit. Nothing.
Back aboard, I told the others. Jack said it was probably “a reflection anomaly,” which is not a real thing, no matter how confidently you say it. Prudence poured Pink Gin and asked whether the figure had “good posture,” which I think misses the point. Dame Twinkles went very still and asked which window. Which is when the Invisible Partner—who had not, until that moment, been acknowledged as present—said, quite clearly: “That room hasn’t had a floor in it for years.” No one asked how they knew. And I didn’t go back. But Pedro still won’t go near that pocket.
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