Chapter 4: The Castle That Predates Its Own Maps

The second correspondence arrived on a Thursday, six days before December, slipped under the front door sometime between two and four in the morning. Callum knew the approximate window because he had been sleeping badly and the creak of the third stair — which was his stair, which he had never in four years heard anyone else produce — had not occurred. The envelope simply appeared. He found it when he came down at half past five, still wearing his socks from the night before, and recognized the texture of the paper before he had fully read the address.

Inside: a single card. Train from Skerwick Station, Platform C, six forty-five AM, November thirtieth. Bring what matters. The rest is provided.

No signature. No timetable reference. No platform C on any map of Skerwick Station he had ever seen, and he had seen the maps — they were framed in the station's single waiting room, sun-yellowed at the edges, the kind of permanent fixture nobody looks at because it has always been there. Three platforms. No C.