The stagecoach rolled slowly through the narrow streets, wheels grinding against wet cobblestones while moonlight silvered the roofs above. The delay on the road had frayed tempers badly. Passengers muttered beneath their breath, exhausted by the cold and angered by the theft that had already turned the journey sour.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

​Hull waited around them like a living thing.

Bow-windowed shops glimmered faintly beneath swinging lanterns while damp alleyways exhaled the stench of waste, saltwater, smoke, and stale ale. Doors closed quickly as the carriage passed, as though the city preferred not to be observed too closely after dark.

And above it all loomed the reputation of The Haven.

A place where sailors vanished, fortunes changed hands overnight, and questions were rarely asked twice.

Wilding stepped down from the carriage and studied the George Hotel beneath the moonlight. Somewhere inside Hull’s underworld, Robert Rushworth would eventually surface.

Men like him always did.

The passengers crowded inside the inn grumbling about missing belongings and the cost of rooms. Bertha Simpson, pale with exhaustion, thanked Wilding once again for his assistance on the road.

‘Mr Wilding, your help today was a blessing.’

Wilding removed his hat politely.
‘Think nothing of it, mistress.’

She lowered her voice.

‘Fortunately Lizzie hid most of my valuables before the highwayman struck. Nobody ever suspects a servant girl.’

Wilding smiled.

But his eyes drifted immediately toward Lizzie.

​

​

​

​​​The hallway upstairs was narrow and poorly lit.

Lizzie struggled with the heavy trunk while Wilding followed close behind carrying most of the weight upon his shoulder.

‘I could use a hand,’ he muttered.

She grabbed the brass handle awkwardly and lifted.
‘Lord above… tis heavy.’

The trunk slipped from her grasp and slammed against the floorboards.

Then everything changed.

Wilding moved suddenly.

His hand closed around her throat before she could cry out.

Lizzie’s eyes widened in terror as he forced her hard against the wall. Her hands clawed desperately at his wrist while muffled choking sounds disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Wilding said nothing.

He simply tightened his grip.

The inn below continued as normal:
voices,
tankards,
arguments,
laughter.

Nobody heard her die.

A few moments later her body went limp beneath his hands.

Wilding dragged her silently into the room beside the landing and pushed her beneath the box bed. Then he searched the hidden pouch beneath her clothing, tore it free, and disappeared downstairs before anyone noticed she was gone.

By the time Bertha Simpson discovered her trunk had been opened, Wilding was already gone from the George Hotel.

​

​

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Hull was beginning to wake.

Morning mist drifted across the River Hull while bells rang faintly through the docks. The Haven stirred beneath a haze of smoke, sea fog, and labour.

Wilding walked slowly along Scale Lane watching the waterfront come alive around him.

The air carried the sharp scent of saltwater and tar.

Seamen shouted from rigging high above the decks while carts loaded with wool, grain, timber, and hemp rattled across the wharves. Fishermen unloaded catches from Norway and Russia beside labourers hauling barrels toward waiting ships.

Dogs barked.

Gulls circled overhead.

Somewhere nearby, hammer struck iron from the shipyards.

Hull breathed through commerce, sweat, smoke, and survival.

Wilding watched everything carefully.

Rushworth would come here eventually.

Men carrying stolen goods always did.​​​

Near midday, movement caught his eye.

Three figures emerged from Ye Olde Black Boy tavern and headed toward the docks.

One wore the clothes of a captain.

Another walked with the swagger of a seasoned seaman.

The third was Robert Rushworth.

Wilding followed from a distance.

Ahead of them rested a sleek Caribbean-built sloop known as The Pearl.

Its black hull rocked gently against the quay while sailors moved across the rigging above, singing deep-throated shanties into the river fog.

Robert paused beside the gangplank staring upward.

‘Never been on a boat before.’

Captain Girlington stopped and turned sharply.

‘Boat?’ she replied coldly.
‘It’s a ship.’

Robert followed her aboard.

And without fully understanding why, he stepped deeper into a world far larger — and far more dangerous — than the one he had left behind.