RESTLESS SPIRITS ▷ ELLIE WILLIAMS

CHAPTER SIX: A SUDDEN SENSE OF LIBERTY

Ellie paces—tight little circuit between hearth and doorway—an apple bobbing hand to hand, green skin flashing in lamplight. Each thud of bootheel taps a counter‑rhythm against Marlowe's sluggish pulse. The medic sprawls across the loveseat, father's journal riding the rise‑and‑fall of her breath like a stubborn weight she can't dislodge.

Afternoon bled into evening hours ago; they still taste floor‑dust from Seeley's room on their tongues. Marlowe has spent the stretch between dusk and now crouched over a mirror, Welsh letters flipped, lines untangled into English margins so Ellie can read. Her own notebook—ink cramped and furious—lies open on the coffee table beside an untouched mug gone stone‑cold.

Ellie's voice snaps the hush. "Run it again."

A groan answers her. Marlowe tilts her head, braid sliding off the cushion. "Empyreans," she recites, cadence flat with fatigue. "Bounty crew contracting for FEDRA. Hunt immune carriers, ship them to black‑site labs for testing. Sprang up in Washington, sprouted tendrils clear across the States—north into Canada, too. Unknown boss, unknown head‑count."

She lifts one brow. "Satisfied?"

Ellie drops to a squat at the table, flips her own journal open to the clean‑lined list of twenty‑one names. "Out of twenty‑one, fifteen are dead," she counts, tapping the page, "which leaves six maybe breathing."

"We don't know that," Marlowe reminds, voice low. "Could be six graves waiting for markers."

Ellie sighs. "And this Calgary Post?"

"Could be a settlement like Oakridge or Jackson," Marlowe guesses. "Could be a QZ. No map pins."

Night creeps up the windows, pressing black palms to the glass. Inside the center building, lamplight hangs like low fruit—golden, fragile. Marlowe and Ellie stand shoulder‑to‑shoulder in the doorway, two schoolkids waiting on a verdict. Evelyn sits at the long dining table, papers fanned before her like discarded feathers, candle‑flames fluttering shadows across her cheekbones. Fingers rake through graying hair; the sigh she lets out feels older than any of them.

"Are you sure?" she asks without looking up. "It's barely been a heartbeat since the funeral. This could heal you—or break you wider."

Marlowe steps in, palms flat to the tabletop, wood cool beneath funeral‑stiff knuckles. "I can't stay still and watch the sky fall."

Evelyn's gaze lifts, swings to Ellie—sharp as a lantern hook. "And you? You're walking into this storm too?"

Ellie's nails dig crescents in her arms, but her voice doesn't waver. "Yeah." Candlelight wobbles in her pupils like a pair of shaken suns.

Evelyn nods, tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth, weighing arguments she knows she'll lose. "How do you plan to get there? Last truck rolled out at dawn."

"I'll take Cricket." Marlowe pauses, jaw set. "And Beatle."

"Beatle?" A brow arches. "I thought the McCanns were—"

"He's Lee's horse." The words crack like ice. "Family rides with family."

Evelyn exhales, surrender soft in the flicker. "When?"

"First light—if the weather behaves."

"And you're certain this trail leads to someone worth the miles?"

Marlowe's voice gentles, but the steel remains. "They mattered to Seeley. That's enough."

Silence settles; the candles hiss. Then Evelyn pushes to her feet, joints popping like old timber. "I'll have the Eckermanns box ammo and basics. Swing by the shop before you head out. East Gate'll open when they see you."