The mire-water advanced with the patience of a rising tide. It licked at the last vestiges of Ffion, turning the remaining puddles on the floor into churning, distorted mirrors. Her image broke across the rippling surface, features warping along lines of grease and silt. Gwyllgi whined, nudging Rhys’s knee, nostrils flared toward the dark sheen. Rhys tightened his grip on the locket, the cold metal biting into his palm. “We don’t have time,” Rhys muttered, more to himself than to Ffion, though he felt the tremor of agreement in the shifting reflections. “Celyn. Whoever left this locket. I have to find out what Morwenna wanted.” He scooped Gwyllgi up, ignoring the dog’s surprised grunt, and splashed through the encroaching water. The manor was a death trap, its remaining reflective surfaces soon to be swallowed by the Mire. Ffion’s essence was already frayed. He had to move. The municipal records across the bridge offered the only catalogue of the district's older leases and families. Hours later, Rhys pried open a casement behind the municipal records office. The room smelled of mildewed parchment and damp plaster. Gwyllgi padded close, ears twitching at every creak in the floorboards. Rhys kept his beam angled low against the flagstones. The parish registers held a dozen men named Celyn, none linked to Morwenna. Rhys needed another route. Dai Maddox had always kept an ear to the district's river folklore and backwater superstitions before the crash took him. If anyone would have noted down something about esoteric river magic or strange rituals, it would be Dai. He remembered Dai’s habit of stashing 'problematic' case notes in unexpected places, away from official scrutiny. Rhys began sifting through boxes marked 'Uncategorized Anomalies' and 'Local Peculiarities', sections usually ignored by official review. He found a cardboard box marked with Dai's shorthand: 'Maddox, D. – Estuary Inquiries'. Inside, between pencil sketches of channel markers and estuary floodlines, sat a clipped sheet: *Ffion Llewellyn*. And beside it, a name: *Cormac Rhystyd*. Dai’s sprawling script filled the pages, detailing a network of local eccentrics and their obsession with the Mire's 'living pulse'. Rhystyd, Dai had scribbled in the margin, lived by the docks and peddled channel charms to barge crews. He’d been an informant for Dai on various minor cases involving strange disappearances near the riverbanks. The lower paragraph made Rhys stop. *“C.R. claims knowledge of the ‘Tidal Rites’ – old channel practices to siphon water-bound spirits. Not for resurrection, as some believe, but for transference. To bind a fading spirit, to anchor it to a living vessel. A ‘host’. The ghost’s essence becomes the host’s vitality. Unnatural longevity. A terrible bargain. Morwenna L. showing keen interest. Too much interest.”* Rhys re-read the passage, his fingers tracing Dai's frantic underlining. The ink had soaked deep into the grain. Rhys stared at the margins. If Morwenna was paying Rhystyd for a vessel, she was not trying to lay her sister's ghost to rest; she intended to draw off what remained before the season turned. The locket, the hurried packing at Tŷ Haearn, the locked drawers—none of it pointed to release. A floorboard creaked behind him. Rhys spun, the flashlight beam cutting through the dusty air, catching a gaunt, sharp-featured man emerging from the shadows between the towering shelves. His eyes, sunken and unnervingly bright, fixed on the file in Rhys’s hands. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of river reeds clung to him. “Took you long enough, detective,” the man rasped, his voice like gravel scraping over stone. “Morwenna said you’d be… persistent. She also said you’d find that particular file. Too bad you did.” Rhys lowered the flashlight, keeping his stance wide. “Rhystyd,” Rhys said, keeping his voice level. “Morwenna’s payroll run out?” The man took a slow step forward, coat smelling of brine and wet wool. “Dai left messy margins. A shame he didn't keep them to himself. Leave the paper, Llewellyn. The channel crests tonight.” He lunged, boots sliding against the dusty lino. Rhys shoved the folder under his elbow and ducked right; fingers scraped across his collar, tearing wool. Gwyllgi snapped at the intruder's shins, catching cloth before a hard boot drove the hound against a metal rack. Rhys backed away, navigating the narrow aisles, the stacks of forgotten knowledge threatening to topple around them. Rhystyd followed hard, grabbing Rhys's coat and hauling him into the metal uprights. Bound registers dropped like lead weights, one striking Rhys across the shoulder. “Drop the box,” Rhystyd breathed, fingers twisting into the lapel. “The water takes its due either way.” Rhys drove an elbow into the man's sternum, forcing him back against the shelving with a dull thud of sheet metal. Rhystyd caught his balance, hauled down a metal ledger box, and swung it hard. Rhys ducked under the arc; the corner clipped his collarbone, denting tin and splitting paper, but he scrambled down the aisle toward the central stacks. Gwyllgi tore in from behind, teeth sinking into Rhystyd’s calf. The intruder cursed, kicking out to dislodge the hound, and Rhys threw his weight into a punch that caught the man's ear. Rhystyd stumbled into the corner shelf, scattering ledgers. Rhys grabbed the folder and ran. Boots pounded down the linoleum corridor, Gwyllgi right at his flank. Rhys hit the rear push-bar with his shoulder, bursting into the alley under a cold downpour. He unlocked the estate car, shoved Gwyllgi into the footwell, and turned the key. In the wing mirror, Rhystyd stood drenched beneath the streetlight, watching the exhaust plume without moving. Rhys put the car into gear, the tyres spitting gravel as he turned toward the river road.

The Thirteenth Tide