Gosie left Pin Mill at high tide after nearly falling into the Grindle twice in under ten minutes, which several locals in the Butt & Oyster appeared to consider both inevitable and entertaining. A Thames sailing barge moved slowly upriver through the mist while someone in Chelmo shouted directions that contradicted each other completely. It felt exactly like the kind of place where a logistics network could hide in plain sight for decades.
More importantly, it felt like the kind of place Fuzzypuffling would use briefly and abandon before anyone realised she had been there at all.
By mid morning Gosie was already moving inland again, following the strange gradual shift from tidal Suffolk into the long flat landscapes at the edge of the Fens.
The roads became narrower. The skies became enormous. Drainage channels appeared beside fields like fragments of forgotten geometry.
At a petrol station somewhere on the fen roads, Gosie unfolded the copied shipping manifests again and noticed something she had missed earlier.
The silver stars were never attached to coastal destinations.
Only transfer points.
Places where cargo changed systems:
boat to road
road to canal
canal to storage
storage to sea.
Which meant the star wasn’t a destination mark.
It was a routing instruction.
Gosie stared at the tiny silver symbol for a very long time after that.
Then she turned the sports car westward and drove on to the old farmhouse where ChristmasStars lived.
The house stood alone beyond a line of wind-bent trees with fen water glinting black beyond the fields. Sunlight spilled across the farmhouse kitchen windows, catching jars, copper pans, and the edges of carefully stacked tins. Somewhere inside, a cat was very clearly expecting company.
ChristmasStars opened the door before Gosie could knock.
“You took your time,” she said.
Gosie held up the copied manifest.
ChristmasStars’ expression changed immediately.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Then concern.
Without a word she stepped aside and let Gosie in.
The kitchen smelled faintly of cardamom, woodsmoke, and something expensive stored in airtight tins.
Gosie placed the manifest on the table and pointed to the silver star.
“I found these in Pin Mill.”
ChristmasStars was silent for a long moment.
Then she said quietly:
“Oh dear.”
Not the response Gosie had hoped for.
“You know it?” Gosie asked.
ChristmasStars nodded once.
“The silver-star consignments are old money,” she said. “Very old. Wealthy gerbils. Private collectors. Maritime routes. Nobody stays anywhere long and nobody uses their real names.”
Gosie felt the investigation shift slightly under her feet again.
“And Fuzzypuffling?” she asked.
At that, ChristmasStars gave her a curious look.
“Fuzzy was here three days ago.”
Pause.
“She was heading west.”
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