Chapter Two
Arrival at Surrey Main
A small station. Covered in fog. Light from lamps flickers
like candles through milk. Benches shaped like birds. A sign: “Welcome to
Surrey Main, You’ve Arrived!”
Reflexively, Robert pulled out his phone. One bar. Maybe
two. The screen lit up like a trap. No voicemails, but missed calls stacked up
like a hit list—numbers he didn’t recognize, but knew by instinct. Reporters.
Internal Affairs. Maybe even Furgo’s cowardly lawyer.
Then, out of pure masochistic impulse, he opened Twitter.
His name was trending.
A flood of memes: a cartoon chicken wearing an FBI badge,
someone deep-frying a rubber hen with the caption "Duluth's Lunch
Special," a TikTok of someone reenacting his takedown with toy chickens
and dramatic music.
Tweets poured in: “Hey @FBI, you hiring poultry smugglers
now?” “When your partner flips faster than a rotisserie.” “The Cluckening
continues. #DuluthDrama”
Facebook was worse. People he hadn’t spoken to in years
shared the story as if it were gospel. Cousins, exes, a former
landlord—everyone had an opinion.
The digital pitchforks were out.
His throat was clenched. The humiliation wasn’t dying, it
was multiplying. Online, the circus was in full swing, and Robert wasn’t the
ringmaster. He was the sideshow.
He locked the screen, shoved the phone into his coat like it
had insulted him, and looked up again.
He hadn’t even realized, absorbed in tweets and shame, that
he was stepping into a fairytale. Cobblestones stretched in all directions as
if they had been poured straight from a storybook. Gas lamps flickered like
stars, with a British charm. The air was infused with the scent of cinnamon,
and the silence was profound.
The train platform looked like it had been assembled from a
grandmother’s dream and a BBC costume drama. Ivy vines crawled up the sides of
the quaint ticket office, their tendrils wrapping around a wooden window box
bursting with petunias. Inside, a tiny older man wearing a monocle and sipping
tea behind the glass gave Robert a polite, yet confused, nod, as if he were
both the station manager and a local ghost.
A small, enchanted water fountain burbled nearby with a
spout labeled in hand-carved wood: “Push Thee.”
Park benches for waiting passengers lined the cobblestone
like little shrines to leisure—each one carved from aged mahogany and polished
to a royal gleam, with legs shaped like lions wearing monocles. Upon every
bench sat a cushion, meticulously embroidered with Union Jacks in velvet
thread, tufted and trimmed with gold piping, as though Her Majesty herself
might drop in for a nap. One even bore a stitched likeness of Margaret Thatcher
sipping tea beneath a parasol.
The station itself was a storybook stitched into reality,
every detail dripping with curated charm. The windows were framed with delicate
wood carvings—intricate spirals of ivy, crowned corgis, teacups mid-spill, and
a trio of cricket bats crossed like swords. Around the sills, window boxes
exploded with colour: pansies, petunias, daffodils, and wild roses, all in
full, unapologetic bloom. Not a single weed dared show itself, and not one
bloom was shy. Butterflies hovered like gossip, flickering from petal to petal,
adding motion and magic to an already surreal scene.
Near the station door stood a grand tackboard wrapped in
bunting and bordered with gold ribbon, proudly displaying fluttering
hand-calligraphed flyers that flapped with intention. Each bore an official
Surrey Main seal (a corgi holding a scepter) and advertised events like:
- "Tuesday
Teacup Toss" (bracing and dangerous),
- "The
Queen’s Croquet Club" (closed to left-handers after The Incident),
- and "Ye
Olde Biscuit Bake-Off", where the rules were sacred, the butter was
rich, and sabotage was rumoured but never confirmed.
Beneath the board sat a brass mailbox etched with the title "Incoming
Gossip", featuring a slot for anonymous notes and town secrets, decorated
with two cherubs whispering behind a Union Jack fan.
Nearby, a topiary shaped like Queen Victoria stood at regal
attention, complete with a shrubbed parasol and a carved marble base that read:
“Do Not Trim Without Permit.”
To one side of the platform, a man jogged past wearing a
powdered wig, a waistcoat over running shorts, and orthopedic loafers. He
saluted the station with a cry of “Rule Britannia!” before vanishing
into the fog.
Even the lampposts participated in the theatre of it
all—wrought iron with flourished swan-necks, each topped with frosted globes
shaped like teapots, glowing softly in the mist like ghost stories told over
breakfast. Beneath them, plaques described fictional royal visits with bold
confidence:
“Here, in 1883, a royal footman considered boarding a
train. It was glorious.”
The entire platform had a faint scent of cinnamon and
lavender, with undertones of warm shortbread and freshly polished wood. The air
itself felt choreographed. Every breeze knew where to blow. Every flutter of
bunting landed just so.
And at the center of it all, Robert Duluth stood frozen, his
modern life dissolving like sugar in tea, swallowed whole by this lavishly
embroidered illusion of British perfection—equal parts charming and unhinged.
Then, with the fury of a misplaced royal decree, Bev came
flying onto the station platform like a royal hurricane in rhinestones.
It wasn’t a car. It wasn’t a cab. It wasn’t even a golf cart
in the usual sense of the term. It was a fever dream on wheels.
The vehicle came careening around the corner like Cinderella’s carriage had
been reimagined by a 1960s drag queen with a flair for pageantry and horsepower.
Dubbed “Gloriana” in gold-leaf calligraphy that sparkled
like a tiara in moonlight, the cart’s chassis shimmered in rich royal blue,
polished to the point of hallucination. Every edge was lined with hand-painted
scrollwork and miniature portraits of monarchs (both real and imagined). At the
same time, tiny golden cherubs clung to the roof like hood ornaments in a prayer
formation.
The velvet curtains—yes, actual curtains—fluttered at the
sides like scandalous skirts caught in a shameful breeze, each tassel swinging
with the energy of a jazz number. Chrome trim around the headlights curled
upward like eyelashes, and from the rear bumper jutted a bumper sticker that
read:
“KEEP CALM AND QUOTE DOWNTON.”
The horn screamed “GOD SAVE THE QUEEN” in tinny brass tones
that could've rattled dentures in a three-mile radius.
The back wheels spun with glitter hubcaps, and each tire was
wrapped in pristine white rubber stamped with tiny corgi paw prints. On the
roof sat a fiberglass gold crown, fastened with duct tape and a hint of unearned
confidence. And mounted to the front, naturally, was a miniature portrait of
Queen Elizabeth II in a locket frame, which doubled as a fog lamp.
The whole thing smelled of lavender, lemon polish, and
ambition.
With a final theatrical twist of the wheel, Bev slammed the
brakes with the confidence of a woman who had once parallel parked on a float
in a royal parade. The cart fishtailed dramatically, scattering gravel like
royal confetti across the platform and coming to a halt just inches from Robert
Duluth’s highly startled shins.
It didn’t stop so much as pose.
And then came the voice, thunderous and full of pageant and
pride:
“WELL HELLO, STRANGER!”
Bev.
Beverley Titcomb-Smythe was not a woman you met.
She endured.
A category five personality in rhinestones and orthopedic
footwear, Bev didn’t enter rooms—she commandeered airspace. Standing at an
unapologetic five feet tall (without the beehive), she made up for her lack of
height with a presence so commanding, the fog parted when she approached. Her
hips swayed with the rhythm of a royal anthem, and her voice—a brassy,
unstoppable, Margaret Thatcher-meets-Eastenders battle cry—carried over
hedgerows, hillsides, and time zones.
Her hair was a phenomenon unto itself: a tornado of blonde
curls stacked like ambition, lacquered to withstand hurricanes and scandal
alike. Her eyebrows had opinions, and her eyeliner could slice through lies
faster than a parliamentary debate. A cascade of glittery scarves wrapped
around her shoulders like a decorative offense strategy, and her outfit—a
shimmering Union Jack caftan layered over navy culottes—was accessorized with a
corgi-shaped brooch, wearing pearls and a fascinator, of course.
On her feet: New Balance trainers—bright white and bedazzled
within an inch of their warranty.
“Because arch support, my darling, is the one true religion
left in this godforsaken world!” she would say, kicking up a leg like a chorus
girl and nearly taking out a flower cart.
Her fingers—adorned with sovereign rings, charm bracelets,
and one very questionable tattoo from “a regrettable cruise in 1987”—fluttered
constantly as she spoke. Or shouted. Or belched the national anthem
mid-conversation because it was “time-appropriate and patriotic.”
Her voice could be heard three lanes away at a farmer’s
market, bellowing about the price of parsnips, the Council’s weekly dress code
violations, or which neighbor had suspiciously un-British curtains.
Her husband, Barry Smythe, hadn’t been seen since 2003. He
was rumored to still be alive and living in the attic by choice—or possibly
trapped beneath a collection of antique royal commemorative plates. Bev
maintained he was “on sabbatical from his senses.”
Their three children? Gone. Flown the coop the moment they
could spell "escape."
“One's in accounting, one’s in therapy, and the last one married a Canadian.”
Bev would whisper the last word like she was naming a curse.
So why was Beverley Titcomb-Smythe picking up Robert Duluth,
disgraced detective from Chicago, from a fog-soaked fairy tale train station?
Because the Council had asked her to.
Because she volunteered before they finished asking.
Because she wanted to be the first person to see his face when he realized
where he’d landed.
And—though she’d never admit it aloud—because she liked to collect gossip while
it was still warm.
She had been briefed—and by briefed, we mean eavesdropped
with a glass against the Council Chamber door—on Robert's scandal. Knew all
about the chickens, the cocaine, the photos, the betrayal. And most
importantly: she’d memorized his Wikipedia page and skimmed the Reddit thread.
She was expecting him like a cat expects a mouse with
headlines.
So as Gloriana, her royal cart of excess, skidded to a halt
in a flurry of velvet and powdered gravel, Bev leapt from the driver’s seat
with the enthusiasm of a woman about to host a televised bake sale for
vengeance.
Her arms flew open.
“ROBERT DULUTH! MY GOOD GOD, IT’S YOU!” she cried. “Come to
start over? Or run away? Or find a hobby in fog maintenance? Doesn’t
matter—you’re here now, and you’re OURS.”
She grabbed his suitcase like it owed her money, flung it
into Gloriana’s carriage compartment, and seized him by the elbow.
“No time for questions, confessions, or midlife crises—this
is your official, unofficial, possibly council-unapproved tour of Surrey Main!
I’ve got five minutes, a full tank of lavender mist, and at least seven
unverified rumors about your love life!”
And just like that, he was swept away in a tidal wave of
glitter, gossip, and New Balance confidence, with Bev steering the cart,
shouting facts, opinions, and limericks about the town’s elite while barreling
toward the fog-draped horizon like a royal decree on fire.
She waved at the cart with the kind of pride reserved for
pageant moms and trophy cases. "All electric! No fumes, no noise. Quiet
engines, quiet minds! That’s the motto. We don’t truck; we glide!"
She ran a hand lovingly across the dashboard. "This
here’s Gloriana. My pride, my joy, my chariot of fog. If she had a birth
certificate, it'd be laminated and framed. She’s not just a cart—she’s my only
child. You treat her gently, or I’ll run you over in reverse."
She slammed the seat—solar fog panels. Don’t ask how. You’ll
taste metal.”
She snapped on a pair of driving gloves that sparkled with
rhinestones and grinned. “Now hold onto your hat—unless it’s a bowler, in which
case salute it first.”
With a whir and a dramatic puff of lavender-scented mist,
Gloriana pulled away from the station.
They cruised through town in what Bev insisted was "a
Grand Coronation Parade, minus the ponies." The cart rattled cheerfully
over cobblestone, every bump punctuated by Bev’s enthusiastic narration. This
was not a silent ride. It was a full-volume, open-air documentary—written,
directed, and starring Bev herself.
“Right, there’s the Hemsworths. They’re not royal, but they
think they are, don’t tell ‘em I said that. House to the left? That’s Lady
Puddlewhack’s cottage.. real name’s Cheryl, but she’s got a thing for lace
doilies and monarchy fan fiction.”
She pointed with gusto at each building, lawn, and
confused-looking townsperson. “That shop? ‘Crumpet or Leave It.’ Best Earl Grey
cupcakes in the county. Across from it, Sir Nigel’s Pet Emporium only sells
pets with titles. Don’t ask.”
Each home had a story. Each window box had drama. Robert sat
low in the seat, doing his best impression of being invisible. He wasn’t
prepared for any of this. Not the accents, the waving townsfolk, or Bev’s
encyclopedic knowledge of his life.
He leaned slightly toward her. “How do you know my name?”
Bev winked like a magician about to saw someone in half.
“Oh, sweetie, word travels fast in places that don’t exist on regular maps.”
Robert pressed himself further into the velvet cushion,
uncertain if the growing knot in his stomach was curiosity or fear.
Shops lined the cobblestone streets like parade floats. Each
storefront is more committed than the last. A bakery called “It’s Scone Time!”
displayed mannequins dressed as crumpets. Next door, “Proper Socks for Improper
Occasions” promised hosiery for every imaginable social misstep.
Hand-painted signs danced slightly in the breeze, their
wooden arms swaying with more personality than most small-town mayors. Even the
doorbells played a ragged chorus of God Save the Queen—on triangle
chimes.
Everyone they passed waved. And bowed. And curtsied. Each
with an accent worse than the last.
“Top o’ the pudding to ya!” cried one man, tipping a top hat
stapled on top of his head.
“Cheers, govnah!” screeched a child from atop a corgi the
size of a compact car—or at least it looked that way. If it wasn’t a corgi,
then Surrey Main had perfected the art of breeding every dog to look
like one.
Bev responded to every greeting tossed her way with a wave,
a grin, or a cheerful "And to you!" all while raising her gloved hand
like a parade queen and grinning at Robert.
“They’re rehearsing,” she said casually. “Big celebration
coming up. Founding Day. The council insists on tradition.
She leaned closer.
“But tradition makes people feel safe. And safe is
profitable.”
Then, as if emerging from the pages of a haunted children’s
book written by a retired royal florist, it appeared.
A red-brick cottage. Chimney puffing rhythmically like it
was exhaling judgment. Lace curtains twitching in time with invisible
clockwork. A wrought-iron gate creaked open without being touched.
Bev hit the brakes like a drag racer in a tiara and extended
a sequined arm toward the odd little house, her voice dropping into a stage
whisper thick with prophecy:
“Here we are. The In-Between House.”
She didn’t elaborate—just let the name sit there, ominous
and vague, like it was supposed to mean something. Like the walls had secrets.
Like the furniture took notes.
The house was impossibly cute. Aggressively cute. The kind
of cute that made Robert’s instincts bristle. Its roofline curled slightly at
the edges like a smile you couldn’t quite trust. The path to the door was paved
in teacup-shaped stones, and small signs lined the walkway with phrases like:
- “Mind
the Gnomes.”
- “Biscuit
Delivery Only.”
- “No
Sadness Past the Garden Gate.”
Over the door, painted in delicate calligraphy with
intentional wonkiness, was a wooden sign:
“Temporary Lodgings for the Recently Disgraced.”
Bev beamed. “Charming, innit?”
Robert stared. “It’s… terrifying.”
“Oh, don’t be daft,” Bev said, already climbing back into
Gloriana. “The place is practically alive with charm. And crocheted tea cozies.
And possibly Mr. Greaves, but do be careful, he’s a bit... much.”
She winked, hit a button that released a puff of glitter
from the tailpipe, and offered a final salute.
Then she vanished into the fog, horn blaring Rule
Britannia at half-speed, leaving Robert alone at the gate of a house that
looked like it had opinions about his soul.
And the door?
It was already creaking open.
The cottage looked as if a Victorian gift shop had exploded and been lovingly
reassembled by elderly witches.
The path was lined with hand-painted signs reading “Mind the Petunias” and “Enter
If Ye Must.”
Inside was crochet central.
The couch, the curtains, even the chandelier wore snug yarn cozies.
There was a fireplace filled with hand-tied bundles of cinnamon sticks and a
wall of antique teaspoons arranged like a conspiracy map.
The floor creaked in places where the carpet had given up trying to hold
secrets.
Robert took two steps and froze.
A rustling noise. A cough. Then… movement.
Mr. Greaves didn’t enter.
He manifested.
All elbows and knees, slithering like a lizard auditioning for Hamlet.
He emerged from behind a curtain with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who
had practiced unsettling entrances.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he hissed. “We don’t usually
get outsiderss thisss ccentury.”
He twisted when he spoke.
Smiling like his teeth were being punished.
His cardigan rippled with fog motifs.
“Napsss longer than twenty-ssssix minutesss are consssidered
invitationsss.”
“To what?” Robert asked.
“The Misst,” he said flatly. “She notices. She rememberss.”
Then he leaned in.
“You botched it. Ruby Lukasss. Chickensss full of cocaine. The Council knowsss.
The Mist knowsss.”
“Do you ssstill hear it? The scream? The one you didn’t know
wassss yoursss?”
Then:
“If your thoughts turn dark, or your soul turns grey,
The Mist might asssk your name today!”
He twisted out of the room like a snake,
Moments later, Mr. Greaves popped his head back into the room, upside-down from
the top of the doorframe, no less.
“Sssso sorry to disssappoint, but thisss issn’t your final
dwelling,” he purred, descending like a Victorian spider.
“We merely needed a transssitional hovel for the introdssuction. Your true
cottage awaitsss.”
Robert followed him outside through a back door,
half-expecting the ground to give way beneath him.
They walked past identical hedges and rows of corgis nodding in unison.
Mr. Greaves led with arms flailing and knees oddly locked, as though he was
performing an interpretive dance about taxes.
“I—hold on. Wait,” Robert stammered. “Is this place… for
rent? How am I paying for this?”
Mr. Greaves froze mid-stride and turned slowly, his neck
crackling like bubble wrap.
“The fog hasss covered your down payment, sssir. But payment is exssspected. In
deedsss. In wordsss. In ssservice. In… sssecrets.”
Robert blinked.
“I’d rather pay cash.”
“Too late!” Mr. Greaves chimed. “We only accept metaphorsss
and regretsss.”
He pointed at a cottage two mailboxes down, nearly identical
but with a door shaped like a spoon.
“Here we are! Home sssweet home!”
As the door creaked open by itself, Robert glanced around at
the neighborhood. Everyone on the block managed to be outside, staring at him.
Every single one of them was waving in unison, as if rehearsed.
One man tipped a top hat that was clearly glued to his head.
A woman curtsied so deeply she disappeared behind her picket fence.
Mr. Greaves bowed dramatically, his entire spine curving
like a Victorian question mark. The key he produced was ornate and absurdly
oversized, shaped like a treble clef with a tiny corgi carved into the handle.
He offered it to Robert with both hands as if bestowing a knighthood.
“Pleassse do enjoy your ssstay,” he hissed, lips curling
into a grin that looked borrowed from a taxidermied eel. “The Council isss ever
watchful. The Missst… even more ssso.”
With that, he twirled—somehow both elegant and insectoid—and
began muttering his way down the cobblestone path, his words tumbling behind
him like breadcrumbs of madness: “Spoons above twelve grams are to be shelved
separately… No cinnamon after solstice… Oolong must never touch peppermint…”
He vanished into the mist like a magician late for a séance.
Robert, still clutching the key like it might explode,
turned toward the house. The front door had opened of its own accord—a warm,
cinnamon-scented breath curling out from the threshold like the cottage itself
had exhaled in invitation.
He stepped inside.
The first thing that hit him was the smell: a confounding
blend of chamomile, lavender, old lace, and something suspiciously like baked
ham. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was undeniably assertive—like the air had
been steeped in elderly intentions.
The interior looked like a Victorian bed-and-breakfast had
swallowed a library, belched up a tea room, and then rolled itself in doilies
for good measure. Every surface was upholstered. The floorboards were hidden
beneath layers of patterned rugs, each more floral than the last. A chandelier
made entirely of teaspoons twinkled overhead, rotating slowly of its own
volition.
A wall-mounted cuckoo clock chirped “God Save the Queen” on
the half-hour.
On the mantle sat a collection of porcelain cats, each
dressed as a different member of Parliament.
The couch looked edible—stuffed so thick with cushions it
resembled a dessert—and the armchair was wearing what could only be described
as a tea cozy tuxedo.
He placed his suitcase down, not entirely sure where the
floor was.
A fireplace crackled to life without being touched.
And somewhere—perhaps in the walls, perhaps in his
imagination—came the faint sound of… whistling. Cheerful, but deeply out of
tune.
Robert turned in a slow circle.
“This place is…” He paused. “...aggressively welcoming.”
From the window, he could just make out a topiary waving at
him. He wasn’t sure if it had always been shaped like a waving corgi or if it
was just being polite.
With a sigh, he collapsed into the tufted armchair. It
swallowed him whole.
“I am either safe,” he muttered, “or I’ve been kidnapped by
colonial cosplay.”
Somewhere outside, a foghorn let out a sound like a distant
trombone attempting jazz.
Robert closed his eyes.
For the first time in weeks, the noise in his head went
quiet—replaced by a stranger, more confusing sensation.
He felt... watched.
But not in a bad way.
Not yet.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, he was hit with an overwhelming
scent of cinnamon and chamomile—like a tea shop trying to cover up a crime
scene.
The cottage looked like a fairy tale estate agent had curated it—if Goldilocks
had been eaten by the bear, and the bear then jailed for murder; this would be
the cozy aftermath.
It was disgustingly adorable.
Every corner glowed with a warm lamplight.
A fireplace crackled politely.
The couch was tufted and floral, and so plush it looked like it would swallow a
man whole.
The wallpaper shimmered faintly with dancing foxes in waistcoats, and a
grandfather clock ticked 3/4 time like it was waltzing with regret.
Robert dropped his bag and stared.
“Alright, Robert,” he muttered to himself, pacing the cottage like a man
rehearsing a courtroom defense.
“You’re not hallucinating. This is real. This is absolutely, undeniably
INSANE.”
He pointed at a crocheted owl perched at the fireplace.
“You see this? Do you see that, Robert? That is not normal. That is
aggressively not normal.”
The owl didn’t respond.
From the window, a neighbor watched curiously.
A voice floated in from across the hedge:
“Oi, Mr. Talking-to-Himself! You alrigh’ there, luv?”
Robert flinched, then gave a sheepish wave.
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Out loud an’ sidewayz, looks like!” the neighbor giggled,
adjusting a tiara on her corgi.
He was unsettled.
None of this made sense.
The town was too perfect. The people are too cheerful. The accents too
painfully fake.
And Mr. Greaves—what was with that man? Did he live in the crawlspaces? Was he
the concierge of the town’s collective delusion?
He didn’t feel welcome.
He felt like a character placed in the wrong play.
Sitting on the edge of the couch, he rubbed his temples.
“Okay, Duluth,” he muttered, tapping his temple. “You’ve
lost it. This is what rock bottom looks like—with flowered throw pillows and a
ticking clock judging your every life choice.”
He paced again.
“I’m talking to myself.” Like that’s going to help. Maybe I’ll start answering.
Maybe I already am.”
He paused.
“Shut up, Robert.”
He sighed.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
Then he stopped and looked at the floor.
“Oh my God. I’m arguing with myself inside a dollhouse run
by powdered-wig people and a snake-man landlord.”
He slumped onto the couch.
“This is just… a transition. A layover. I’ll be out by
Monday.”
“I’ll be out by Monday.”
Somewhere outside, a foghorn whined a little tune that
sounded eerily like a lullaby.
Robert stood up and checked the window.
The neighbors were still waving.
“Why are they always waving?” he whispered.
Then he pulled the curtain shut, hard.
