The Pact in Amber Light

“A promise made in silence is louder than any oath spoken aloud.” — Rebecca Monk

Violet’s footsteps rang out against the pavement, a soft but steady rhythm that seemed to carry too far in the stillness of the morning. She kept her stride brisk, almost purposeful, though inside her thoughts churned in restless spirals. The letter was folded tightly in her bag, but its words still clung to her skin like damp air, refusing to let her go.

Michelle’s house was familiar ground—how many times had they trudged this route together, bikes rattling along the kerb, chatter filling the air? But today, the walk felt different. The ordinary landmarks seemed charged with an uneasy weight. The cracked bitumen shimmered faintly under the growing heat, the skeletal outlines of pepper trees cast long, spidery shadows across the path, and every sound carried a sharpness that made her glance over her shoulder.

A magpie warbled from a power line, its liquid song usually bright, but today it felt oddly hollow, echoing in the empty street. From somewhere deeper in the neighbourhood came the metallic rattle of a ute starting up, followed by the crunch of tyres on gravel. Violet stiffened, watching as it rolled past at a lazy pace. The driver didn’t so much as glance her way, but the letter’s warning gnawed at her: They’re watching, always watching.

She pulled the strap of her backpack tighter against her shoulder, her eyes skimming over every fence line, every verandah, every curtained window. Was someone standing there, just out of sight? Was it imagination, or did the world truly feel sharper, more watchful, than it had only yesterday?

Her heart thumped harder as she turned a corner. The familiar rows of low houses, sun-faded and squat against the harsh Outback light, brought little comfort. Each front yard—dusty earth, stubborn tufts of grass, bicycles leaning against walls—seemed to conceal a thousand hidden places where eyes might lurk.

Violet shook her head, forcing herself to breathe. Get a grip, she told herself. It’s just the letter. It’s in your head.

And yet, even as she hurried on, her pace quickening with each echo of her footsteps, the seed of paranoia pressed deeper into her chest, rooting itself in ways she could not simply dismiss.

Arriving at Michelle’s home, Violet slowed her pace, her breath catching slightly from the urgency that had carried her there. The familiar brick façade loomed gently out of the morning haze. She mounted the wooden steps to the verandah, their boards creaking softly under her weight, and raised her hand to knock.

She rapped lightly at first, hesitant to disturb the household at such an hour. Violet’s gaze flicked over her shoulder again, scanning the stillness—the empty road, the lean shadows of fences and pepper trees, a curtain twitching in a neighbour’s window.

After a pause, the door creaked open. Michelle appeared, hair tousled, her butterfly clip askew as if it had been tugged out during sleep. Her hazel eyes, bleary with dreams, sharpened at once when they landed on Violet.

“Violet?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “What’s going on? It’s not even seven o’clock.”

The concern in her tone pierced through Violet’s chest, more grounding than any reassurance she could muster herself. Violet leaned closer, lowering her voice though the street lay empty. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” Her eyes darted over her shoulder once more, the paranoia from the letter still pulsing beneath her skin. The porch suddenly felt too open, too vulnerable. “Can I come in?”

Michelle, now fully awake, gave a small, serious nod and stepped aside. Violet slipped through the doorway with relief, the cool air of the house wrapping around her like a shield.

Inside, the world seemed hushed, cocooned from the watchful silence of the street. The house still carried the traces of sleep: the faint scent of eucalyptus oil from last night’s mopping, the muffled tick of a clock, the distant sound of someone shifting in a back bedroom.

They moved into the living room, where the curtains were only half drawn. Morning light filtered through the lace, soft and golden, laying patterned shadows across the carpet and the well-worn armchairs. It was a familiar room, usually alive with chatter and the clatter of dishes from the adjoining kitchen, but at this hour it held a rare stillness, as if even the walls were waiting to hear what Violet had to say.

Violet perched on the edge of the armchair, her fingers tightening around the strap of her backpack as though letting go might undo her resolve. For a moment she simply sat there, listening to the muffled quiet of the house. Then, with a deep breath, she drew the letter out.

The envelope was already creased from her restless handling, its edges softened, the ink of her name faintly smudged where her thumb had pressed too hard. In the dim, honeyed light of the living room, it looked far from ordinary. It was no longer just paper—it was a symbol of something larger, a key to a door Violet wasn’t sure she was ready to open.

She held it out towards Michelle, her hand trembling slightly despite her best effort to appear composed. “Here,” she said quietly. “Read this.”

Michelle’s brows knitted as she took it, curiosity flaring in her sleepy eyes. She slid the paper free with care, smoothing it against her knee before her gaze moved over the frantic scrawl.

Violet watched her closely. She saw the subtle changes in Michelle’s face as she read—the slight parting of her lips, the way her eyes narrowed at certain lines, the shift from puzzlement to something harder, something edged with fear. Concern shadowed her features, chasing away the last remnants of sleep.

The silence between them thickened, the weight of the words on the page filling the room more heavily than any sound could have.

“This… this is intense, Vi,” Michelle said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper. The letter trembled slightly in her hands as though the words themselves carried weight. “Who do you think sent it? And what do they mean about Emily Sullivan not being the first?”

“I don’t know,” Violet admitted, dragging her hand through her hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. The gesture was restless, her knee bouncing against the worn carpet. “But they clearly know something about Sally Harlow’s disappearance. And somehow, it’s tied back to what happened in Silverton more than a hundred years ago. It can’t be coincidence. We need to figure out what these clues mean.”

Michelle’s eyes scanned the page again, her brow furrowed deep, lips pressing into a thin line. The soft light from the curtains dappled across her face, catching the seriousness in her expression. “This isn’t something we can do on our own,” she said firmly. “We should get the others in on it. If we’re going to make sense of this, we’ll need all hands on deck.”

Violet nodded, the tension in her chest loosening slightly at the thought of not carrying the burden alone. “Yeah. Mandy and Rebecca have to see this.”

Michelle glanced towards the hallway, lowering her voice instinctively even though the house remained hushed. “Mum’ll be up soon. Best we call them now.”

She rose and padded into the kitchen, pulling the long, coiled cord of the beige wall phone across the bench. The faint click of the dialling wheel filled the silence as she spun each number, the pause between clicks stretching taut with Violet’s anticipation. The hum of the line carried through the quiet house, that familiar waiting tone of small-town telephones.

Mandy answered first, her voice sharp with sleep and curiosity in equal measure. Then Rebecca, cautious but attentive. The urgency in Michelle’s tone—measured, steady, but edged with something heavier—was enough to bring them both on board without question.

Within minutes, plans were made. They would come.

Violet sat back, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The ordinary sounds of the house—the clock ticking in the hall, the faint creak of pipes as the hot water system stirred—seemed strange now, as though life itself was moving around a secret that only the four of them would soon share.

Within the hour, the quiet of Michelle’s street was broken by the scuff of trainers on the pavement and the low murmur of voices. Rebecca arrived first, her braid slightly untidy from the rush, clutching a neatly folded jumper against the morning chill. Mandy came not long after, bounding up the steps with her usual restless energy, though even she wore a shadow of seriousness on her face.

Soon, the four of them were gathered in Michelle’s living room, the curtains still drawn against the early glare of the sun. The air inside felt heavier now, charged with something unspoken. They sat close, knees nearly touching, forming a tight circle around the letter spread out on the low coffee table between them. Its creased paper and frantic scrawl seemed almost to breathe in the stillness, a living thing pressing on them all.

No one spoke at first. Violet’s gaze travelled over her friends’ faces: Michelle’s sharp hazel eyes fixed intently on the page; Rebecca’s fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of her sleeve, though her expression was calm; Mandy leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her green eyes narrowed with a mix of curiosity and defiance.

The letter lay between them like a pact—fragile, secret, and binding. Whatever doubts or fears each of them held, Violet could feel it: they were bound together now, drawn into the mystery by the weight of those frantic words.

“This mentions the abandoned Silver Queen Mine,” Rebecca said, her voice steady but low, as though speaking the words too loudly might summon something from the shadows. She leaned closer, eyes narrowing as she studied the frantic scrawl again, her sharp mind already at work, tugging at threads. “We could start there. See if we can find anything that connects to Sally… or Emily Sullivan.”

Mandy shifted forward in her seat, her elbow knocking lightly against the coffee table. “And Penrose Park,” she added quickly, her green eyes bright with a spark of determination. “The letter says there’s a key there, but to beware of shadows after dusk. What could that mean? A person? Something hidden?” Her words came out in a rush, half-question, half-dare, as though already itching to set off and see for herself.

Violet looked at them both, her chest tightening with a sudden swell of gratitude. Here they were—her friends—leaning into the mystery with her instead of laughing it off, taking her fears and turning them into plans. It steadied her in a way nothing else had since the moment she’d pulled the letter from the letter box. Together, they were stronger. Together, they felt untouchable, as though the four of them might really be able to prise secrets from the red dust of Silverton itself.

Michelle, however, sat back slightly, her arms folding across her chest. Her eyes were sharp, no trace of sleepiness left now. “We have to be careful,” she said firmly, her voice a quiet anchor against the rush of excitement. “Whoever wrote this letter is scared for a reason. They said not to trust people in uniform. Could they mean the police?”

The question hit the room like a dropped stone. Silence settled over them, heavy and suffocating. In Broken Hill, the police weren’t just authority figures—they were neighbours, fathers, brothers of people they saw every day. To suspect them felt unthinkable, and yet…

Violet glanced at her friends, each of them lost in the same uneasy thought. If they couldn’t trust the police, then who could they possibly turn to?

“My dad,” Mandy said at last, her voice quieter than usual, the bravado gone. She stared at the letter as though it might answer the question for her. “He’s been working on Sally’s case non-stop. Do you think…” Her words faltered, caught between loyalty and doubt. “…do you think he could be involved in whatever this is?”

The room seemed to contract around her admission. For a moment, no one moved.

Violet leaned forward and reached out, closing her hand firmly over Mandy’s. She felt the warmth of her friend’s palm, the slight tremor betraying the turmoil behind her eyes. “We don’t know anything for sure yet,” Violet said, her voice steady, though her own stomach twisted at the thought. “But we can’t let anyone know what we’re up to until we have more information. Not even our families.”

Mandy gave a small nod, biting her lip hard enough to leave a mark. It was clear the thought of her father being part of the danger cut deeply, but she didn’t argue.

Michelle exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair as if to absorb the weight of Violet’s words. Rebecca smoothed the crease of her skirt with nervous precision, her usually calm features shadowed with unease.

One by one, they lifted their eyes, exchanging solemn looks. In that quiet moment, something shifted. They were no longer just four girls sitting cross-legged in a suburban living room in Broken Hill. They were conspirators now, bound by a secret larger than themselves, stepping into the shoes of detectives—untrained, unprepared, but driven by a need to uncover truths buried for over a century.

“We need a plan,” Rebecca said, her voice measured, her hands folded neatly in her lap as though she were presenting a case in debate club. Ever the practical one, she kept her tone steady, her eyes moving from face to face. “We can’t just rush off to these places without preparation. We need to research, gather supplies, and come up with alibis for our parents.”

Violet nodded, appreciating the calm practicality in Rebecca’s words. “You’re right. And we need to be smart about this. No unnecessary risks. We’re there to observe and gather information, not to confront anyone or put ourselves in danger.”

The others murmured in agreement, the seriousness of the moment wrapping tightly around them. Violet could feel the warmth of the Outback day beginning to creep into the house, the air heavy despite the curtains drawn against the sun, but the weight pressing down on her chest had nothing to do with the weather.

Michelle leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “We should start with the library,” she said, her eyes sharp with thought. “Look up old newspapers, see if we can find anything about Emily Sullivan’s disappearance. The Silver City Sentinel archives might still have something—obituaries, police reports, even gossip pieces. If Emily really is connected to Sally, maybe there are patterns we can trace.”

“Good idea,” Violet agreed quickly, seizing on the practicality of it. “And we need to map out the places mentioned in the letter—the Silver Queen, Penrose Park, Silverton itself. Work out how to get there without raising suspicion. Best times to go, what to bring.”

Mandy, who had been pacing a little, finally dropped back onto the carpet cross-legged, her short hair falling into her eyes. “We’ll need torches,” she said firmly. “And proper ones, not those little pocket lights. And food. If we’re out in the wild bush, we can’t rely on the tuckshop down the road. I can nick a torch from Dad’s shed—he won’t notice one missing.” She hesitated, her voice catching just slightly. “But don’t say anything about this to him, alright? Not a word.”

“We won’t,” Michelle assured her, though the room grew heavier at the reminder of Mandy’s father’s badge and what the letter had said.

They fell into a rhythm then, sketching ideas into notebooks, maps spread open on the coffee table. Rebecca’s careful handwriting contrasted with Mandy’s hurried scrawl, but together the page began to fill with arrows, circles, and half-formed theories. Violet sat back for a moment, watching them, her heart tugged by the strange blend of excitement and dread.

They were still just girls in a suburban living room—toast crumbs still on the plates in the kitchen, the faint murmur of a radio drifting from somewhere down the street—but here they were, planning something that felt larger than life. The mystery of Sally Harlow’s disappearance was no longer a story whispered on verandahs. It was theirs now, their mission, stitched tightly into their bones.

“Library first,” Michelle repeated, as though speaking it aloud would anchor the plan firmly in place.

Violet nodded, committing herself to the course with quiet resolve. Yet deep in her chest a flicker of unease stirred, as if the story they were writing together might already have a different path waiting for them, one darker than they could imagine.

Outside, Broken Hill was beginning to stir in earnest. The clang of a distant screen door, the whir of a motorbike along the main road, the faint cries of children already playing in the dusty yards. The town moved as it always did, unaware of the four teenagers huddled in a circle, plotting to unearth secrets that had slept beneath its red earth for more than a century.

As their scribbled notes and maps began to overlap on the coffee table, the room fell into a natural lull. Violet’s gaze drifted across the faces of her friends—Mandy, restless and fierce, her eyes blazing; Michelle, steady and thoughtful, her gaze sharp with calculation; Rebecca, calm on the surface but with her fingers betraying her nerves as they traced the spine of her notebook. In each of them she saw the same mixture she felt in herself: fear, yes, but also a resolve that glowed hotter than fear could ever dim.

She drew in a breath, steadying her voice. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, leaning forward so her words belonged to the circle and no one beyond it, “we’re in this together. No matter what we uncover, no matter how dangerous it gets—we stick together. Agreed?”

There was a pause, the kind that pressed on the chest and made the moment feel heavier than words alone. Then Mandy gave a sharp nod. “Agreed.” Michelle echoed her, firm and sure. Rebecca’s voice followed last, quieter but steady, completing the chorus.

But it didn’t feel enough. Not for Violet. Not for what they were stepping into. She reached out her hand and laid it flat on the table. “Not just words,” she said, her throat tight with the need to make this binding. “Let’s make it a pact. A proper one.”

Michelle’s eyes softened in understanding first. She slid her hand on top of Violet’s. Then Mandy, her palm warm and strong, covering Michelle’s. Rebecca hesitated only a fraction before adding hers to the pile, her fingers cool against the rest.

Four hands stacked together, knuckles brushing, the weight of them light and yet impossibly heavy.

“Nothing leaves this circle,” Violet said, her voice firm now, almost fierce. “Not to parents, not to teachers, not even to the police. What we find—what we know—it’s ours, until the end.”

“Until the end,” Michelle repeated, her grin flashing, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The words settled over them like a vow. A pact born not of ceremony but of trust, fear, and teenage daring. They didn’t seal it with blood—though Violet half-felt they might—but with the clasp of their hands, the warmth of their shared resolve binding them tighter than ink on paper ever could.

For a moment the room seemed to hold its breath, the sunlight slanting through the curtains painting their joined hands in amber. The ordinary living room, with its threadbare carpet and lace curtains, had become something else entirely: a secret chamber, a war room, a place where the future tilted in their direction.

And though none of them could have said it aloud, each knew that this promise would follow them far beyond the morning—that it might well cost more than they could yet imagine.