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Mary Hopkins stepped out of her cottage and into a dry but decidedly cool morning. The village, at least her corner of it, was too quiet.
 

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Mary espied the postman cycling into the distance; her own mail had arrived a few minutes earlier but had brought—for the most part—a pile of white envelopes and the large brown envelopes that seem to arrive at the end of each month. Once the postman disappeared from sight there was no movement anywhere. It really was too quiet. Dangerously quiet.

Mary slipped back inside to ponder over a mug of coffee and a cinnamon bagel she had warmed in oven of the Aga. That cast iron cooker was one of the benefits of living in a cottage that dated from 1620—even though the Aga was a more recent addition installed in the 1960s.

Mary herself was a product of 1959 and was exactly fifty one years old today. The pile of cards was, by now, on the kitchen table but could wait a little longer, the coffee and bagel took precedence.

She had been born in New England, the direct descendant of John and Anne Hopkins, refugees who had arrived in Cape Cod aboard The Mayflower in 1620. They had been some of the lucky ones who had survived the first winter.

There was a copy of her family tree locked in her small safe, but this one had not been researched or bought: it had been maintained by every generation. Starting with her paternal grandfather and working the direct line back to John Hopkins there was a very common occupation—that of Pastor.

Mary had no living brothers so the male line ended with her father; she was not proud of this fact but knew she could plainly not change it. The past was fixed, what had been would stay that way. She was, however, blessed with a plentiful number of cousins, most of whom were also named Hopkins, or Hopkinson. By 2010 they were spread across the planet.

Mary had moved to this sleepy Dorset village in 2004 after a successful career in banking. Her speciality had been investing the vast earnings of the New England churches and she took a generous fee for her services. She had been able to retire and follow an ambition to relocate to Southwest England.

She had attracted some slight attention when she'd arrived exactly six years earlier: it had been suggested that she was buying the cottage as a holiday home but had surprised the locals when she'd moved in and hadn't gone anywhere since. She had used the village shop and pub since that first day so was now a part of the local fabric. She didn't stand out and was able to go about her business without interference. That suited Mary.

She opened the cards postmarked Salem Massachusetts first. These were from her closest family, including her mother, who had been mildly disappointed when Mary had been born, she was due on All Saints Day but had been born at home the night before, in the midst of a storm.

The rest of the cards were opened in no particular order but the airmail stickers and stamps included every continent. Soon Mary had spread the cards around the kitchen but then returned to read a letter from her mother.

Dearest daughter,

as you will know we have lost touch with your sister but will double our efforts to find her. Unfortunately, the last information we have places her in Ireland. It is unfortunate that she chose her transition to fall on your birthday.

With love

Your mother

This was not good news. Christina had been born Chris Hopkins but was both dissatisfied with his gender and with his family's sideline. He was born many years after Mary but had been groomed for life as a lawyer and had left law school for a placement with the family firm in New York, except he'd never arrived.

The family had discovered later that Chris had been seeing a psychologist and a gender specialist for several years and had started RLT as soon as she finished law school. She had travelled to Thailand for surgery exactly one year ago. No-one knew exactly what she looked like now.

For the family her sin was not to seek her true gender, the family was as enlightened as it could be. No, Christina was now a rogue—unfit to use the Hopkins name. The family had done what it could to follow Christina around the globe but now Mary had to find her, before Christina found her.

So much for happy birthday, Mary looked at the letter and saw it was dated five days earlier. Christina could be anywhere.

The details of Christina's life prior to RLT had been sketchy, but it was known that she had spent plenty of time with the same group of female students for the previous four years, according to her lecturers and fellow male students. None of the females there were to be trusted. None of them. None had been seen since.

The Hopkins family considered all females as potential witches, this included their own. Guilty until proven innocent perhaps? It was up to the family to decide if a female was or wasn't a witch, there was only one real way to do this—find the witches; then eliminate them.

Putting the letter down Mary noted that her coffee was cold, she started to make fresh cup when the door bell rang.

Mary opened the door to find an attractive woman stood there.

"Hello, Mary, remember me?"

Those were the last words Mary Hopkins ever heard.

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