THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

ck the window. Claire returned on the second evening, her coat still damp from weather, and stared at the bell as if it had crawled from the sea itself

." The word unsettled Nyra, summons implied judgment, an expectation she hadn't agreed to. She had carefully built a li

th the noise, Nyra felt the hush of something unspoken, she carried the bell wrapped in cloth inside her satchel. Every step felt like part of a script someone else had written. "Where would he be?" she asked Claire, scanning the docks. Claire pointed to the far pier, where an old warehouse leaned tiredly toward the water, "that's where he used to meet people, smugglers, traders, anyone willing to barter. I was there once, lon

ething older, smoke, perhaps, or mildew from years of neglect. Inside, the warehouse was cavernous, with beams like ribs and shadows pooled in every corner. Crates stood stacked like silent guards and in the center, suspended

nr

rted nervously, as if even the walls might be potential traitors to him. "Nyra," he said, her name fractured on his tongue, her knees nearly

o get to me, I had to be careful." They sat on crates that had been turned upside down, the bell above them a silent witness as Henry told them pieces of his story, haltingly, as though each word cost him blood. After he'd left Nyra, he'd joined a group that ran rare artifacts, books, paintings, relics they smuggled across borders. At first, it had seemed noble, rescuing treasures from governments that would bury or destroy them but greed poisoned noble intentions. "Somewhe

nct made her clutch the satchel with the small brass bell. It seemed absurd, holding a trinket against danger, but the weight grounded her. Henry hissed, "Stay behind me," the men approached. Their leader, tall and sharp-featured, stopped under the hanging bell. His smile was slow, deliberate, "Henry Mercer," he said. "We've been looking for you," the confrontation blurred into motion. Henry shoved Nyra and Claire toward the back of the warehous

oke. Nyra locked every bolt on her door and then collapsed into a chair, the small brass bell sat on the table, innocent, as though nothing had happened. Claire prowled the kitchen, "we can't stay here. If those men followed us,"they didn't," Nyra said, though she wasn't sure. She rubbed her temples, "but Henry is

d under her door was a single sheet of pa

s

y

, no signature, no explanation of how the letter had found her. Nyra stared at the words until they blurred. She felt trapped between relief that Henry still breathed and dread that every moment stretched him closer to d

e trail Henry left behind her, risk being consumed by his past. Neither choice promised safety, when night fell again, Nyra stood at her window, watching shadows stretch across the lane. Somewhere out there, Henry was in hiding-or fighting for his life, somewhere, Thomas Gray carried answers. The bell in her hand shook, as if it would like