Toma had been checking the rope rails at the edge of Driftwhistle Harbor when the ice began to cough up trouble.
A row of washed-up crates lay tilted on the shore, half stuck in snow, half resting on blue-white ice. They were painted with bright shapes: a sun, a fish, a crescent moon, and a red kite. Drip by drip, the cold bay had carried them all the way in from somewhere beyond the harbor walls.
Toma set one gloved hand on the nearest rail and listened. The sea boomed under the ice. The wind threaded through the sheds. And from one crate came a soft tick-tick-tick.
He looked at the crate again and then at the lane behind him, where the first curious neighbors were already arriving. Soren, tall and narrow in his blue coat, had stopped beside the breakwater with his head tilted, as if the sound had tugged him there. Nell came next, stout and brisk, with flour on her sleeves and a braid of steam from her oven door still clinging to her apron. More boots crunched in the snow after them.
Toma knew the harbor had rules for washed-up goods. He also knew there were old promises in Driftwhistle Harbor that people had almost forgotten. But with everyone staring at the ticking crate, he could not keep the crates quiet and in place much longer.
Soren pointed without touching. Nell whispered, “Well, that one wants attention.”
Toma felt the little crowd gathering like snow around a fence post. If he spoke too soon, he might choose badly. If he waited, somebody else might choose first.
He looked from the ticking crate to the others, then back toward the lane, where the harbor keeper’s ledger was kept, and the neighbors were already leaning in. Should he open the crate, move it out of sight, or call the others in before curiosity turned into trouble?
What happens next?
Sign in to rate
