Tobin stood beneath the long bridge arch with both hands on the bell rope, listening for the market to wake. Above him, the winter sky was pale and thin. Below him, the river moved dark between hard white edges, and the first lanterns were still glowing in the stalls. Today was the annual opening, and when the bell rang, the market would begin in its proper order.
Tobin gave the rope a careful pull.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, firmer this time, planting his broad boots on the slick boards. The rope creaked. The fittings above gave a small, stubborn groan. But the big bell itself, hung under the bridge arch, did not swing. A crust of ice held it tight from the bitter night.
Tobin wrapped the rope once more around his hand and pulled until his blue scarf brushed the wood. Still nothing. No bright clang. No clear note to call the stall owners to their places. Just the cold bridge, the wet river, and the bell sitting silent as a stone.
He let the rope slip through his fingers and looked up at it. If the bell would not move at all, the opening ceremony might pass without its sound. And if that happened, the whole market would have to guess when to begin.
Tobin stood very still, hearing the market murmur around him, and wondered what to do next.
What happens next?
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