Mira was already halfway under the bridge, where the river murmured dark and quick between its white edges. She had squeezed herself into a big wool basket by Tobin’s bell rope so she could watch the market from below while he checked the steps above. The basket was meant for apples, but it made a fine hiding place for a child who liked to notice everything first.
A gust pushed snow through the rope rails. Lanterns swayed. Somewhere a hen squawked. Then Mira heard it: the bell under the bridge gave one tiny, wrong clink, as if something had tapped it from inside.
Tobin glanced down at the same moment. His thick blue scarf fluttered. “That bell only rings for crossings,” he said. “It should not move by itself.”
Before Mira could look again, a bright splash of color darted from a stall above and down toward the river steps—Sella’s dyed ribbon bundle, dropped from her hands in all the commotion. One roll of cloth bumped the bridge post, another slid toward the wet stairs, and the tiny clink came again from under the arch.
Mira pressed her hands to the basket rim. The bell, the falling cloth, and the slippery steps were all pulling in different directions, and she could already feel the first guess forming in her mind. Was something trapped under the bridge, was Sella’s ribbon bundle the whole problem, or was Tobin about to stop the crossings before anyone knew what was happening?
What happens next?
Sign in to rate
