Chapter 3 The Deliveryman's Secret

The letter haunted Nyra all night, she turned it over, tracing Henry's familiar handwriting with her fingertips, hearing echoes of his voice in each curve of ink. Trust Claire, follow Thomas Gray, the instructions sounded so simple, but they pulled her into deeper waters than she was ready to wade. Claire, restless, dozed uneasily on the sofa, she muttered Henry's name in her sleep, as if even her dreams refused to let him go. Nyra sat by the table, staring at the brass bell, its mouth glimmered faintly in the lamplight, like a waiting eye.

She knew she could not ignore the message, she had to find Thomas Gray.

The next morning, Nyra left Claire at the house and walked briskly to the depot where she first encountered the deliveryman. The town was beginning to stir, shopkeepers pulling open shutters, children in uniforms scurrying off to school. Nyra pulled her coat tight against the chill and told herself she was merely making inquiries. The depot was a squat brick building near the railway line, alive with the hiss of steam and the clatter of carts. Inside, men in uniforms sorted packages into piles, she scanned the faces until she found him.

Thomas Gray, he was younger than she remembered, no older than thirty, yet his eyes carried the weariness of a man who had witnessed more nights than days. He was standing by the counter, signing a ledger.

"Mr. Gray," Nyra called softly, he looked up sharply, surprise flashing across his face, "Miss Rowan, I wondered when you'd come," That startled her, "You expected me?" He glanced around, then beckoned her toward a side door, "Not here, too many ears." They stepped into the alley behind the depot, the air smelled of coal smoke, Thomas lit a cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind with his cupped hand, "I warned you, didn't I?" he said quietly, "About Mercer's parcels."

"You knew Henry?" Nyra pressed, His eyes flickered, "Knew him, yes, trusted him? That's harder. He was clever, but clever men draw shadows, the kind of shadows which follow even when they've vanished." Nyra held up the folded letter, "He said to follow you, that you know the rest." Thomas exhaled smoke, studying her as though weighing her courage. Finally, he dropped the cigarette and ground it beneath his boot, "If he told you that, then you're already in deeper than you realize, Meet me at dusk, at the old signal tower. I'll explain then but not here."

"Why wait?" Nyra demanded, "Because," Thomas said, quietly lowering his voice, "they're watching and if they see us talking, you'll both disappear before nightfall. Back at Holloway Lane, Nyra repeated Thomas's words to Claire, "You're not going alone," Claire said, "If he really knows more, we both need to hear it." Nyra hesitated. "Henry told me to trust you but I don't know if I can trust him." Claire's eyes softened, "We have little choice, if we want to find Henry, we follow the trail." The afternoon stretched heavy, they paced the house, too anxious to sit still, every knock of the door made them jump. Nyra's head ran rampant, what if Henry had already been captured? What if this was a trap? What if the unwelcomed guest in her life wasn't Henry, but the danger clinging to him like a shadow?

As dusk painted the sky in bruised purples, they wrapped scarves around their necks and set out for the signal tower. The tower loomed at the edge of town, a relic from the railway's early days, now abandoned. Its iron skeleton rose against the fading sky, rust spreading across its beams like a disease. Thomas was waiting at the base, his figure dark against the dying light, he carried a satchel slung over one shoulder. "You came," he said, his tone a mixture of relief and concern. "Tell us everything," Nyra demanded. He nodded grimly, "Then listen well, Henry wasn't just smuggling artifacts. He was guarding something, something they all wanted. A ledger, names, dates, deals, all recorded in his hand. Proof that could ruin powerful men if it ever saw daylight, that's why they hunt him and that's why he sent for you." Nyra's breath caught, "Why me?" Thomas met her gaze, "Because he trusts no one else and because you're the only one who can decide whether that ledger lives or burns," Claire frowned, "Where is it now?" Thomas tapped his satchel, "Safe, for the moment but carrying it paints a target on my back. They know it exists, they'll kill for it." Before Nyra could reply, a rustle sounded in the scrub nearby, then another, Thomas stiffened, "We're not alone," Out of the dark stepped two men, then a third, boots crunching gravel. The same pursuers from the warehouse, the leader's sharp features twisted into a grin. "Well," he drawled, "the runaway, the messenger, and Mercer's little ghost. All together, how convenient," Nyra stomach lurched, Claire pressed closer to her side. Thomas's hand slipped into his coat, emerging with a revolver. He aimed steadily at the men, "Stay back." The leader chuckled, "You think one gun will stop us? You don't even know what you're holding. That ledger belongs to us, hand it over, and maybe we'll let the women walk away." Nyra pulse thundered, she realized then that the bell in her satchel was still with her, a small absurd weight against her hip. Thomas' voice was steel, "Not a chance." The men lunged, gunfire cracked the air, echoing against the metal tower. Nyra dropped to the ground, pulling Claire with her, sparks flew as a bullet struck the beam overhead. Thomas fired again, one pursuer falling with a cry, the leader roared, charging forward. He slammed Thomas against the tower's base, the revolver clattering to the ground. They grappled, fists and elbows flying, Nyra scrambled for the weapon, her hands shaking, she'd never held a gun before. Her fingers brushed the cold metal, but a boot stamped down, pinning it. One of the men loomed above her, sneering and then, clear, sharp, the bell rang. Not the ship's bell from the warehouse, but the small brass bell in Nyra's satchel. Somehow it had struck itself, spilling its thin note into the chaos. The sound froze everyone, for one suspended moment, silence fell. Thomas took advantage of it, shoving his attacker away and reclaiming the revolver. He fired, the man crumpling, the leader cursed, retreating into the dark with the last of his crew, "Not finished," he spat. "We'll take it back, ledger, Mercer, all of you." Then they were gone, swallowed by night, breathless, Thomas leaned against the tower, wiping blood from his mouth. Nyra clutched the brass bell, its chime still echoing in her ears, "What, what just happened?" she whispered. Thomas shook his head, "That bell isn't ordinary. Mercer wasn't sending trinkets, he knew it had power," Claire frowned, "Power?" Thomas looked around as if he were afraid the shadows themselves might listen, "Not magic, exactly but meaning, that bell is a signal, a trigger. The men hunting us fear it because it was their symbol once, before Mercer stole it. Whoever holds it commands attention," Nyra's skin prickled, "And now I hold it." Thomas nodded grimly, "Which means you've become more than a bystander, you're the key."

Back at the house, long past midnight, Nyra set the bell on the table once more,the brass gleamed faintly, innocent yet insistent. She realized then that the unwelcomed guest was no longer Henry, nor even the men pursuing him. It was the ledger, the bell, the dangerous weight of secrets now tangled in her quiet life. She whispered to herself, half-prayer, half-promise, "I didn't ask for this but I won't run," And the bell seemed to hum in agreement. Somewhere beyond Holloway Lane, Henry Mercer ran still from the darkness, with his share of the story.