On the sixth leaf of the unsealed packet, Deren had written about the small, cracked brass bell that now sat in the grease-stained leather pouch tied to Len’s waist harness. Len reached down with his right hand, loosened the rawhide drawstring. Then he pulled the cold piece of metal out into the pale beam of the tin reflector.
It was no larger than a hen’s egg, cast from cheap foundry brass with an irregular seam running along its side. A hairline fracture ran from the sound-bow up through the shoulder, stopping just short of the drilled mid-air lug at the crown. The metal was dull, pitted with age and handling, and smelled of machine grease, river salt, and old leather.
Heth Ash leaned over the zinc table, her small face lit up by the animal fat flame. She reached out with one finger and touched the scarred rim. She felt the cold jagged edge of the crack.
“My father told me about that bell when I was little,” Heth whispered, her breathing thin and dry in the drafty nook. “He said your father carried a brass bell that could ring through a winter storm when the carriage horns were choked with snow. He said the sound could keep a team on the road when the horses couldn’t see the markers.”
