High above the drowning streets of the lower ward, the bells of St. Jude of the Weirs began their work.
They didn’t ring the wild, chaotic jangle of an unexpected disaster that usually sent crowds tumbling over one another in the dark. Instead, the heavy bronze clapper struck the rim with a disciplined, steady beat. Three deep, ringing strokes, followed by a ten-second silence, repeated across the gray morning air.
BONG... BONG... BONG.
The bells had been cast in seventeen-eighty-two from reclaimed river barge fittings and church tin, tuned to a deep, mournful F-sharp that pierced rain, fog, and the roar of the current. The sound shook through the bedrock itself, rattling the pewter spoons in the dresser drawers and setting the surface of every water bucket shivering with nested ripples. In the apartments along Fish Street, the meaning of that rhythm had been taught to every household over the preceding three weeks. It wasn’t a call to prayer, and it wasn’t a royal summons to assemble on the parade ground. It was the physical order to pick up the pre-packed wool blanket, take the loaf of dry barley bread from the shelf, and walk north along the whitewashed stones toward the upper churchyard.
