The bell was the Keep’s own handbell, cracked on one side, and Calen rang it himself at first light on Day fifty-seven.
He had written the rules on a slip of paper and given it to Hoff the night before. Hoff had read it twice and put it in his coat.
Three runs. No warnings. The Ministry could argue with the bell, but it could not argue with the count.
The sound went up over the wall and out across the frost. It was loud. It was meant to be.
Calen had chosen the bell because it was the one thing in the yard that nobody could pretend not to hear.
Nell stood by the north post with the new candle in her hands. Her feet were a shoulder’s width apart. Her back was straight.
She did not look at the bell, or at the wall, or at the Captain. She looked at the flame.
The flame stood up straight in the still air.
