Twilight was settling over Bellwether when Tomas Reed returned to number fourteen North Market Lane for the final time.
The autumn sun had dipped behind the western ridge. That left the sky stained with deep indigo and amber. In the narrow cobbled alley, the evening lanterns were being lit. Their yellow beams reflected off the damp flat stone slabs and the leaded shop-windows.
Inside the front office, apprentice Olla had lit the small brass hanging lamp above the counter. Its warm light fell across the scrubbed pine desk, lighting up the four thick Master Audit folios, the Master Brass Stamp, and the open daybook.
Tomas stepped inside, closing the heavy oak door behind him. The brass bell gave its sweet, familiar ting. The warmth of the ash-wood fire in the stove washed over his face.
Olla stood behind the counter, her dark green woolen skirt neat, her sleeve-covers removed, her hands resting calmly on the blotter. She had set out two clay mugs of hot clover tea and a plate of fresh oat-cakes on the side table.
Tomas walked to the counter. He reached into the deep pocket of his leather vest and brought out an iron key-ring holding three heavy, dark keys, cut from solid charcoal-iron by a locksmith of the Lantern Company forty years ago.
