Chapter 4 The Ledger's Weight

Sleep became a stranger in Nyra's s house, she tried, but her body refused rest. Every creak in the floorboards, every whisper of wind through the chimney felt like a pursuer pressing against her door. Claire dozed and woke fitfully on the sofa while Thomas Gray paced the kitchen, the revolver never more than an arm's length away. The brass bell sat at the center of the table, the silent epicenter of their unease. It had rung once of its own accord, and none of them had an explanation for it. Nyra hated thinking that a trinket could have power, yet the sound still seemed to rattle her bones.

As the first light of dawn paled the sky, Thomas finally spoke up, "We can't stay here, they know where to find you."

"Where do we go?" Nyra asked, clutching her robe tighter, Thomas hesitated, "Somewhere Henry planned for. He wasn't reckless, he always left escape routes, there's a safehouse in the hills, we'll go tonight." Claire sat up, hair mussed, "And what about Henry himself? We can't leave him behind."

Thomas's eyes were shadowed, "If Mercer's alive, that safehouse is where he'll head. If he doesn't then we'll at least have the ledger." The word ledger still unsettled Nyra, she had yet to see it, though Thomas carried the satchel like an extension of his body. At last, she found courage, "I want to see it," she said. Thomas stiffened, "It's safer you don't," "Safer?" she snapped, "You've dragged me into danger without my consent, Henry left me that choice, and apparently I am the key, don't talk to me about safety," Claire gave a small nod of agreement. With a resigned sigh, Thomas opened the satchel, he withdrew a thick book bound in cracked leather, its edges worn, its spine threatening collapse. He laid it on the table, Nyra reached for it, the cover smelled faintly of seawater and old smoke. Inside, the pages were filled with Henry's handwriting, lists of names, coded notations, sums of money, dates stretching back nearly a decade. Some names she recognized, politicians, merchants, even a magistrate, others meant nothing to her but were written with underlines, as though dangerous secrets pulsed beneath the ink, "It's everything," Thomas said quietly, "Proof of their trades, stolen relics, contraband, even human cargo in some cases. If this ledger reaches the right hands, men in high places will fall." Nyra stomach twisted, she closed the book, "And Henry carried this burden alone?" "He trusted few," Thomas admitted, "But he trusted you." The words landed like stones in her chest, trust was a gift she hadn't asked for, yet now she bore it. That night, fog wrapped Holloway Lane in muffled silence, as they prepared to leave, a knock sounded at the door, Nyra froze, Thomas drew his revolver. Claire clutched her shawl, "Stay behind me," Thomas murmured. The knock came again, gentler this time, a voice followed, "Nyra? It's me."

Nyra's heart lurched, Henry, she unbolted the door before Thomas could stop her. There he stood, gaunt, disheveled, but alive, his eyes found hers, and for a moment, years melted.

"Nyra," he whispered, stepping inside, Claire rushed forward, half angry, half relieved, "Where have you been? We thought" Henry raised a hand, "No time, they're closing in, I had to make sure you had the ledger," His gaze fell on the table, where the book still lay, relief softened his features, "You kept it safe." Nyra's throat constricted, "We almost lost it, what do they want, Henry? Just this?" Henry's jaw tightened, "Not just, they want silence, that book is a death sentence to them, and now, to us." They sat around the table once more, Henry drinking tea with shaking hands. In that dim light, Nyra saw how much he had changed, the man she once loved carried scars now, some visible, others carved deeper, "You should never have come back," she said quietly, "You left me once, and I learned to live without you, why return now?" Henry's eyes shone.m, "Because unfinished stories rot, I couldn't let this rot in silence and I couldn't bear the thought of you never knowing why." Nyra looked away, torn between fury and longing, "You've brought danger to my doorstep, to Claire's, to Thomas's, how dare you claim it was for me?" The room fell silent. Henry looked down, "You're right, I have no excuse, only hope, hope that you might still stand with me." Thomas cleared his throat, breaking the tension, "We can debate morals later. Right now, survival comes first, If they track him here," Even as he spoke, glass shattered, the kitchen window burst inward, shards scattering like ice, a figure leapt through, knife glinting in the lamplight, Thomas fired, the shot deafening. The intruder collapsed, but more followed, three men forcing the front door, another crashing through the back, chaos erupted, Henry grabbed the ledger, shoving it into Nyra's arms, "Run!" Claire screamed as one of the men lunged toward her, Henry tackled him, fists flying, Thomas's revolver barked again, but he was outnumbered. Nyra clutched the ledger, heart pounding, she spotted the brass bell on the table. Without thinking, she seized it, shoving it into her coat pocket, "Upstairs!" Thomas shouted, they scrambled toward the staircase, Henry limping behind from a blow to his leg. The house filled with noise, boots thundering, wood splintering, voices shouting. On the landing, Nyra turned, terror clawing at her chest, one of the pursuers was nearly upon them, desperate, she pulled out the bell and rang it. The sound pierced the chaos, for a moment, everyone froze, the intruders, Henry, Thomas, Claire., the bell's note lingered in the air like a command. Then, impossibly, the men faltered, their faces twisted with unease, "Don't let it," one began, but his voice broke, as if the bell had stolen the strength from his throat. Thomas didn't waste the chance, he fired again, dropping the man, "move!" he barked. They burst out through a back window onto the garden, stumbling into the fog. Nyra clutched the ledger to her chest, the bell still warm in her hand, Henry leaned heavily on Claire, blood darkening his trousers.

"Where?" Nyra gasped, "The hills," Thomas said, "The safehouse, we'll make our stand there."

Behind them, shouts echoed from the house, more pursuers would come, Nyra knew that Holloway Lane would never be hers again. The quiet life she had built had shattered like the glass in her kitchen window but as she looked at Henry limping beside her, Claire's determined face, and Thomas guiding them with grim focus, she felt something else beneath the fear. Whatever the unwelcome guest had brought into her life, she would no longer cower, she tightened her grip on the bell and whispered to herself, "This story isn't finished."