Brindle runs bets on the bell.
Every rooftop hears it: a deep clang when the wind swings it right, a hollow thunk when the rain hits harder.
“Every ring means something,” Brindle declares, crouched over her green-tiled counter. Her checkered rim gleams like a game board.
She takes wagers daily – three crumbs, a petal, half a ribbon – on what the bell will sound next.
“Two dull knocks before sunset!” Tavrin shouts from across the ladder bridge.
“Wrong,” Brindle grins, flicking a pebble across a square. “It’s going to clang high – my bloom felt it.”
And sure enough, the bell chimes sharp, rattling the marigolds awake.
Brindle sweeps up her winnings.
