The Gargoyle’s Ledge

The heavy oak door of the bell tower slammed shut, cutting off the roar of the city below, and I leaned my back against the rough wood, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding for three hours.

“Don’t,” a voice said from the shadows of the gargoyle’s ledge. It wasn’t loud, but it had the texture of grinding stones. “The noise carries up here.”

I straightened up, dusting flour from my apron. “Sorry. Just checking the acoustics. If I’m going to spend the next seventy-two hours rigging three hundred pounds of black powder onto your head, I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to throw me off the roof if I sneeze.”