“You’ve watched passersby since dawn, almost like waiting for an enemy.” She delivered this comment with a smile to soften the implications. “Whether beggar or assassin, you’ve eaten nothing all day.”

She’d been watching him? Had she seen the bent of resignation to his spine? The tension from the overwhelming noise and sounds of life? “I’ll be fine.”

“Your mouth is protesting, but I’m certain your stomach is not.” She tossed the loaf through the air with an expert flick. It landed square in his lap.

Bastiaan liked this woman. With an incline of his head, he picked up the bread. Still warm. “Thank you.”

Someone bolted past them, ramming against the woman’s shoulder as he went. She stumbled a few steps and grimaced. By the time she regained her balance, Bastiaan was on his feet scanning the crowd.

“Check your pockets,” he told the girl.

She turned toward the crowd as well. “I have no pockets.”

Lucky for her. Unlucky for the pickpocket. He finally spotted the thief—a stocky young blond man—still running, yards beyond them already. Since the woman didn’t seem concerned about losing a coin purse, Bastiaan didn’t give chase.

The woman’s brows crashed together, her eyes following the man. “Sven?” She took a few hesitant steps after the perpetrator. “Sven!”

“You know this thief?” Bastiaan asked.

“He’s not a thief.” She sounded confused. “He knocked into me is all.”

Without apology. Practically sent her to the ground.

Sven waved a hand in acknowledgment, but he neither stopped nor turned. “Not now, Myrthe!” Strain edged his voice. Urgency. He shoved through the crowd until he reached the dark, carved, scaffold-like structure that housed the frost bells. He grasped a plank and began to haul himself up.

The girl, Myrthe, gasped. “What’s he doing?” She darted through the shoppers, dodging left and right with an uneven gait. Had Sven injured her?

She wasn’t fast, but she was efficient. Bastiaan stayed on her heels until they both stood at the base of the tower. “Are you okay?” he asked. “If his impact injured you—”

“I’m fine.” She looked away from the tower long enough to give him an appreciative smile. “It’s an old injury.”

All the more reason Sven should have stopped and checked on her. But Myrthe seemed unbothered by his disinterest. Bastiaan turned his focus to the tower. Sven reached the top in four long stretches, then he got a firm grasp on the cord to the frost bell and pulled.

The deep clang, clang, clang sent the markt into a stunned silence. This bell was reserved for winter ice alerts. No one rang it off-season, under severe penalty. It broke the system, caused confusion.

All eyes lifted toward the bells.

Resignation entered Bastiaan’s gut. It had finally happened. There was only one other reason to demand attention in such a drastic way.