Clara ran the length of Cobble Row with her coat collar turned up against the sea mist. Her boots echoed sharply on the wet slate until she reached the corner of Salt Lane.
She stopped so abruptly that her satchel swung forward against her knee. Between the tall tallow warehouse and the old foundry, the uninterrupted brick wall was gone. In its place stood a narrow stone archway, its keystone carved with the compass rose of the old guild.
Beyond the arch lay the exact courtyard she had seen etched into the third pane of glass: a circular stone well in the center, and seven timber doors arranged in a quiet crescent.
Six of the doors were shuttered and bolted from the outside. From the seventh, a thin ribbon of warm amber light spilled across the wet flagstones, carrying the faint, unmistakable sound of a ticking pendulum.
She reached into her pocket for her brass calipers and stepped across the threshold, knowing that if the harbour fog cleared while she was inside, the brick wall might return before she did.