The harbour room smelled of salt, old rope, and lamp oil.
Helen had chosen it because no one came there after sunset.
The harbour master had been dead for three years. The room had become a place for things that had no better place to go: broken charts, spare ropes, cracked jars, and tablets no one had bothered to catalogue.
It was also close to the water.
Close enough for a message to leave Troy without passing through the palace.
Helen bent over the table and finished the last line.
Her hand was shaking.
She stopped, pressed the stylus against the clay, and tried to steady her breathing. It did not help. The mark dragged across the tablet and ruined the word beneath it.
She stared at the mistake.
Then she heard footsteps outside.
Helen looked toward the door.
The footsteps stopped.
She quickly covered the tablet with her arm.
The door opened.
Hecuba entered.
She did not announce herself. She closed the door behind her and stood with one hand resting on the latch.
