“Get outside!” Daniel shouted.
Fiske ran toward the near exit. Catherine followed him, but one of the county men stumbled over a coil of rope. Aaron darted forward to help him. Pike, seeing his plan disintegrate, pulled the lever again. This time the lower pin sheared. There was a hard, ugly sound from overhead.
Daniel had studied that frame for months. He knew the exact arc the broken bracket would take and the point at which the crossbeam would twist. He also knew the weight had an alternate route: a narrow freight channel designed to lower heavy timber into a disused loading pit. If he opened that channel, the falling mass would strike earth rather than the gallery. But the release lever was on the far wall, beyond the swinging arms.
He seized a length of rope and tossed one end to Silas. “Tie it to the return eye.”
Silas looked up at the moving frame. “We will be crushed.”
“Not if you keep the line low.”
They worked without another word. Daniel pulled the rope through a beam opening and anchored it around a pillar. Silas attached the far end to the carriage’s return eye. Aaron helped the fallen county man to his feet. Catherine turned back from the doorway, saw Daniel straining against the rope, and ran to the nearest column.
“What can I do?” she shouted.
“Keep everyone beyond the brick line!”
The command did not require trust or forgiveness. It required action. Catherine grabbed Fiske’s arm and pulled him back from the gallery steps. The county men followed her across the marked threshold just as the bracket tore one final screw free.
The weight fell.
Daniel hauled on the rope. The sliding frame swung inward, cleared the gallery by inches, and crashed into the empty loading pit. Splinters flew. A cloud of dust surged through the building. The counterweight struck the earth with a concussion that shook every lantern and blew the flame out of one.
For a few seconds nobody moved.
Then Aaron coughed and called, “Daniel?”
Daniel was on one knee beside the pillar, holding the end of the rope. His palms burned. Silas sat against the wall, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Pike lay near the lever, stunned but conscious. The gallery, where guests would have stood the following morning, remained upright. Its rail had been shaved by the passing frame.
Fiske walked slowly back inside. He stared at the empty pit, the shattered bracket, and the sheared metal pin lying in a patch of dust. He bent to retrieve it, held it close to his lantern, and saw the filed notch.
“Who made this?” he asked.
Silas raised his head. “I did. Pike ordered it.”
