Dusk arrived like a blanket being drawn up slowly — first over the bakery roof, then over the schoolyard swing, then over the little blue door where Nora Finch lived with her mother and a cat who preferred moonlight to conversation. Nora stepped into Hush Lane with the bell rope coiled neat in her hands. The Soft Bell hung above the cedar arch, pale as a held breath. It did not glitter. It did not boast. It only waited, the way good listeners wait.