The maritime museum smelled like rope and dust. Mr. Alden, keeper of shipwreck ghosts, leaned low over the medallion. “Harrington Trident,” he murmured. “Lost in ’93. Investigations went nowhere, as planned.”
He listed rumors—hidden cargo, falsified manifests, the usual crimes that wear suits. “Vault talk, too,” he said, almost fond. “But no one ever found it.”
Rowan asked about the crest. Alden’s eyes sharpened. “Company piece. Captain’s circle. If you have this, you’re closer than most.”
Closer to what, Alden did not say. Some truths in Bracken got traded like knives—handed over handle first or not at all.
