Mira yanks her hand from the depression and presses herself around the corner of the mill, flattening against the stone beside the great wheel housing. The wood is slick with spray and smells of iron and river-rot. She edges close enough to see the door through the gap between the housing and the wall — a sliver of a view, but enough. The bolts on the door shudder. A bar lifts on the inside, loud as a gunshot in the quiet air. The door swings outward and a figure steps through: tall, dressed in layers of oilcloth, a lantern in one hand and a leather satchel in the other. They pause on the threshold and tilt their head, listening. Mira holds her breath. The figure turns slowly toward the wheel housing. Then — almost imperceptibly — they smile. "I can hear you breathing," they say quietly, and hold out the open satchel toward her hiding place.