"Are you trying to scare me?" he called out from his bedroom door.
"Sorry, dear. Didn't know you were still asleep. I was looking for this." Marla held up a dented tin plate like a shield.
Tristan blinked at her. "You plan to fight intruders with cookware?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "But I plan to make them regret touching our fence. You said you wanted warning bells. Well, I found the bells… sort of."
On the table sat a sad little collection: mismatched spoons, an old ladle, two chipped mugs, and a rusted handbell that probably hadn't rung properly in a decade. They lay hidden in the pantry covered with dust and cobwebs.
"Marla," Tristan said slowly, "is this our new defense line or the world's most pitiful dinner service?"
"A little of both," she answered with a grin.
Tristan folded his arms. "Speaking of security, who else has stayed in this cottage? Anyone with spare keys? I noticed you can get in and out even when I'm asleep. How do you do it?"
Marla's smile faltered. "Sorry, dear, to alarm you. You're right. I have a spare key for both entrances. I can return them if you'd like."
"Oh, no. Don't get me wrong." Tristan softened his tone, trying not to upset her. "Hold on to them. I just wondered if there were other tenants before me."
"None that I know of. I only had keys because Lord Shannon asked the place to be cleaned before you arrived.
Eira and the workers repaired half the cottage and turned over the same set of keys to your landlord. You should have seen it before—it was little more than a warehouse."
"I see. Spare keys for cleaning. Noted. Lots of improvements," Tristan murmured.
By midmorning, they were outside with twine, old rope, and a suspicious number of empty jars. Marla strung spoons on a cord between two fence posts. When the wind stirred them, they gave a faint clink… clink… clink…
"It sounds like the fence is politely applauding," Tristan said.
"That's because no one's trying to break in yet. Here…" She tugged the cord sharply. The spoons clattered together with a harsh clang… clang… clang.
"See? That will wake you."
"Will it wake you? You're a heavy sleeper," Tristan teased.
A familiar voice called from the road. "What's all this racket?"
Old Man Havers from two plots over leaned on his walking stick.
"Security upgrade," Tristan said. "If anyone even looks at the fence the wrong way, it'll sing about it."
Havers squinted. "Back in my day, we used geese. Mean creatures. Bite harder than a dog."
"That's actually… not a bad idea," Tristan murmured.
By noon, they'd rigged tin cans filled with pebbles on tripwires. Marla demonstrated by "accidentally" tripping one, sending the can into a fit of rattle… rattle… rattle.
Tristan laughed. "That won't scare an intruder. But it might annoy them enough to leave."
"You're building traps now?" Mrs. Penn, another neighbor, walked up with a basket in hand.
"Alarms," Tristan corrected.
She set the basket on a fence post. "Well, if you want alarms, borrow my geese for the night. Put their cage close to the front door. They'll honk at anything that moves. Just give them water and feed."
Marla smirked. "Sounds perfect. The more noise the better."
Inside, they set about the doors and windows. Tristan balanced a small clay jar of dried beans on the back door's frame, then stepped back to test it.
Marla frowned. "If you open the door from inside, you're the one getting beaned."
"I'll remember to open it slowly," Tristan said.
On the first try, he pushed the door and the jar tumbled, beans scattering across the floor.
"You'll be the first casualty of your own alarm!" Marla wheezed with laughter.
By the time the sun dipped low, their list of defenses included:
Spoons and mugs strung along the fence
Rattle cans tied to tripwires
Loose gravel spread near the gate for extra crunch
A jar-and-beans trap at the back door
And, thanks to Mrs. Penn, two very displeased geese sulking in a pen by the porch
One goose honked every time Marla walked past.
"I think it likes you," Tristan said.
"That's not liking. That's plotting," she retorted.
When all was set, Tristan leaned on the fence and looked toward the treeline. It was quiet. Too quiet.
If the Steward or his men were out there, these alarms wouldn't stop them. But at least they'd give warning.
Marla joined him, wiping her hands on her apron. "Think this will do?"
"It's a good start," Tristan said.
From somewhere near the porch, one of the geese honked.
"See?" Marla said. "Already working."
That night, the cottage was still. The lantern in the front window burned low. Tristan lay in bed, listening to the steady trickle of the stream and the occasional honk from the geese.
Then—clang! clang! Clang!
The spoons on the north fence clashed together in a sudden burst, followed by the rattle… rattle… rattle of a tin can tripwire. The geese shrieked, wings flapping against the pen.
Tristan seized a lamp and met Marla at the porch.
"What happened?" she whispered.
"An alarm," Tristan said grimly.
They stepped onto the porch. The geese were still flapping. The spoons clinked once more, softer now, as if whatever set them off had already moved away.
Tristan scanned the treeline. No movement. No figure. Just the rustle of leaves.
Marla held her breath. "Do you see anything?"
"No," Tristan said quietly. "But someone was here."
They waited, hearts pounding, but no further sound came. Tristan checked the tripwire. The can still swayed faintly, proof it had been disturbed.
"Close," he murmured. "Too close."
Back inside, Marla poured tea into two mugs, her hands steady only through sheer will. "You'll tell Shannon?"
"Yes," Tristan said. "First thing in the morning."
They spoke no more. The cottage remained silent the rest of the night, but neither of them truly slept. Sleep was hard to come by once you knew the alarms had been tested.