An original fiction passage set in the nineteenth century.

Clara left the baker's shop as the market was folding itself away. Stallholders called their final prices, cartwheels rattled over the cobbles and a church bell sounded above the roofs. Among these noises, she noticed an uneven pair of footsteps behind her: tap, scrape; tap, scrape. She pictured one of the market porters carrying home an empty basket and continued towards King Street.

The footsteps entered King Street too. Clara paused before the stationer's bright window, pretending to examine the rows of pens. The footsteps stopped. When she moved, they moved. She crossed beside a waiting cab; after a moment, the same tap and scrape followed her across.

Chapel Lane had always meant that she was nearly home. Tonight, it seemed to have shrunk. Its shuttered windows were blank, and each street lamp cast a weak pool of light with darkness between. In the black glass of the cabinet-maker's window, Clara saw the reflection of a tall man in the dented hat she had noticed outside the bakery. No porter would have followed her crooked route. No accident, then.

Clara walked faster. Tap, scrape. Faster. Tap, scrape. Ahead, a chemist was turning the sign on his open door. She called to him, and he stepped into the lane. The footsteps halted. When Clara looked back, the pavement was empty. Only the loaf, crushed almost flat beneath her arm, showed how tightly she had held it.