A Mysterious Bell Keeper Is Trying to Hold Her Life Together In This Excerpt From What Wakes the Bells

Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. Or, perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the truth often inspires excellent fiction. Such is the case with Elle Tesch’s debut What Wakes the Bells, a story that owes a significant debt to a legend surrounding the largest bell at St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague. Supposedly, if the heart of the bell (which is named Sigismund, weighs 15 tons, and is the biggest of five) is broken, it is a harbinger of great doom for the city. The rules in Tesch’s fictional world are a bit more complicated, but her story is nevertheless unlike almost anything else you’ll see this spring. Set in a sentient city that’s as alive as any of its residents, the story features wildly original worldbuilding, a compelling premise, complex family dynamics, and a heroine that’s easy to root for. 

What Wakes the Bells follows the story of Mina, the latest in a long line of Straus family members charged with keeping Valwyn safe from a great and slumbering evil. Mina, you see, is a Bell Keeper, a guardian of one of the city’s five great Vesper Bells. Each night, she must cut the clappers that grow back on her designated bell to prevent it from ringing: If any of the Vespers toll 13 times, the evil will be freed and the city will find itself in dire peril. But when a rare night with the boy she’s falling in love with keeps her from her duty, terror is unleashed upon the land. And Mira may be the only thing that can save it. 

Here’s how the publisher describes the story.

Built by long-gone Saints, the city of Vaiwyn lives and breathes and bleeds. As a Keeper, Mina knows better than most what her care of Vaiwyn’s bells means for the sentient city. It’s the Strauss family’s thousand-year legacy—prevent the Vespers from ringing, or they will awake a slumbering evil.

One afternoon, to Mina’s horror, her bell peals thirteen times, shattering the city’s tenuous peace. With so much of the city’s history and lore lost in a long-ago disaster, no one knows the danger that has been unleashed—until the city begins to fight back. As the sun sets, stone gargoyles and bronze statues tear away from their buildings and plinths to hunt people through the streets. Trapped in Mina’s bell, the soul of a twisted and power-hungry Saint festered. Now free of his prison, he hides behind the face of one of Vaiwyn’s citizens, corrupting the city and turning it on itself.

As the death toll rises, the only chance Mina has to stop the destruction and horrific killings is finding and destroying the Saint’s host. Everyone is a suspect, including Mina’s closest loved ones. She will have to decide how far she’ll go to save her city—and who she’s willing to kill to do it.

What Wakes the Bells will be released on March 11, but we’ve got an exclusive first look at the book’s second chapter right now. 

Two

Imogen Strauss has never deigned to notice how hearing my full name makes my lip curl. And why would she start now?

“I trust you are well,” she says tightly. While grease from her work in Buchari University’s bell tower stains her clasped hands, her neatly pinned hair shines a resilient gold.

“Yes, thank you. How are—”

“And your studies?”

“Erm . . . they’re all right.” When the fine lines around her mouth deepen, I rush to add, 

“Councillor Tamzin is pleased with my progress.”

The solid weight of the watch inside my pocket barely steadies me as a vile sense of incompetency floods my gut. 

To be a Bell Keeper is to possess not one role, but two—­ and despite my best efforts, I’m woefully unprepared for the second.

The textbook waiting in my belfry haunts me even from here. No good can come from a book that large, yet if I’m also to fill the position of Council Speaker in the next year, I need to commit its every line on administrative appeals to memory.

And I will. I’ll choke down every bit of legal jargon if it means proving myself to Mother.

A funny grunt sounds in her throat, but she says nothing more. I suppress the shrill laugh balanced on my tongue. Our first conversation in almost a month, and it’s already over.

My foot taps as the silence builds, deafening with the possibilities of what we could both say. I should probably be grateful she didn’t push; I don’t need another reminder of how I fail to meet her expectations. No more than she wants to hear how I think she’s wrong and bitter. After our last talk resulted in a smashed vase, I have no wish to relive that argument.

An all-­too-familiar wave of sadness washes over me that this is what we’ve withered to. Our once-­ loving relationship fatally wounded by my father’s death and buried in her constant disapproval over how I became a Bell Keeper.

Like everything else in her eyes, I did it wrong.

Before I came squalling into this world, the Vesper Bell I would oversee was chosen for me. My elder sister was set on the Courts, shadowing my uncle; my brother would take over for my great-­ aunt at the Cathedral. Mother had claimed the University for over ten years as the matriarch Keeper, and after an apprenticeship nearly as long under my grandfather, Lyndell Hall became Father’s. All that remained for me was Farvald Bank once Grandmother passed.

Every Strauss begins their training at age sixteen. Not only do we learn how to maintain our respective belfries and their clocks, but we prepare for the professions that wait below. Positions not meant to elevate, but that allow us to serve the public and our city as lawyer, deacon, librarian, Council Speaker, and accountant.

At first, I put every effort into my education. But, lacking any affection for numbers or Grandmother, I often found myself where I felt most at home. And Father was only too happy to have me as his shadow.

Plenty of time for Mina to learn about dusty money later, he always assured Mother when she seethed over me missing yet another lesson. The bells are half her training anyway—­ it works just the same at Lyndell Hall as it does the Bank.

Lyndell Hall was never meant to be mine, just like Grandmother and Father weren’t meant to die. But eight months have waned since tragedy struck our family like lightning to the same spire. Once was unfortunate; the second, wholly unfair. 

The matter of succession was settled before either body lay cold. The Heralds waited for no one, and neither did Mother. Emiko, a woman the same age as my sister who’d worked with Grandmother for years as I had not, was the natural choice to step in at the Bank.  She’s not family, but nor is she the first to fill an untimely void left by a Strauss either. On the other hand, Father hadn’t taken on an apprentice yet, which left only one person anywhere near qualified to take his place. Me.

A loud bang erupts from behind the velvet curtain across the shop’s back wall, then a clatter of jars. Mother looks toward the commotion, offering me a view of her profile. It’s an almost perfect match to the portrait hanging in the Strauss family home. Her painted cheeks hold a youthful warmth, her grey eyes glittering with light. 

I consider that artist to be the greatest liar of their craft, for nothing akin to warmth or light pours from Imogen Strauss whenever her gaze now lands on me.

My vision blurs as I’m gripped by a terrible ache. It’s a stubborn creature, this grief. A monster trapped deep inside that never seems to go away. I’d barely registered the news that my father was gone before Mother ordered me into that belfry to prepare for the afternoon Herald alone.

Little did I know I’d lost two parents that day.

Mother fed her usual maternal criticism a steady diet of misery until it matured into what I can only describe as true contempt. For every task she thinks I can’t rise to, I spitefully double my efforts just to prove her wrong. Yet she refuses to recognize the work I put in, focusing instead on my mistakes. Never acknowledging the long hours I study under Councillor Tamzin’s guidance, how I toil to absorb every damn bylaw, regulation, and policy—­ all so I can fully accept the roles thrust upon me.

None of us wanted what unfolded, and all I ask for is recognition. Just the smallest ounce of pride in me trying to be enough for her, for my family and our legacy.

And I don’t understand why it’s so impossible.

The curtain is batted aside, and the Dahlia’s herbalist emerges. A large wooden crate weighs down her arms. In a rough and gritty voice, Vanya says without an ounce of surprise, “Mina. Good.”

Brisk as ever, Vanya gives the impression that everything she does is on purpose. I wince as the corner of the rattling box crashes into the wall, taking a chunk out of the plaster, but the herbalist doesn’t even blink; she’s already set the crate down and moved on. Not that the damage lasts—­ within seconds, Vaiwyn has sealed the hole, floral wallpaper and all.

Vanya slams a round tin down on the scarred and scorched counter. To my mother, she says, “I grew a new strain of arnica, so this salve is stronger than what you’re used to.”

“But does it work?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t insult me, Imogen.”

After an exchange of coins and a few hushed words, Mother turns to leave, the salve for her joint pain tucked inside her satchel. I brace myself. She pauses to look down at me, even though we’re the same height. “Will you join us for church service this Sunday?”

The question strikes dead any retort I have, a tiny blossom of hope unfurling in my chest. I haven’t been to Elke Cathedral since our last fight, mainly to avoid her. Still, as much as I dislike her unending search for faults in me, I hate not being on civil terms with the only parent I have left more.

“I suppose I could—” 

“Your sister was asking last night. She hasn’t seen you all month.”

“Oh.” So, not a peace offering at all. Just her attempt to appear the forgiving one in the eyes of my siblings. “Yes, I’ll . . . I’ll come.” 

With a nod and nothing else, Mother departs in a flurry of rose hip oil and the lightest trace of grease. I stare over my shoulder at the place she disappeared behind the shelves, not breathing properly until the chimes above the door ring out.

“What’s this about your heart?”

I turn back. Between two fingers, Vanya holds the message I sent through the stones earlier. Gratitude that she waited until Mother left to bring up my reason for visiting unknots the tension along my spine.

As she begins grinding mustard seeds in a mortar, I lean both elbows on the counter.

“I’m hoping you have something to make this pain go away,” I say.

Never one to dwell in sympathy for her customers’ ailments, Vanya gestures with her chin to my chest. “What’s it like?”

“It’s . . . hard to describe.”

She snorts. “Well, if you want help, you have to try.”

My thoughts return to the pain. All-­ consuming and ravenous, but without a target in mind. It’s just . . . there. Hungry, yet stagnant.

“It comes when I least expect it,” I say, “and burns like a damn fire. For over a week now.”

The pestle cracks against the bowl as Vanya stills. I run my gaze from her honey-­ toned, spidery fingers over rolled sleeves spotted with burns and powder stains. Dimples form in each cheek as she considers me. A linen bandana holds back black hair threaded with grey, but a few short curls have slipped free to frame her forehead.

“When did this last happen?” she asks.

“About thirty minutes ago. Then just before the last Herald. Sometimes it’s once a day, sometimes every few hours. There’s no pattern to it.” When her mouth thins, I lick my lips and add, “It might just be stress, though. Anxiety. Right?”

“It might.”

“But it’s starting to keep me from working, and I have to keep working.” 

Vanya taps a finger smudged with yellow against her nose. For one awful moment I fear I’ve asked the one request she can’t grant, that my mysterious pain is too much to remedy. But then she exhales deeply and resumes grinding. “I can put something together.”

My shoulders slump with relief. “Today?”

“Give me an hour. I need tea first.” Her elbow crooks high at her side as she puts more weight behind the pestle. “And some brandy. I don’t charge enough for this job sometimes.”

Every step upward echoes callously, reminding me I’m alone in Lyndell Hall’s east stairwell. And that suits me fine. After the tumult of the streets, fighting against the rush of workers leaving by the main staircase is more than I can handle right now.

The unexpected encounter with Mother tipped me off my axis in the worst way. My mind fixates on analyzing the gestures I made, every word I spoke. All to find just one that would further lower her opinion of me. It is . . . Saints, it’s exhausting. Hollows my stomach to a gaping cavern. All I want is to curl up in my armchair with a cup of tea and hide from it all.

At half past five, the top-floor offices I pass are empty. Only darkness lurks within. Dusk arrives early to Vaiwyn, no matter the season—­ the mountains swallow any chance at evening light. Each lamp on the wall flares brighter as I near, gilding the dust. It swirls in ribbons around me even as I begin ascending my tower.

After the first landing, though, I stop mid-­ step. Lights are already on in my apartment above. Hand tight on the railing, I listen to the sounds filtering down the stairs—­ muffled footsteps, the clang of a pot, a loud curse. My miserable spirits dissolve.

Only one person visits unannounced these days, and there’s no one else I’d rather be alone with.

I drop my satchel the moment I enter my small quarters, pitch my coat through the door to my unmade bed. When I turn into the main living area, I can’t stifle my affectionate grin. Max stands with his back to me at the stove, focused on whatever he’s cooking.

Or—­ I sniff warily, eyes widening—­ burning.

“If you wanted to surprise me,” I say, rushing behind him to the double window. He startles but doesn’t look up. “There are easier ways than burning down my apartment.”

“Ah, but they aren’t as effective,” he calls over his shoulder, and I glimpse the sheepish flush in his cheeks.

The window swings open once I lift the latch. Max tosses me a dish towel, and I flap it to help clear the smoke. Outside, the overcast sky is washed in a violet that deepens with every passing minute. Still, there’s enough light to make out the stained-­ glass design that has sprouted in the last few days.

Near the sill, several diamond-­ shaped panes have shifted, lead growing between pieces changing color. First green leaves, then a taller stalk, and today the budding white petals of an edelweiss. Tomorrow it should be in full bloom, and it delights me. Vaiwyn manifests new patterns in its windows often, but I’ve never had one of my own before.

“Well, I guess that’s that.”

My attention flits back to Max. The cast iron scrapes as he removes it from the heat. Spatula still clutched in one hand while rubbing the back of his neck, he’s the picture of chagrin as I join him to examine the blackened lumps in the pan.

I tip my head to the side. “What . . . is it?”

“Believe it or not, those were once dumplings.” He turns to face me, a playfulness glinting in his tired brown eyes that makes me breathless. His mouth softens into my favorite crooked smile as a gentle finger tilts my chin up. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Suddenly feeling bold, I reach for him. I grip his nape, nails digging into soft hair just long enough to curl, and kiss him.

My heart, kindled with a new tantalizing heat, pounds as Max drops the spatula in the pan. Sparks fire from his fingertips as they spread under my jaw, press into the freckles that dot my skin. Firm and soft and familiar. His other hand snags my waist. Teeth graze my bottom lip…Not yet.

I pull back. If Max finds my retreat after initiating the kiss confusing, he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong with me. Nor would he—­ he understands me like no one else. As my palm slides down his unbuttoned waistcoat, his own covers it atop his steady and kind heart.

“Hi,” he repeats. His deep voice rumbles through my hand.

“For what it’s worth, I really was trying to surprise you. But then I had an idea for my proposal that I had to write down and got distracted.”

“I appreciate the sentiment—”

“Not that you deserve it.” I frown, taken aback by the unexpected seriousness of Max’s tone. He interrupts my bewildered question to grumble, “You called me Maximillian before.” 

I throw my head back with a loud laugh.

“You mock my pain?” he demands, but his false outrage fades to a smirk.

“I’m sorry. Would it make you feel better to call me Wilhelmina?”

“Absolutely not.” And this time, his affront is genuine. He knows I don’t like it, and it sets starlings alight inside my rib cage.

I withdraw from his grip, but not before wiping my lipstick from his upper lip with a thumb. The cast iron clatters as I move it to the sink. I snort when the dumplings don’t even budge—­ they’re

charred right to the pan. The hot water turns on, the pipes groaning between the walls, but a touch to the faucet tells Vaiwyn I’m not cleaning right now.

“How do you feel about a sandwich?” I ask.

He opens the cupboard above my head to fetch two plates. “Like I’ve never wanted one more.”

As we butter brown bread and slice hard cheese, cut onions and spear herrings from a fresh jar, our elbows constantly brushing, Max shares the latest drama surrounding a proposal he’s working on with Councillor Tamzin. They want to convert an empty building into a new clinic, and the mayor is fighting it—­ if only because he lives two houses down. 

“How Bergen was ever elected, I’ll never understand.” He stabs a little fish with more force than necessary.

I never disagree on that point, but as a still-­venting Max carries our plates to my tattered old couch, all I can think is how content I am. Here, alone with him in my apartment, every worry crumbles away. Whatever bothered me earlier, it doesn’t matter when I’m with someone who won’t judge my every action. If I had burned our dinner, Max would simply look for interesting patterns in the black crisp.

After a few minutes, he asks, “How was your day? Did you get . . . ?” He points to my chest. 

Max is the only person I felt comfortable telling about my heart pain when it first happened, so I’m almost grateful to acknowledge his question with a nod rather than pretending everything is fine.

“Vanya made me something I can mix into my tea.” I raise the last half of my sandwich to my mouth, then lower it, biting my lip instead. “It flared up right at one today.”

His brows lift, immediately grasping the significance. “Did she know what causes it?”

I shrug. “She agrees it’s likely anxiety.” 

“You really do need to relax, Mina.” He nudges my knee with his. Not eager to start this conversation again, I pivot to the only thing. 

I can think of—­ and the last thing I should. “Mother was there. At the Dahlia Wilted.”

Max grimaces. Mouth full, he swallows quickly. “You’re still in one piece, so I’m assuming it went all right?”

“No fragile items were broken.” My nails pick at my bread. “Best-case scenario, really. She asked if I would join her at the Cathedral this week and I said yes.”

I can almost taste my sour regret as I recall how I dared believe that she might have been offering to restore peace between us. Foolish—­ I want something from her that I’ll never get.

“Would it help if I came with you?” Max asks slowly.

“No!” He flinches at my abrupt answer, and part of me collapses Softer, I say, “No, she’ll see you. See us. I can’t risk it—­ not yet.” 

Under the unforgiving weight of her criticism, I lower my plate to my lap. I set it aside, no longer hungry. Max takes my hand in his.  I don’t mind the crumbs prickling between our palms because this touch is something to savor. 

We can’t be together out in the open. Behind locked doors, nothing matters except us, but exposed to the world . . . Max is an unraveling secret. My secret, held tight to my chest in terror that revealing it will turn it to ash beneath my mother’s gaze.

None of my past relationships lasted long. Always too much, too fast for me to feel comfortable, so I never let them take flight. They flirted when I wanted to talk. Wanted intimacy when I needed familiarity first. For years, I thought something was wrong with me. That I was a riddle in desperate need of a hint to solve. 

Then Max arrived in Vaiwyn to work as Councillor Tamzin’s second aide, and I stopped believing such nonsense about myself. Here was a boy who granted me the space, the time that I craved.

My friend when Father was still alive, then something more when I wanted it later. The first person who understood that I needed to ease into each step of our relationship. Even tonight, when I pulled away because we were moving toward what I was not yet comfortable with, he gave me what I needed. He lets me puzzle myself out when no other partner was willing to wait. 

And now, this boy has become a dazzling light to me . . . and I hide him in the shadows. 

I bury my face against his chest. He smells of evergreen cologne and ink and dust and I want to bottle it. “I’m sorry,” I mumble into his waistcoat.

My body jostles as Max places his empty plate on the coffee table, then wraps both arms around me. I burrow deeper into his warmth. 

He presses a kiss to my head, his whisper soft against my hair. “She won’t be like this forever, Mina.” 

I close my eyes, voice shaking. “I know. But at some point—­ some point—­ I have to stop caring what she thinks of me.” 

Silence, then: “Just not yet.” 

I want to cry. “Yeah.” 

The last two seasons spent with Max in secret kept my head above water. The stability he gave me after Father died is the only reason I’ve been able to work and learn the role of Bell Keeper on my own, but I cannot let my mother twist that. I won’t allow her to use Max as ammunition, proving that I distract easy. That I’m too young and unworthy of my post, one slipup away from bringing devastation down upon us all. 

I push upright and try to stealthily wipe away my ridiculous tears. My hand smooths the wrinkles left behind in his shirt without thinking about it. Which amuses me a little, because six months ago I never liked anyone enough to consider holding their hand and now there’s only one person in the world I need to let me cry on them. 

“Anyway, yes, I did get something for my heart, and I should probably take it now.” 

By the time I fetch my satchel and bring it to the kitchen table, Max has stacked the dishes and is rolling up his sleeves to wash them. He notices my shiver and stretches to close the window.

The lamps in the courtyard are all on now, the city’s magic acknowledging the night. As Max steps back, the fiery light glazes the sharply cut planes of his handsome face. It also reveals how much more tired he appears than usual. My brows lower. We both keep abnormal hours, but he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all.

“Is that new neighbor still keeping you awake at night?” 

“Hmm?” He scratches the side of his nose. “Oh, no. I think I’m just stressed about this clinic situation. The weirdest dreams have been waking me up the last few nights.” He chuckles. “Maybe I need some of this, too.” 

He reaches for the pouch of fine powder Vanya prescribed me. “I’ll put the kettle on for you, but it will come at a cost.” 

I freeze before I can deposit it in his hand. “Did you forget whose apartment this is? I’ll make my own damn tea.” 

“Mina.” He snags my sleeve and pulls me closer, that playful gleam returning to his eyes. “I haven’t forgiven you for calling me Maximillian, but I know how you can make it up to me.”

My eyes narrow. “Oh?” 

“Let me win at cards? 

“Absolutely not,” I say, echoing his previous words with a wicked smile.

What Wakes the Bells will be released on March 11, but you can pre-order it now. 

Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB