The Time of the Clockmaker (16 page)

The clockmaker took his time opening the door to the back room. He would raise his hand and touch the handle, only to bring it down and start again, as if he didn't have the strength to grasp the handle. When he finally opened it, the room was
everything the front room was not.

This room was warm and well lit. There was a kettle brewing over a roaring fire in the corner and an abundance of seats and candles. A small girl with strawberry hair sat in one of the chairs, swinging her legs an inch above the ground.

“Oh, you're finally here. Good,” she said with a smile. But she looked at us instead of the clockmaker when she was speaking.

It was the strangest thing she could have said. I felt Richard shiver beside me, and I instinctively reached out for him.

The girl hopped down from the chair and walked toward us. “Do you have something that needs to be fixed? Or are you here to place a new order?”

I noticed that the girl's voice sounded much older than she looked. She spoke like a miniature adult.

“Um, no. We have something that needs to be fixed.” I decided to wait to ask them about the clock I was actually looking for.

I showed her the countess's clock, which she examined; then she mumbled, “Oh, yes. Didn't you make this one?” She didn't look to the clockmaker for affirmation.

“So can you fix it?” Richard stood slightly behind me, but I could feel his tense posture.

“Of course he can,” the girl answered.

The clockmaker had taken a seat in front of the kettle in the meantime, and seemed to not be listening to the conversation behind him.

“How long do you think it will take?” I asked. Though the countess had said that she would ask Joan to throw the clock
away, I didn't want her to be without it for so long.

I suppose I knew what it felt like to have only one thing left from the man you loved. Sometimes having a physical object to see and touch is the only thing that can assure you that your bond was more than just a memory.

My hand felt for the silver ring I normally wore on my ring finger, but of course it wasn't there anymore with this time traveling—I already knew that. I missed it, but I knew I didn't need it now that Henley was with me again. I was lucky to have Henley—or at least some of Henley—come back to me. Others weren't so lucky.

“We can deliver it back to you in about two days.”

“No.” I didn't want the countess to find out that I had gone through that much trouble to fix the clock. It was best that I just put it back on the table, fixed. “I can come here to pick it up.”

The girl looked at me hard but didn't say a word.

“Do you make all the clocks here at court?” My question was directed toward the clockmaker's turned back, but it was answered by the strawberry-haired girl.

“Yes, he practically does. Most all of them.”

“And I suppose he remembers most of what he's made,” I said, remembering how he had reacted when I described the clock.

“Yes, he does. That's what a true artisan does.”

I smiled at how serious the girl was being with me. She wasn't more than a child. Her lips stuck out at me like two overlapping petals.

“So then, do you suppose he could recognize a clock he made and tell me who requested it to be made? Or, if it wasn't
his, tell me which other clockmaker made it?”

“One of his rivals, you mean? Of course. He knows all their techniques, though they don't compare.”

Richard looked at me and I could tell he was lost. But this wasn't about him.

“Do you have a quill and some parchment?”

The girl produced some from one of the shelves, and I leaned down against the corner of the small table near the center of the room.

The table had miscellaneous clockwork parts scattered about, so I was careful not to disrupt any of them. As I leaned down onto it to draw my picture, I found that the table was horribly rickety. I wondered how on earth the clockmaker could do his work on such a table.

The quill made scratching sounds on the page. The lines I drew broke in multiple places in my drawing, but that was the best I could do not knowing exactly how to use a quill. What should have been the long curves of the clock turned out as short, choppy dashes.

“There,” I said, straightening up.

The point of the quill had leaked some ink onto the page, but I felt, if you squinted, the drawing was a moderately good likeness of the golden clock that once, not too long ago, had hung in the hall across from Miss Hatfield's kitchen.

I held it up. “Do you know who asked for this one to be made?”

I looked from the girl to the old man, but neither seemed to react to my question at first.

“What a strange thing,” the girl said. She came closer to
examine the drawing. “I can barely call it a clock with those strange markings and extra hands.”

She pointed to the extra markings that should have been seconds, but were in fact measuring years, and the hands that measured the days and months. The clock didn't work like an ordinary clock at all, but she didn't have to know that.

“I've never seen extra hands on a clock,” she muttered.

Of course. I realized the clocks of this time weren't precise enough to measure minutes, and they certainly weren't able to measure seconds. I remembered that even the countess's clock had only an hour hand on it.

“Does it look familiar?” I tried again.

“I-I've never seen anything like it.” She breathed. “Come, Grandpapa. Come take a look at this. It's remarkable!”

The old man turned, still showing no signs of being in a hurry, and shuffled over to us. He stretched out a single hand with gnarled fingers, and the girl placed the drawing into his claw.

“This . . . It's not even a clock,” he scoffed.

“Oh, but it is in a way, you see. It should have all the same mechanics as a regular clock.” I didn't know if what I was saying was in fact true. If it did have all the same mechanics as a regular clock, shouldn't regular clocks be able to time travel too? “Just tell me, who has it? Where is it?”

“I'm afraid I do not know. I've never seen it in my life.”

I felt stricken. “Maybe another clockmaker made it?”

“My grandpapa is the only clockmaker in court. There are other clockmakers in town, but no one with handiwork as fine as him. Certainly no one who can do this.”

“Are you sure you haven't seen it before?” I asked the old man. “You must have made hundreds of clocks. Surely—”

“No,” he said. “I don't forget a single one I make.”

“He doesn't forget a
single
one,” the girl repeated. “But—” The girl stopped herself, and I craned my neck forward.

“But?”

“You see this design around the face? That's a pattern Grandpapa would do . . .”

“So he has made it?”

“No.” This time it was the clockmaker himself who answered. “I've never seen that clock.”

“Grandpapa, I really hope no one's stealing your designs.” The girl turned toward me and Richard. “Where did you get this?”

I had to think fast. “A friend,” I blurted. “I saw it and just thought it was pretty . . . That's all.”

I watched the girl as she studied the drawing, bringing it close to her eyes, then back again. Then I had an idea.

“Could I commission a clock?” I asked.

“What did you have in mind?”

I figured it was worth a shot. I pointed to the drawing I had made. “A clock exactly like this one here.”

The clockmaker's head came up at this. “For you?”

“Yes, for me.”

It was a long shot, but for now at least, it was the only chance I had.

SIXTEEN

I SAT UPRIGHT
in my chair, pushing the food around on my plate. I knew the countess would have minded my manners—or more accurately, would have
hated
my manners—but I didn't care. Since I was taking breakfast in my room, it was just me this morning. . . . Well, me and Henley.

You're making me antsy just looking at you.

“Then look away. Besides, don't you get ‘nervous' but never ‘antsy'?”

It's spending all this time around you. It's making me adopt your young vocabulary.

His comment would have made me laugh at any other time. But I didn't respond, and Henley seemed to notice that too.

What's eating you?

Henley using such a modern phrase as “what's eating you?” would have normally elicited at least a smile, but not today.

“I don't know,” I said. I stared into the food on my plate as
if it would give me an answer. “It's just that . . . you'd think there would be more.”

More?

“More to go on. More that I could do. More everything. I've been here now for more than two weeks and it seems like nothing has progressed. I feel like I'm right where I started.”

You know that's not true. Lots of things have happened.

“Between dinner parties and a near-death experience, nothing important. Nothing I— we could use.”

We've figured out a lot due to that smothering incident.

“That
almost
smothering incident,” I corrected.

We realized that whoever's after you must be an immortal.

“Sure. But that's it. That doesn't tell us much. I don't even know how this person got to be immortal. They can't be one of the Miss Hatfields. They're all dead, and as dead immortals, they don't exist in any time anymore.”

I only know as much as you do, but I wouldn't rule anything out quite yet.

“What? Like Miss Hatfield back from the dead, even though I saw her killed with my own eyes?”

Henley ignored me.
You're just in one of your moods, that's all.

“I think anyone who was stuck in 1527, aware that they have the quite probable possibility of going literally raving insane if stuck in one time period too long, would be in one of these so-called moods that you're talking about.”

I think you're the only one in this world who's in that specific predicament.

I caught my breath. “Me . . . and maybe, just maybe, one
other person.”

The killer?

“It would make sense. I'm immortal. He's immortal. I can travel through time. He can travel through time. I have—or rather
had
—the clock, so he must have something like that, something that can control time and allows him to time travel. I came to this time because the tussle in the hotel room ended up turning the clock. The killer probably came with me because of the fight, but something had to have brought him to the twenty-first century to murder Miss Hatfield in the first place. He has to have a clock of his own.”

That does make logical sense, but when did this ever make logical sense? I don't think you should be fixated on that idea. It's a good theory, but it's only a theory.

“You're right. But it does show me that I really do need to find . . . or make . . . the clock.”

You're worried that it hasn't been invented yet?

“It's a definite possibility. Fifteen twenty-seven is as far back as the clock goes.”

In that case, I hope it's invented quickly.

“I wonder how he does it.”

How the clockmaker makes a time-traveling device instead of an ordinary clock? I suppose that works in the same way as the waters of Islamorada turning you and my mother immortal. It might be chemicals or some other scientific phenomenon. Maybe it's completely the opposite and can't be explained at all. But whichever it is, it happens and that's our reality.

I wished it weren't, but I didn't say that aloud. I wondered if Henley would have ever freely chosen this new existence of his.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting my train of thought. Joan peeped her head through.

“My lady, I wanted to notify you that the dressmaker has just sent your wardrobe. The countess insisted they were made quickly. I could bring them in later, if you would like.”

“That would be fine, Joan,” I said, but she didn't disappear. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes, my lady. The countess has asked if you would accompany her to chapel.”

“Not this time, Joan,” I said. “Could you tell her I have a bit of a headache?”

“Should I send for a physician?” Joan genuinely looked concerned.

“I'm fine. I think I'll just lie down this morning.” I moved to the bed.

I wanted to be alone. Of course, that was impossible with Henley always hanging around in his ghostlike state. It was like being watched at every moment, and I had to admit that set me on edge at times, but compared with the deep pain I felt in my chest when I had thought I would never see him again . . . Well, anything would be better than that.

You know . . . ,
Henley started.

I laughed. “No, I don't know. Unless you tell me, that is.”

But Henley's voice remained serious.
I couldn't help but notice recently . . .

“Henley, spit it out already.”

You've changed.

His words lingered, as we both stopped to think about what he had just said.

“I've changed?” I tried to muster up a laugh, but nothing came out. “You do realize immortals can't change or age. At least, that's what Miss Hatfield said.”

You know that's not what I mean.

I did know what he meant, but I couldn't admit it. Not to Henley. Not out loud. Perhaps not even to myself. No, admitting it would make it real.

I'm here for you. I'm always here. And yet . . . you don't confide in me anymore. And my God, that hurts, Rebecca.

I didn't want to see it, but I felt it too.

It used to be you and me together. But now, you treat me as some sort of “other.” As part of the outside world you're trying to keep away.

A tear made its way down my cheek before I could stop it. “It's different now.”

It doesn't have to be.

“Miss Hatfield's dead. There isn't anyone else—”

And what about me?

“Anyone completely immortal, I mean. I don't have anyone who's going through what I'm going through anymore. You're here, but I'm the one people see. I'm the one who needs to blend in but still act. I'm sorry, I'm just trying to find my own way through all this mess.”

There was a pause, and I sat down to steady myself.

What am I to you, Rebecca?

“What do you mean? You know I love you more than anything.”

Henley's voice was faint, but I still heard it.
Sometimes it feels like you've forgotten me.

There was another knock at the door.

“Come in.” Even my voice sounded tired.

“I'm sorry to bother you again, my lady.” It was Joan, and she walked in with a vase of pink flowers. “Only, I just received these flowers, and I thought they might put you in better cheer. They're for you, of course. Peonies. I didn't even know they were in season. It seems like an awfully nice gift. Where would you like them, my lady?”

“How about over there on the bedside table?” I pointed to my left.

“Very well, my lady. I'll be off to the chapel now.” Joan put the flowers down and excused herself.

It did seem like an awfully nice gift, and for a moment, I wondered if it was from Sir Gordon or one of the older men I had met at one of the suppers. After hearing of my father's—or rather Lady Shelton's father's—sizable fur trade in Lithuania, they all suddenly took an interest in me, my thoughts on mink-trimmed cloaks, and of course, in introducing me to their sons.

I climbed out of bed to see if there was a card.

So that's what it takes to get you to smile?

I hadn't realized that I was smiling until Henley pointed it out.

You're not being fair to him.

I put the card down. “In what way?”

He's falling in love with you.

I laughed. “He's just being nice,” I said. “You should know the difference.”

I do know the difference. And this isn't just nice. You're leading him on.

“In what way? I talk to him like I talk to the countess or Lord Empson.”

I don't know if you actually believe that.

I thought I felt Henley's breath in my ear, but I shook myself out of it. It had to be a breeze.

“Believe what?”

You're blind. And this is dangerous.

“Do you hear yourself? Richard's as harmless as can be. You're jealous and trying to dig up something where there clearly isn't anything to be found.”

If you think “harmless” is having scratches on his arm the morning after someone tries to smother you with a pillow, then yes, maybe he is harmless. Those were definitely from a struggle. That's hard evidence.

I remembered noticing that, but Henley couldn't be right. Richard wouldn't—couldn't—do something like that. “That wasn't him.”

Oh, really?
Henley scoffed.
And you would know what's “him” and what's not “him” after knowing him for only a couple of weeks?

I hadn't realized I had said that out loud. “Richard's not as bad as you think. He's lost and floundering at times. He's like me. I don't know why you think he's evil, and if he is, why are you worried that I'm leading him on?”

So that's what you think?

I sat down at the edge of my bed. We were both breathing heavily, but only one of our chests heaved. With the countess and Joan at the chapel, there was nothing stopping us from yelling.

You think that I'm just making this up because I'm petty and jealous? You saw his arm too! I can't believe you're ignoring the proof right in front of you!

“And I can't believe that you're letting your jealousy cloud your judgment. He said it was a cat!”

A cat? Well, that's convenient. Do you know how improbable that is? Have you ever even seen him with a cat? Besides, those scratches were too deep to be from a cat.

“No, but that doesn't mean there isn't a cat. This is court. There must be loads of cats here!” I felt my cheeks go red with all of the shouting. “What I don't understand is why you have to paint him as the villain.”

Because he is!

“You're just insecure. You're without a body, without control, and completely reeling.”

Oh, are you calling me insane now?

“Sometimes, I just—”

His voice dropped low.
You just what?

“Sometimes I feel like I don't know you anymore.”

Well, for once, that makes two of us.

I was shocked: at the argument, at Henley, at the situation. I couldn't process it. I couldn't think. It was all absurd, and I couldn't deal with it right now.

I didn't want to sit in silence with Henley perpetually looking over me, but I didn't want to venture out of my room for fear
of running into Richard, which would only make things worse between me and Henley. Though Richard always made me feel better, this really wasn't the time.

I tried to look busy, and rummaged through the drawers of the bedside table. They were all empty, save for a few scraps of paper. The top drawer had a rosary in it.

I took it out and began to run my fingers over it. The beads were a dark red like garnets, each one smoothed with what looked like years of use. Maybe it was the countess's. I could see my face reflected upside down in each bead. Straightening it out, I began to roll each bead through my fingers. I must have looked like I was praying.

In reality, my head was still racing. So many thoughts ran across the map of my mind that they blurred together, and I could not distinguish one from the other long enough to make sense of any of them. Instead, I forced my eyes down and willed my fingers to continue moving. The rosary beads were a buffer between me, Henley, and the world.

Henley could see everything, even past the veil of time, into the past and future. However, he couldn't see into my mind, and for that I had never been more thankful. It was the last place I could retreat back to. The last place that was really mine, and mine alone.

And so I sat there, and pretended to pray, gripping the rosary tight in my hand. I had to do something—anything other than hearing Henley's words in my head, continuously reverberating in my thoughts. I must have sat there in that same position for hours, because the next thing I knew, Joan was at the door again, asking this time if I felt well enough for supper in the
great hall, or if I wanted her to bring up some food to my room. Figuring that I had to come out of my room sometime, I had her come in.