Clockwork Angels: The Novel Read Online Free

and precious, yet too delicate ever to be taken out and handled. Even though Owen knew she was dead, in fanciful moments, he preferred to imagine that she had merely faked her fever so she could leave the sleepy farming town and go off to explore the wide world. “On my way at last!” He imagined her adventuring even now, and one day she would come back from Crown City or distant Atlantis, filled with amazing stories and bringing exotic gifts. He could always hold out hope. . . .
    His father sniffled, muttered, “All is for the best,” then topped off the fresh-squeezed cider in the half-barrel. He hammered the lid into place with a mallet.
    While Anton completed a few unnecessary tasks around the cider house, Owen seated himself near one of the small windows, which provided enough light to read. Before the Stability was a compact volume full of nightmares, and the young man grew more and more disturbed as he turned the pages.
    The world had been a horrific place more than a century ago, before the Watchmaker came: villages were burned, brigands attacked unprotected families, children starved, women were raped. Thievery ran rampant, plagues wiped out whole populations, and isolated survivors degenerated into cannibals. He read the stark accounts with wide eyes, anxious to reach the end of the book, because he knew that Albion would be saved, since everyone was now happy and content.
    He skipped ahead to the final page, relieved and reassured to read, “And Barrel Arbor is a perfect example of what the Stability has brought. The best village in the best of all possible worlds, where every person knows his place and is content.” Owen smiled in wonderment, glad to know that, despite his daydreaming, his situation here could not be better.
    His father didn’t ask him about the book. They shared an early supper of crisp apples (naturally), cheese from the widow Loomis, bread and a slice of fresh apple pie from Mr. Oliveira, the baker. The Hardys provided him with all the apples he needed, and in return they received regular supplies of apple pie, apple tarts, apple muffins, apple strudel, and whatever else Mr. Oliveira could think of.
    The two didn’t have much to talk about—they rarely did. Attuned to each other and attuned to the day, Owen and his father looked at their pocketwatches at the same time. They had finished the scheduled work and were satisfied by their casual meal. Afterward, Anton Hardy had his evening routine, and Owen tagged along. They headed for the Tick Tock Tavern.

    In a small village, the most efficient way to hear the news was to listen to gossip, and the best place to get gossip was in the tavern. Anton Hardy sat back in his usual wooden chair, drinking a pint of hard cider, while Owen sat beside him with a mug of fresh cider. Others preferred intoxicating mead made from the Huangs’ honey, harvested from the town apiary that followed the standard design distributed by the Watchmaker’s own beekeepers.
    When Owen turned seventeen, he would switch to drinking hard cider, because that was expected from an adult. (In truth, he had already sneaked a few tastes of hard cider, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He suspected his father knew, but hadn’t said anything.
    As the tavern customers settled in to their routine, Lavinia’s father came in with his stack of typed reports and announcements, which were delivered by resonant alchemical signal to the newsgraph office. Mr. Paquette—a man who took great pride in his lavish sideburns—held a yellowish sheet of pulp paper up to the lamp of coldfire light and squinted down at the uneven typewritten letters. Conversation quieted in the Tick Tock Tavern as Mr. Paquette drew out the suspense.
    He adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and spoke in a voice that carried great importance. “The weather alchemists announce that this afternoon’s rainshower is to be delayed by seven minutes, in order for the moisture-distribution systems to run