Clockwork Angels: The Novel Read Online Free Page B

looking at the well-thumbed volumes he had taken down from the high shelf. Reading Before the Stability that afternoon had disturbed him, but several publications were dear to his heart, the picture books he had loved as a child: beautiful hardbound volumes with tipped-in chronotypes, color plates specially treated with a reactive alchemical gloss that gave the reader a giddy feeling of looking into the image.
    First, he paged through the picture book of Crown City, dwelling on the poignant chronotype of the Angels, the most famous symbol of the Watchmaker’s ordered world. Four graceful female figures installed in Chronos Square, looming high above the crowds—symbolic, yet utterly perfect, divine machines who spread their wings to dispense grace on humanity. Though he could barely remember his mother, Owen was sure that each of the four Clockwork Angels must have been molded with her face.
    The second volume was even more inspiring, though none of it was real. Legends of sea monsters and mythical beasts, centaurs, griffins, dragons, basilisks . . . and imaginary places far from Albion, including the wondrous Seven Cities of Gold, collectively called Cíbola. These volumes were so old that they had been printed before the Stability; after reading about the chaotic times in the pedlar’s book, he considered it a wonder that any publication had survived that turmoil.
    Owen was so intent on the book that he didn’t notice his father standing behind him. Anton Hardy had never forbidden his son from looking at the books, but neither had he approved of the young man’s fascination.
    Startled, Owen tried to close the cover, but his father reached out to stop him. In the vivid chronotype on the page, sunlight gleamed through an exotic rock formation in the Redrock Desert. Together, the two stared down at the fanciful pristine towers of intricate stone, the amazing architecture of the Seven Cities of Gold.
    “These were your mother’s books. And I miss her too.” Anton Hardy held his hand on the page for a long moment, staring down, but no longer seeming to see the illustration. “I miss her too,” he said again in a faint voice, barely a whisper. “Ah, Hanneke . . .” Owen had never heard such emotion in his father’s voice before.
    The emotion was gone as quickly as it came. “Soon enough, it’ll be time to put away these books for good, lock away that part of the past. The Watchmaker says we can’t make time stand still. Don’t look back, but take the time to look around you now.”
    “But it’s all we have left of Mother—these books and our memories.”
    “You have to look forward,” Anton said. “Once you become an adult, the Watchmaker has expectations. You must put all this foolishness behind you.”
    Owen closed the book but kept it on his lap. In his quiet, ordered world, he’d never been allowed any “foolishness” in the first place.
    His father turned the coldfire lanterns down to a comforting glow. “Time to wind the clocks.” Before getting ready for bed, the two went through their ritual. Owen turned the key in the mantle clock and wound the spring; his father did the same with the kitchen clock. Owen hung the counterweight and sent the pendulum swinging in the main grandfather clock. They went from clock to clock, shelf to shelf, room to room. As a final check, Owen poked his head outside and looked at Barrel Arbor’s main clocktower to verify that the time was accurate and every tick was right in the Watchmaker’s world.
    Every night, this was time he and his father spent together, but because they took such care to maintain the clocks, they didn’t actually spend the time at all: they saved it. Not one second was allowed to slip away.
    When they were done and his father was satisfied, he bade Owen goodnight. “I’ll stay up just a little longer,” Owen said. He usually did.
    Saddened by the reminder of his lost wife, his father didn’t object to letting Owen look at the picture