Legacy of the Clockwork Key Read Online Free
Author: Kristin Bailey
from the tinker?”
He turned his back and strode to the far end of the carriage house, carrying the light with him.
“Arrogant bastard.” The vile curse fell too comfortably from my lips as I watched him go.
• • •
I managed to get back to the house without arousing any suspicions, then set about my chores with extra vigor. As I unmade the bed again, I poured my frustration into the simple act of yanking the linens out of place.
One thing. I only wanted this one thing. Surely, it was a simple enough task to repair a watch. But no.
I pulled it out and examined the tarnished silver.
What would it have cost him to take a look?
Nothing.
The knowledge that he was my age only made it worse. I had gone for six months feeling all alone in the world, and not fifty feet from the steps was another person I could have talked to, could have become friends with.
If he weren’t such a toad.
He was a fellow prisoner of this madhouse. Why didn’t he understand?
I tucked the watch back in its place and sat on the bed.
The house was so silent.
He had the horses, living, breathing things to care for. I had an unmade bed, a spilled cup of tea, and a broken watch.
Feeling the heat of my ire in my cheeks, I had to stop thinking of him. I had to go back to the pointless drudgery of my existence. If only I could return to the way it was before, when I didn’t know who the groom was.
That night I sat alone in the kitchen watching the fire slowly die on the charred stone of the hearth. I took out the watch once again and let it spin in the dim light of the fire.
Could I repair it? I had spent hours as a child watching my father work with his delicate instruments. He had such remarkable hands. Unbidden, the sight of his blackened hand in the ash came to mind. I shook my head, but my eyes suddenly stung.
He had made the most amazing things with those hands and his simple tools, but he had forbidden me from touching anything in his shop. As a child, I had a tendency to use his tools to take things apart, yet never managed to set them right again. It drove my father to fits. I couldn’t bear the thought ofdismantling the watch in my attempt to repair it, and having it in pieces.
I rubbed my thumb over the tarnish. I could clean it.
My heart pounded even as I thought about polishing the watch. Cleaning the watch wouldn’t undo the destruction of my life. It couldn’t be undone.
Of course it couldn’t be undone. That didn’t mean the watch had to remain as I had found it. It could be beautiful, even if it never worked again. I could do that. I could change that.
My hesitation seemed silly. I was clinging to something that barely made sense to me anymore. I needed to change something. I could change this.
No, it would not bring my parents back. No, it would not make me feel as if things had returned to the way they had been.
But I knew in my heart it was time to move forward.
I took the cloth I used to polish the cutlery and rubbed the watch.
A glint of silver shone through. It caught the light of the fire and gleamed as if it were alive. Dark ash clung to the grooves of the etchings, painting each line in dramatic black. I took a closer look, compelled. The etchings almost looked like an ornate compass rose with four sharp points for each direction and a second set of smaller points between.
I held it firmly in my hand, vigorously rubbing the life back into it. The silver grew warm in my palm, as if it belonged there.
It was no longer my father’s watch. It was mine. I would care for it. I would keep it, and I would make it work again.
Turning it over, I began to clean the back. With the first rub of the cloth, I noticed the tiny imprint of my grandfather’s mark. An anchor with two chains, there was no mistaking it. Papa had made this watch.
Swirling lines danced around the outer edge of the watch. In the center a circular design that reminded me of a three-petal flower had been engraved on a raised button of
He turned his back and strode to the far end of the carriage house, carrying the light with him.
“Arrogant bastard.” The vile curse fell too comfortably from my lips as I watched him go.
• • •
I managed to get back to the house without arousing any suspicions, then set about my chores with extra vigor. As I unmade the bed again, I poured my frustration into the simple act of yanking the linens out of place.
One thing. I only wanted this one thing. Surely, it was a simple enough task to repair a watch. But no.
I pulled it out and examined the tarnished silver.
What would it have cost him to take a look?
Nothing.
The knowledge that he was my age only made it worse. I had gone for six months feeling all alone in the world, and not fifty feet from the steps was another person I could have talked to, could have become friends with.
If he weren’t such a toad.
He was a fellow prisoner of this madhouse. Why didn’t he understand?
I tucked the watch back in its place and sat on the bed.
The house was so silent.
He had the horses, living, breathing things to care for. I had an unmade bed, a spilled cup of tea, and a broken watch.
Feeling the heat of my ire in my cheeks, I had to stop thinking of him. I had to go back to the pointless drudgery of my existence. If only I could return to the way it was before, when I didn’t know who the groom was.
That night I sat alone in the kitchen watching the fire slowly die on the charred stone of the hearth. I took out the watch once again and let it spin in the dim light of the fire.
Could I repair it? I had spent hours as a child watching my father work with his delicate instruments. He had such remarkable hands. Unbidden, the sight of his blackened hand in the ash came to mind. I shook my head, but my eyes suddenly stung.
He had made the most amazing things with those hands and his simple tools, but he had forbidden me from touching anything in his shop. As a child, I had a tendency to use his tools to take things apart, yet never managed to set them right again. It drove my father to fits. I couldn’t bear the thought ofdismantling the watch in my attempt to repair it, and having it in pieces.
I rubbed my thumb over the tarnish. I could clean it.
My heart pounded even as I thought about polishing the watch. Cleaning the watch wouldn’t undo the destruction of my life. It couldn’t be undone.
Of course it couldn’t be undone. That didn’t mean the watch had to remain as I had found it. It could be beautiful, even if it never worked again. I could do that. I could change that.
My hesitation seemed silly. I was clinging to something that barely made sense to me anymore. I needed to change something. I could change this.
No, it would not bring my parents back. No, it would not make me feel as if things had returned to the way they had been.
But I knew in my heart it was time to move forward.
I took the cloth I used to polish the cutlery and rubbed the watch.
A glint of silver shone through. It caught the light of the fire and gleamed as if it were alive. Dark ash clung to the grooves of the etchings, painting each line in dramatic black. I took a closer look, compelled. The etchings almost looked like an ornate compass rose with four sharp points for each direction and a second set of smaller points between.
I held it firmly in my hand, vigorously rubbing the life back into it. The silver grew warm in my palm, as if it belonged there.
It was no longer my father’s watch. It was mine. I would care for it. I would keep it, and I would make it work again.
Turning it over, I began to clean the back. With the first rub of the cloth, I noticed the tiny imprint of my grandfather’s mark. An anchor with two chains, there was no mistaking it. Papa had made this watch.
Swirling lines danced around the outer edge of the watch. In the center a circular design that reminded me of a three-petal flower had been engraved on a raised button of
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