The Time of the Clockmaker Read Online Free

people in this time are germ obsessed. We need to follow suit. And remember, you can still die of physical harm, which is why I don’t recommend dropping one of those heavy weights on yourself.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I muttered under my breath.
    â€œNow no more talk of this in public.”
    I set up my elliptical and started jogging in silence.
    I wondered how long it would take me to start lying to people so seamlessly. If it wasn’t alarming, I would have been quite impressed by Miss Hatfield’s skill. I guess she had centuries of experience. Maybe I would get that way once I had centuries of experience too.
    Miss Hatfield interrupted my thoughts. “If you’re going to look dazed, at least look sweaty and dazed like you’ve actually done some work.”
    I almost laughed. That was such a typical Miss Hatfield thing to say.
    â€œSometimes I don’t understand you,” she said. “Your strange little smiles . . . It’s like you’re seeing another world behind those eyes.” She sighed.
    I was glad I was as much an enigma to her as she was to me.
    â€œI chose you specifically—to give you this whole otherlife—because I saw something in you that reminded me of myself when I was turned.”
    I was surprised that Miss Hatfield was bringing this up right after she asked me to drop the subject.
    â€œAnd do you regret that now?”
    â€œNo . . . if anything, I see more of myself in you now.”
    â€œI’m not sure immortality is only a gift,” I said.
    â€œKeep your voice down.”
    I looked around at the people running and pedaling furiously around us. There weren’t that many, and most were out of earshot. The closer ones had earbuds in, and probably had the volume cranked up.
    I thought Miss Hatfield would ask me what I meant, but she knew. “There are drawbacks, yes. Things you have to give up. But I’ve given you another life. A chance to be happy. You weren’t happy at all in your old life.” Miss Hatfield looked straight ahead as she ran at a constant tempo.
    She was right that I hadn’t been happy in my previous life as Cynthia in the 1950s. But back then I still had family. Parents. Friends. I had a life.
    Now . . . I’m not sure what to call my existence. This sneaking from time to time, as if we were fugitives slipping from hiding place to hiding place.
    â€œI’m not sure if I can call this a life,” I said.
    â€œBe grateful.” She didn’t even turn to look at me when she said it.
    Miss Hatfield waved to her left, and I turned to see an athletic woman patting down her Afro.
    â€œThat’s the woman who’s going to teach our Pilates classnext Friday.”
    I shook my head. Miss Hatfield was too much.
    That evening, we had supper in front of the television. Miss Hatfield was the one to suggest it, and that was unusual in itself.
    Miss Hatfield always preferred Google News and Twitter to television, because she said it was a quicker, more efficient way of staying current with the news and brushing up before going out each day. Television, on the other hand, was seen as a useless thing we had to pretend to watch, to keep up with the latest reality TV shows.
    So you could imagine my surprise when she brought our Chinese takeout to the couch in front of the dusty television.
    â€œUm . . . What do you want to watch?” I asked. I figured it would be easier to ask her and have her choose a channel, rather than me picking a show and being chastised on my poor taste and opinion.
    â€œI don’t know. Just pick something,” she said.
    Miss Hatfield never didn’t know, much less admitted to it. Was this a test of some sort? I wouldn’t put it past her.
    I flipped through the channels before I settled on a sitcom. The show revolved around a family—a patriarch with his new younger wife, his two grown kids, and their own families. I