The Emperor of All Things

3

Three Questions



USING HIS WALKING sticks, master magnus pulled himself across the floor of the study. He stabbed one forward, then the other, dragging his legs along behind with sharp wrenchings of his hips, like a man toiling through drifts of snow. Once again Quare was struck by the strength of his arms and upper body. Mewling cats slipped in and out of his path, rubbing against the sticks and his twisted legs. He ignored them.

‘Word of what I am about to show you can go no further,’ he said. ‘Is that understood?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Quare, wondering what was about to be revealed to him. He would have risen to assist Master Magnus but knew from experience that any such attempt would meet with an angry rejection.

The master paused before Quare, his face shining with sweat. Now it was his own reflection Quare beheld in the dark spectacles; though he was seated, his eyes were nearly level with the master’s, so pronounced was the curvature of his spine. ‘Swear it,’ growled Master Magnus. ‘Swear it on your honour.’

There was more mischief than malice to the barb; still, Quare couldn’t help flinching as it struck home. ‘I swear it.’

‘One day I will perfect a set of mechanical limbs,’ the master said as he resumed his halting progress. ‘Think of it, sir. Legs for the legless. Arms for the armless. Hands as clever and supple as your own. Better, even. Stronger. Then cripples such as I will be envied instead of scorned.’

His destination was the bookshelves. A cluttered space Quare could have crossed in five seconds was for Master Magnus a labour of as many minutes, though he did not once complain of it. But at last he stood before the solid mass of books and papers, his misshapen back to Quare. The phlegmatic rasp of his breathing was the loudest sound in the room, but it did not drown out the purring of the cats; it seemed almost to rise out of those lesser rumblings, riding above them like the foaming crest of a wave. Quare felt an answering vibration in himself, transmitted through the air, or through the calico cat still curled on his lap, as if all his nerves, pulled taut, had been plucked like the strings of a guitar. He got to his feet (displacing the cat, which leapt to the floor) and stepped – or, rather, felt himself drawn – towards the shelves. Was the timepiece hidden there?

‘Bring a light,’ said Master Magnus, who must have heard Quare move, for he had not turned to look at him, his attention fixed on the shelves before him. He reached up with one of his walking sticks to stab at the fat, leather-bound spine of a nameless volume. There came a clicking sound, and a section of shelving slid away from the rest, scattering cats as it pivoted through one hundred and eighty degrees to bring into view a worktable outfitted with all the familiar accoutrements of the clockmaker’s trade … and some not so familiar.

Quare’s heart was beating fast as he joined the master, who motioned for him to set down the candlestick he had fetched along. This Quare managed with difficulty, as the surface of the worktable was strewn with disassembled or partially assembled clocks and watches – a spilled cornucopia of gears and gauges, wheels and wires and other glittery objects he would have given much to examine at his leisure. Though he had spent a fair amount of time in Master Magnus’s study of late, and had on occasion even assisted him in his researches, he had never before seen this hidden worktable, or so much as suspected its existence. How many other secrets were concealed here?

‘Now, where did I put the cursed thing?’ muttered the master. Having set one of his sticks against the worktable, he leaned upon the other as he rummaged one-handed, and with a roughness that made Quare wince, through the mechanical treasure trove atop the table. ‘I could have sworn … ah!’ His hand rose, still empty, and plunged into the pocket of his waistcoat, whence it emerged clutching an object about the size and shape of a quail’s egg. This he held up between thumb and forefinger as if presenting a precious jewel for Quare’s inspection.

It was, he saw at once, a pocket watch of the type known as a hunter, the case of which included a metal lid covering the dial. The watch was ovoid, as he had already noted, the case of polished but otherwise unembellished silver, including the cover.

‘Well, sir?’ demanded Master Magnus.

‘But that is not the clock I brought you!’

‘No, it is not … and yet it is. Here, take it.’

Quare accepted the watch. It was unusually thin, less than half the width of his index finger, and lighter than he had expected. He prised the cover apart with his thumbnail and swung it open, revealing a mi-concave crystal and an enamel dial with twelve black symbols – neither numbers nor astrological signs; at least, not any that he recognized – painted upon it. His horological studies had exposed him to the alphabetic and numerical systems of foreign lands: he could recognize Cyrillic, Chinese, and Arabic, among others, but these symbols were new to him, rendered in a style so fluid as to almost swim before his eyes, as if the marks were changing in subtle ways beyond his ability to register. He found it difficult to focus on them; they seemed to squirm not only against the backdrop of the dial but, as it were, against the backdrop of his mind. The sensation was uncomfortable enough that he let his gaze slide away, to the inside of the silver cover, which he noticed was engraved. He held it closer to the candle, angling it until he could make out the initials JW in fancy script, and a date: 1652.

Quare frowned; given the thinness and lightness of the watch, he would have guessed it to be of more recent manufacture. The hour and minute hands were gilded and fancifully shaped to resemble the head and tail, respectively, of a dragon, and, as he determined after a quick check against his own pocket watch, were not positioned to anything near the correct time. He raised the watch to his ear, but heard no ticking; the mainspring had run down and was in need of winding. But the stem proved decorative only, and there was no opening for a key. Nor any indication that there ever had been. He shot Master Magnus a questioning look, but the master returned his gaze expressionlessly.

‘Well?’ he repeated.

‘An intriguing watch,’ Quare acknowledged. ‘Am I to infer that you found it secreted inside the clock I brought you?’

‘Like a pearl within an oyster.’

‘Was there a master with the initials JW on the rolls of the Worshipful Company in 1652?’

‘More than one,’ said Master Magnus, manoeuvring himself towards a nearby armchair covered with loose papers and cat hair, into which he collapsed with a grunt of voluptuous satisfaction. ‘Journeymen, too. But after studying the archives thoroughly, I have ruled out each of them as the maker.’

‘Perhaps JW was a foreigner,’ Quare mused. ‘Or an amateur, like Lord Wichcote—’ He paused, struck by a sudden notion: ‘What is that gentleman’s first name, by the way?’

‘It is Josiah,’ the master said, stroking a fat black and white cat that had wasted no time in leaping into his lap and settling itself there with an air of entitlement a pasha would have envied. ‘But that is mere coincidence. Why, the man was not yet born in 1652! And his father, the late Lord Wichcote, was named Cecil … and had no better acquaintance with the insides of a timepiece than does this cat. No, it is the watch you should be interrogating, sir, not me. The answers you seek lie there, provided you can unlock them.’

Quare accepted the challenge with a nod, remembering how, at his first meeting with Master Magnus, years before, the master had similarly challenged him with a pocket watch. Now, turning back to the worktable, he fished a loupe from his waistcoat pocket and held it to his eye while examining the watch more closely in the candlelight – though, as before, his eyes slid past the figures painted onto the dial, as if their flowing shapes offered no purchase for his sight.

‘These markings are most curious.’

‘Indeed,’ Master Magnus agreed. ‘What do you make of them?’

‘I assume they are numbers, though none that I recognize. Still, there are twelve of them, arranged in the traditional manner upon the face – what else could they be?’

Master Magnus shrugged in a most maddening manner.

Quare told himself that he would subject the numbers – if numbers they were – to a more rigorous inspection at some later time. They were, after all, the very least of the wonders and mysteries of what was unquestionably a masterpiece. The detail of the draconic hands was particularly well done, the filigree as fine as gilded frost, evidence of a keen eye and an exceptionally steady hand. Yet the secret of its winding eluded him, unless …

Could the watch be self-winding? Such a timepiece was theoretically possible, and many gifted clockmakers, Master Magnus included, had sought to solve the considerable practical difficulties involved in making one. Yet as far as Quare knew, no one had succeeded, or come close to succeeding. Certainly his own efforts in that line had met with abject failure. How likely was it that some solitary genius had done it more than a century ago? He needed to open the case.

Quare could feel Master Magnus’s probing gaze. The master was studying him as intently as he was studying the watch … and with an identical purpose: to divine his secrets. He had said he trusted no one, suspected everyone, and just because Quare was no traitor did not mean he had no secrets he wished to hide.

Of course, Master Magnus had been correct in his suspicion that Quare had not been entirely forthcoming about his rooftop encounter with the woman – a woman whom, despite the master’s scorn, he still believed to have been the real Grimalkin and not an imposter.

After all, she had told him so.

She had regained consciousness while he was still marvelling at her unmasking. Master Magnus had asked if he had found her attractive, but the truth was that neither at the time nor later had he thought in such conventional terms. The woman was not beautiful but uncanny, her pale blonde hair seemingly spun out of moonlight, her skin like ivory, an exotic cast to her angled features – features streaked now with soot and grime and blood from where he had struck her – that provoked his fascination rather than his admiration. He saw a blend of races there but could not identify the mixture. She might have fallen from the moon, a handmaiden of Selene.

She didn’t make a sound. All at once the dark pools of her eyes opened, and she regarded him with frank but calm curiosity. Such self-possession threw Quare further off his mark. It was as if their positions had been reversed, and he was the one who had been surprised and rendered helpless, his secret exposed, his prize stolen, his honour – indeed, his very life – hanging by the thread of a stranger’s mercy. He felt interrogated by her stare and drew back, as if, bound though she was, she still constituted a danger. ‘I warn you,’ he said. ‘Do not cry out.’

She laughed softly … and, he thought, sadly; the sound sent a shiver down his spine. ‘I congratulate you, sir.’

‘What?’ Her voice made him think of fresh country breezes and springtime rain showers, as if he were back in his native Dorchester and not squatting upon a foul London rooftop. Her accent, like her features, was hard to place.

‘You have caught the great Grimalkin.’ She seemed to mock herself, and him. ‘Now, what will you do with her?’

Quare felt drunk, or under a spell. He swallowed and attempted to marshal his wits. ‘You are my prisoner, madam. I will ask the questions.’

She laughed again, but this time there was no sadness in it; eagerness, rather. ‘Ask, then. I am bound to answer.’

‘Are you really Grimalkin? A woman?’

‘Have I not said it? You are a spendthrift with your questions, man. That is one of your three gone already.’

‘Three? What folly is this?’

She grinned. ‘And there is question two, fled as quickly as a man’s life. But I shall answer, as I must. You have captured me, sir, knocked me out and restrained me as I lay senseless. Yet it is not these ropes that bind me. By ancient compact must I answer truthfully three questions put to me by any man who holds me in his power.’

‘You’re mad,’ he said.

‘Ask your third question, and you shall see my madness,’ she promised. And there was that in her voice and her dark eyes which made him shudder and draw back farther still.

‘I know not what tricks you have up your sleeve, nor do I care.’ Quare sheathed his dagger and drew his pistol, which he cocked and held at the ready. ‘Do not think your sex will save you. Believe me, I will not hesitate to fire.’

This seemed to recall the woman to the reality of her circumstances. Or perhaps it was the reassuring feel of the pistol grip in his hand that made him see her in a more realistic light. In any case, she no longer seemed so eerie. The wild provocation of her manner, which had puffed her up like the bristling fur of a cat seeking to warn off a larger enemy, fell away, revealing a bedraggled creature more to be pitied than feared, a young woman – certainly no older than he, and perhaps younger – who lay entirely at his mercy. ‘Don’t,’ she said, and shrank back against the filthy tiles of the roof. ‘I beg you …’

‘I won’t, unless you force me to it,’ he reassured her. ‘Now, you will tell me who you are working for, and why you have stolen this timepiece from Lord Wichcote.’

She answered with another question. ‘What is your name?’

‘Give me yours, and perhaps I will tell you.’

‘You know my name.’

‘Grimalkin? That is but an alias. I mean your true name.’

She glared at him defiantly.

He shrugged. ‘No matter. I am more interested in hearing the name of your masters.’

‘I know your masters,’ she replied. ‘You are of the Worshipful Company. There is the stink of the regulator about you.’

‘The existence of the Worshipful Company is no secret,’ he said, ‘but few indeed are those who know of the regulators, and common thieves are not of that number.’

‘There is nothing common about me,’ she declared, eyes flashing with a trace of their former fire.

In that, he was forced to agree, though he was not about to admit it to her. ‘Come now,’ he said instead. ‘I watched you enter Lord Wichcote’s attic through the skylight and leave the same way, bearing your prize. Those are the actions of a thief.’

‘A thief steals the property of others. I take what belongs to me, wherever I chance to find it.’

‘Chance?’ He laughed. ‘I suppose you will tell me next that you were simply out for a moonlight stroll across the rooftops of London and happened to fall through Lord Wichcote’s open skylight!’

She glowered but said nothing in reply.

Keeping the pistol trained upon her, he lifted the clock from the rooftop with his free hand. ‘So, you maintain that this clock is your property. That Lord Wichcote stole it from you, and you were but retrieving it.’

‘Careful,’ she cautioned, and it seemed to him that there was more than just concern for a rare and valuable timepiece in the tone of her voice.

‘It seems an ordinary clock to me.’

‘It is no more ordinary than I am.’

‘Indeed? I am glad to hear it. I should hate to think I have engaged in this merry chase for nothing.’

‘You are a fool.’

He felt the blood rush to his face. ‘At least I am no traitor, madam. You would betray your country, and your king.’

‘There is more to the world than England. If my allegiance lies elsewhere, that does not make me a traitor.’

‘No matter. Whatever you are, my masters will ferret out your secrets. Just as they will the secrets of this timepiece.’

‘I do not think so.’ Suddenly the woman was free, her hands no longer bound behind her; they were pointing at him, and they were not empty, either, but held a brace of small pistols. He had seen only a grey blur. He cursed, realizing too late that she hadn’t been cowering at all but somehow cutting herself free of the ropes he had lashed about her wrists. Or, no … not cutting herself free, but instead being freed by the sharp teeth of a small grey mouse that he now saw scamper up her sleeve and disappear into the folds of her cloak.

Though he could scarcely believe his eyes, he forced himself to show no surprise. ‘Your little pet is resourceful,’ he said.

‘Henrietta is no pet but a friend and companion. And now’ – she gave him a mocking smile – ‘hand over the clock, and I will spare your life.’

He shook his head. ‘Lay down your pistols, and I shall spare yours.’

‘Why do you not fire?’ she demanded. ‘Are you a coward?’

Truthfully, he did not think he could beat her to the trigger. She was that fast. He would have to find another way. ‘You have not fired, either,’ he observed. ‘It would appear we are at an impasse.’

For a moment, they faced off in silence. Then the woman groaned with frustration. ‘Damn you, sir, for a dunce! Why will you not ask your third question?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your third question, man! Until you ask it, I am bound to do you no harm, unless you should first attempt to harm me. If you would but try to shoot, or if you would but ask – yet you do neither, as if you somehow know our ways!’

He blinked, taken aback by the return of the madwoman of moments before. Mad, yes, but could he not use that to his advantage? ‘Perhaps I am not such a dunce after all, madam. And perhaps I know more of your ways than you think.’

She regarded him with something like horror. ‘No. That is not possible.’

‘And yet, as you say, I have not posed my third question.’ Until she’d spoken of it, he’d had no idea that he hadn’t asked her a third question; indeed, even now he could not have sworn to it with certainty. Yet she obviously believed it, and, with the capricious logic of the mad, attached a dire significance to the omission. Thus Quare resolved to continue as he had started – though he soon discovered that it was more difficult to avoid asking a question than he would have imagined, even knowing that his mission, and likely his life, hung in the balance. What ignorance had allowed him to accomplish with thoughtless ease took all his concentration to continue now that his mind was fixed upon it. ‘Nor shall I pose it,’ he added. ‘No, nor attack you, either, though I will not hesitate to defend myself. I have the clock, after all, and I reckon that my masters and I may pose it as many questions as we like without fear of retribution.’

‘You could not be more wrong.’

He couldn’t help chuckling at such arrant lunacy. ‘Why, you speak as if I held a weapon rather than a timepiece!’

‘That is precisely what you hold. A weapon so dangerous, so deadly, that it cannot be allowed to fall into careless hands. That is why I was sent to retrieve it from that supercilious bumbler, Lord Wichcote. And why you must return it to me now. Believe me, it is for your own sake. For the sake of all mankind.’

A thousand questions clustered at his lips; he bit them back. ‘Better that such a weapon – if weapon it be – fall into English hands than into the hands of the French and their allies. These are perilous times for England, madam. We fight for our survival against foes – as I have no doubt you know very well – who would show us not a scintilla of mercy. Against such enemies, the champions of an absolutism abhorrent to every freeborn Englishman and woman, we must grasp at every advantage, no matter how slight. It is our duty, to ourselves and our posterity.’

‘You speak of your petty wars as if they matter.’

‘They matter to me.’

‘There are other wars, sir, greater wars than you know, the consequences of which you cannot begin to imagine.’

‘Then I will leave such imaginings to you.’

‘If only you would. Yet in your ignorance, you and your masters thrust yourselves into matters that are beyond you in every way. In doing so, you will bring ruin upon the very posterity whose safety you seek to ensure.’

‘I am touched by your concern.’

Now it was the woman’s turn to chuckle. ‘If that were all, I would leave you to your fate, and gladly. But like curious children bearing lit candles into a cellar where gunpowder is stored, thinking to find toys and sweetmeats hidden amid the barrels, your greedy stupidity threatens more than your own lives. This clock will not yield up its secrets to such as you – no, nor to your masters, not even the greatest of them. Believe me, rather than answer your questions, it will punish you for asking them – and it will be a punishment that strikes the guilty and the innocent alike.’

‘What sort—’ He stopped himself in time. ‘That is to say, even if this clock were stuffed with gunpowder and primed to explode like a grenado, it would scarcely pose a danger to anyone beyond its immediate vicinity.’

‘Were I to explain, you would think me madder than you do already,’ she answered. ‘“There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”’

‘I am no Horatio, madam; nor, I think, are you Prince Hamlet – though I begin to wonder if you are but mad north-northwest. You speak in riddles and hint at powers beyond mortal ken, yet whether you truly believe these things or say them to play upon my fancy, as if I were some superstitious rustic or smooth-cheeked schoolboy, I cannot tell. But it matters not. I am a man of science. I place my faith in reason. Thus will we unlock the secrets of this clock. Thus will we make use of them in defence of our hard-won liberties. And now’ – he struggled to his feet, keeping his pistol trained upon her and ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain in his thigh, as if his movements had started his wound to bleeding again – ‘as much as I have enjoyed matching wits with you, the hour grows late. I—’

‘But you are wounded!’ she interrupted, her pale face turning paler still. ‘Blood has been spilled!’

‘Indeed, we have spilled each other’s blood this night.’

‘Then it is already too late,’ she said, and, to his astonishment, lowered her pistols. Even more astonishing, a tear rolled down her ivory cheek. Most astonishing of all, at the sight of that glistening track, silvered in moonlight, he felt an answering shiver pass across his heart, and an impulse to comfort her so strong that it took all his will to resist it. ‘But perhaps not,’ she said, wiping the tear away and looking up at him with pleading eyes. ‘There may yet be time to undo what you have unwittingly set in motion, or at least to avert the worst of it. Give me the clock, I beg you. I will take my leave, and no one need be the wiser. You will never see me again, I swear it.’

And those words, too, flew straight to his heart, echoing in that chamber with a hollow pang. Why should the thought of never seeing her again seem like such a terrible thing? ‘Madam, I cannot. My duty is clear.’

‘Then you have doomed us all.’ She put her pistols away – where they went, Quare didn’t see; one second they were in her hands; the next, her hands were empty. She stood with graceful dignity, her eyes fixed on him all the while, full of reproach and disappointment. ‘Would that I had slain you,’ she said with quiet bitterness. ‘Or that you had killed me. Better still if we had never been born. But I see now that there could be no escaping this moment for either of us. From the very beginning, we two were fated to mingle our blood upon this rooftop.’

As she spoke, her voice heavy with resignation, she pulled the hood back over her head and drew the scarf up to cover her mouth and nose. Yet it was not just a rearrangement of clothing; her voice, her posture, even the quality of her eyes underwent a transformation, until, at the end of it, the woman was gone so thoroughly as to never have existed, and in her place stood Grimalkin. It was a change so convincing, so complete, that Quare stepped back and brought his pistol – which, without noticing, he had lowered – back into line.

‘You do not need to fear me,’ said Grimalkin, sounding very much as if she wished it were otherwise. ‘Even were you to ask your third question, I could not harm you now. We are bound, you and I, by ties of blood and destiny.’

But Quare asked nothing. He could not find his voice, and even if he could have spoken, he would not have questioned her, wary of a trick. He watched, heart pounding.

‘Besides,’ Grimalkin added with a weary shrug, ‘my time here is done. The sky grows pale with the approach of dawn, and I am called Otherwhere.’

That was news to Quare; as far as he could tell, sparing a quick glance upwards, the sky was as dark as ever, and the light of the moon had no rival. He did not think it could be any later than three in the morning; dawn was hours off.

The noise of a small concussion, a hollow popping sound, drew his attention. Clouds of thick grey smoke boiled up from the rooftop to cloak the figure of Grimalkin. He cursed himself for a fool. But he would not compound his foolishness by entering that cloud to grapple with her; nor could he bring himself to fire into it. Instead, keeping his pistol raised, he backed away. The cloud seemed to follow him with an intent all its own, as if it might reach out with smoky tendrils to snatch the clock from his grasp.

‘We are not finished, you and I,’ came her voice from out of the murk. ‘We shall meet again, I promise you.’

He saw – or thought he saw – a serpentine form flex within the billowing, and at that he cursed again, in fear this time, and pulled the trigger. The pistol misfired, the hammer clicking without effect. But already the cloud was thinning, breaking into patchy wisps that drifted with the wind, indistinguishable from the general fog of the city. Another moment, and no trace remained. He stood alone on the rooftop. Grimalkin was gone.

Nor did Quare linger, afraid she would return, either alone or with allies who would not let an unasked question keep them from their objective. He set off at once for the guild hall, retracing his path across the roofs, cursing himself for having misloaded the pistol. He had been lucky many times over this night.

He moved slowly, thanks to his injured leg, which had resumed bleeding and soon stiffened into the bargain. All the while, he debated what to tell Master Magnus. It was crystal clear to him that he couldn’t relate all that had occurred, not if he wished to continue as a regulator, or, for that matter, a journeyman in good standing. He knew there was no way he could make the master understand why he had not captured or killed Grimalkin; he did not really understand it himself. It wasn’t because he had found himself facing a woman – or not only because of that … and there, too, was a thing better left unsaid; without proof, no one would credit such an outlandish claim. Grimalkin a woman? He scarcely believed it himself. As for her warnings about the clock … What were they but the ravings of a lunatic? Even if the workings of the timepiece belied its plain exterior, he did not see how this clock, or, indeed, any clock, could be a weapon, unless the woman had spoken metaphorically, referring to some martial use to which the secrets of its mechanism might be put, beating ploughshare into sword, as it were, but even that possibility did not seem of sufficient gravity to warrant such desperate words.

No, he would say nothing of that, either. He would hand over the clock and leave the rest to Master Magnus. Yet he would have to mention Grimalkin; Lord Wichcote was the sort of man who would take a perverse pride in having been robbed by the notorious Grimalkin, and he would no more be able to resist boasting of his attic encounter than he had of possessing the clock that had occasioned it. The news would no doubt spread quickly, reaching the ears of Master Magnus in short order. So he must confess that much, at least. And, too, there was his wounded leg to explain. It occurred to him that the latter might serve as an excuse for his failure to kill or capture Grimalkin.

Thus it was that by the time he returned to the guild hall, Quare had concocted the story, a blend of truth, lies, and omissions, that he had related to Master Magnus while suffering the none-too-gentle ministrations of the man’s surgeon. And thus it was that he had found himself caught in the strands of his own web – or, rather, swept up in the larger web of Master Magnus, who, after seeing his wound treated, had ensnared him in a further fabrication, this one directed at no less a target than Grandmaster Wolfe himself. As Quare took a carriage home in the early morning hours, a luxury provided by Master Magnus, he’d cursed the luck that had caused this night’s mission to fall into his lap; the result of his success had not been the praise and advancement he deserved but an injured leg and recruitment into a power struggle between two giants who could crush him as thoughtlessly as he might crush a fly.

He had sought to make his own way in the Worshipful Company, beholden to no faction but to his talents only; no doubt he had been naïve. But that was finished now. Or would be, once he was called before the Old Wolf to give his report, a summons that Master Magnus had advised him to expect by the afternoon at the latest. Then he would relate the fabrication he had been rehearsed in and suffer the consequences of it – disgrace, suspension, perhaps outright expulsion – all in the service of a scheme whose purpose was as obscure to him as were the plans of the Almighty. Yet as he lay back on the cushions of the carriage seat, it was not the base machinations of guild politics that whirled feverishly through his brain but instead the features of the woman he had discovered behind Grimalkin’s mask.

Those exotic features were still present in his mind, or at the back of his mind, seeming, as it were, to gaze down over his shoulder as he examined the hunter that Master Magnus had placed into his hands. The woman’s dire warnings echoed in his memory. They seemed crazier than ever now that their object had been revealed to be a pocket watch barely thicker than his dagger’s blade; yet though he could not credit her warnings, neither could he dismiss them, any more than he could dismiss the memory of the woman herself: her vernal voice, the quickness of her wit and of her movements, the sense that there had been, and perhaps still was, a connection between them, one that went deeper than words unsaid, questions unasked, and ancient compacts born of a moonstruck fancy: a bond brought into being by the shedding and, as she had put it, the mingling of blood, as though what had passed between them on that rooftop had been some kind of ceremony and not a shabby paroxysm of violence that had left her unconscious from a blow to the head and himself run through the leg and lucky to be alive. He wondered if he would ever see her again, and though he felt no certainty that he would survive a second encounter, he found that he desired it almost as much as he desired to possess the secret of the timepiece he had taken from her.

Now, after clearing a work space on the cluttered table, he set loupe and hunter down and pulled from an interior pocket of his waistcoat a well-worn leather-bound wallet tied shut with a length of dark ribbon. This he untied, placed on the table to one side, and flicked open with practised ease. Laid out within was a tidy assortment of files, calipers, pliers, tweezers, wires, springs, small glass vials containing various chemicals, a watchmaker’s hammer, an equally diminutive screwdriver, and other items needful for the interrogation and repair of timepieces. He glanced at Master Magnus for permission.

The master inclined his head while continuing to stroke the cat in his lap. ‘Have you enough light?’

Quare nodded; the single candle, while not ideal, would suffice for now. Turning back to the table, he screwed the loupe to his left eye and bent to his work. In one hand he held the watch; in the other, a long, scalpel-like tool he had adapted for horological use from a surgeon’s kit. Many of his most useful tools were based on or even made from surgical implements; the clockmaker and the surgeon, he had found, had much in common. But before he could begin in earnest, a movement to one side startled him, and he stepped back as a small black cat leapt onto the table.

Behind him, Master Magnus laughed. ‘Why, it would appear that Calpurnia wishes to observe your technique!’

The small cat sat regarding him through unblinking green-gold eyes, its tail curled primly about its front paws. It might almost have been a marble statuette, save for the vigorous purring that seemed to emanate from its entire body. ‘That is a very large purr for such a small cat,’ Quare remarked. ‘But if she has any advice, I would welcome it.’

‘Cats do not advise,’ said Master Magnus. ‘They command.’

At present, Calpurnia seemed inclined to do neither. Once, Quare would have found the animal’s presence a distraction, but among the many things he had learned from Master Magnus was a tolerance, even a kind of grudging affection, for cats. The master had an absolute mania for the creatures; he could identify each of his vast menagerie by name, and seemed to prefer their company to that of human beings.

‘They accept me for who I am,’ he had once told Quare. ‘They do not judge by appearances but see past the surface of things. Dogs have no choice but to love us; it is how they are made. Despite their many fine qualities, one cannot help but pity them. A cat, however, bestows its affections where it will. Thus the companionship of a cat is to be more highly valued, for cats are like mirrors in which we may see ourselves as we truly are, not as we appear to others, and still less as we would prefer ourselves to be.’

The cases of most pocket watches were easily removed, opening from the back, but in this, too, the watch at hand proved an exception to the rule: the case was all of a piece. The crystal came away without trouble, but once he had laid it upon the inside flap of his tool kit, Quare was baffled. There seemed no way inside. The edge of the dial met the side of the case precisely, and not even the fine, sharp edge of his scalpel could find purchase there. He did not probe too forcibly, however, for fear of scratching the dial.

He straightened with a sigh, replacing the loupe on the table, and rubbed his watering eye as Calpurnia gave a querulous miaow.

‘Giving up so soon?’ Master Magnus echoed rather smugly.

Quare couldn’t help but glare. ‘I suppose you opened it right away, without any trouble.’

‘On the contrary, it took me the better part of an hour.’

‘And you expect me to do it faster? You must have a higher opinion of my abilities than you’ve admitted so far, Master Magnus.’

‘No higher than your own,’ the master replied.

Quare opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it; he couldn’t decide if he’d just been complimented or insulted. He returned his attention to the watch. It was infuriating but at least would not talk back. Cupping it in one hand, he used the scalpel to push the fancifully shaped hands around the dial, once again experiencing that strange disinclination to focus upon the glyphs painted there; his gaze glided over each one as smoothly as did the hands themselves … which, as he now ascertained, moved with equal facility in a counterclockwise direction. But these idle exercises brought him no nearer to his goal. What was he missing? He ground his teeth in frustration. Again he thought of Grimalkin. He did not doubt for an instant that she would have already prised the watch open somehow. He felt clumsy and stupid, like a thief standing before a locked steel vault deep in the bowels of the Bank of England.

Then Quare smiled. Of course. The master himself had provided a clue. Watches and locks were not so different, after all. Not inside, where it counted. He gave a little laugh of admiration at the cleverness of it.

‘Got it, have you?’ asked Master Magnus.

‘We’ll see.’ What if the number inscribed on the inside of the cover, 1652, was not just a date but a combination? It was both obvious and ingenious; yet there were many possible ways of representing that number, or sequence of numbers, using the hour and minute hands of the watch. For all he knew, some complicated formula was required. But he would eliminate the obvious choices before worrying about more arcane possibilities. Could it be as simple as moving one hand to sixteen and the other to fifty-two? The strange glyphs on the face of the watch had no meaning to him in themselves, but that did not mean they could not correspond to the numbers he knew; after all, there were twelve of them, just as with any ordinary timepiece. But on further reflection, that solution made no sense … for then the case would automatically open twice every twenty-four hours, whenever the minute and hour hands, in their quotidian revolutions, passed over the necessary points on the watch face: not at all the sort of feature typically valued by purchasers of pocket watches.

Indeed, this objection held for any sequence of numbers arrived at by rotating the hands in a clockwise direction. Thus, Quare reasoned, the numbers of the combination, or at least one of them, must be arrived at by means of a retrograde motion, by which the locking mechanism would be engaged or disengaged. He began to try various possibilities, moving the hands backwards and forwards around the dial until, after no more than five minutes, to the accompaniment of a sharp click, he felt the back of the watch detach from the case and drop into his palm.

‘Bravo,’ said Master Magnus. ‘Well done!’

‘You provided the clue,’ Quare acknowledged, grinning, ‘when you challenged me to unlock the secrets of the watch. Otherwise I could never have opened it so quickly, if at all.’

‘You would have hit upon it sooner or later,’ the master said. ‘But that is only one mystery solved. You have work yet to do.’

Quare nodded and turned back to the table, feeling quite pleased with himself – an opinion not shared by the black cat, Calpurnia, who was grooming herself fastidiously, taking no notice of him whatsoever. A man could not get too full of himself, Quare reflected, in the company of a cat.

Placing the scalpel on the table beside the loupe, Quare shifted the watch to his free hand and set the detached back of the case on the flap of his tool kit alongside the crystal he’d placed there earlier. Only then did he turn the watch over to reveal the exposed movement.

His initial impression was of a three-quarter plate construction, with overlapping wheels and pinions neatly packed into the available space, all of a silver so pale that it seemed almost translucent. Yet no clockmaker with an ounce of experience or common sense would choose silver over brass and steel for the inner workings of a watch. But then, he thought, perhaps the metal was not silver after all. He was reaching for his loupe when a sudden hissing caused him to start. ‘What the devil?’

Beside him, standing with spine arched, tail stiff, ears flat, and fur gone all spiky, a hissing and growling Calpurnia eyed the watch in Quare’s hand as if it were a serpent poised to strike.

‘God in heaven, what’s got into the beast?’ Quare demanded.

‘Fascinating,’ said Master Magnus. The black and white cat in his lap had fled at Calpurnia’s outburst, and now Calpurnia herself did likewise, springing down from the table and rushing headlong away. Her fear had transmitted itself to the other cats, and, in the blink of an eye, the study became a roiling mass of fast-moving felines and their shadows, the two not always distinguishable in the candlelight. Yowls and hisses filled the air. Stacks of books and papers toppled, which further agitated the cats, who in turn knocked over more stacks in a chain reaction that continued for some time as Quare and Master Magnus looked on in astonishment.

‘That didn’t happen when I opened the case,’ the master commented when things had quieted somewhat. He sounded almost regretful. ‘But then,’ he continued, ‘no cat was as near to the watch as Calpurnia was just now. She smelled the strangeness of it, no doubt. Or saw something. They are perspicacious creatures, cats.’

‘They’re only animals, master,’ Quare said with a laugh. ‘They start at moonbeams and chase shadows. They know nothing of watches.’

‘What do any of us know?’

‘Master?’

He shook his head. ‘Go on, Quare. The test isn’t over yet.’

‘Is that what this is? A test?’

Now it was the master’s turn to laugh. But he did not otherwise answer, merely gestured with one hand for Quare to get back to work.

Quare bent close over the watch. With the aid of the loupe, he saw that, as he’d begun to suspect before Calpurnia had gone mad, the wheels and pinions and plates of the movement were not made of silver. Indeed, they did not appear to be made of metal at all. The substance looked more like wood … which perhaps accounted for the lightness of the watch. Yet the grain was curious, like no wood he was familiar with, and not even birch had such a silvery shine. Nor, as far as he knew, was wood of any kind suitable for the stresses and strains, the wear and tear, of a watch movement: even less so than silver, in fact. But perhaps the wood had been treated with some chemical unknown to him to give it added strength and resilience. He set down the loupe and retrieved the scalpel. He scraped softly at one wheel, to no effect. Whatever it was, it was hard. He gave the wheel a cautious tap with the tip of the scalpel. ‘Why, it’s hollow!’ he exclaimed in wonder, looking to Master Magnus, who, after his peculiar fashion, grinned – that is, grimaced – in reply. Quare tapped the escapement, the fusee. ‘They’re all hollow! Master, I don’t believe this is a real watch at all.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘I confess I thought at first that it might be self-winding, but now I perceive that it lacks a winding mechanism of any kind. There is simply no source of power. Yet the wheels turn easily; the teeth of the gears fall smoothly into place; the escapement, the fusee – all else is as it should be. This is a model of a watch, a toy, not the thing itself. And even if it could be wound, what time would it keep, with its parts all of hollow wood?’

‘What kind of wood is it, then, Quare, at once light, hard, and hollow?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m no wood-carver.’ An idea struck him: ‘Why, he wasn’t a clockmaker at all! The mysterious JW, I mean. No wonder he wasn’t mentioned in the archives. He must have been a master wood-carver.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Master Magnus, lurching to his feet with an abrupt rocking motion. He swayed for an instant, then planted his walking sticks on the floor and hauled himself over to Quare, again seeming to wade through some invisible medium sensible to himself alone, as if the air around him were as thick as mud. ‘But do you know, I don’t believe it is carved of wood.’

‘Indeed? What then?’

‘Bone.’

‘Bone?’ Quare glanced at the watch in his hand and shook his head sceptically. ‘What kind of bone is so hard, yet so light?’

‘That I cannot say. But I have examined the movement under the microscope, compared the grain of the stuff with samples of wood and of bone, and though I did not find an exact match, it is unquestionably closer in nature to the latter than to the former.’

Quare shrugged. ‘Even so, it is still no more than a curiosity, a toy.’

‘Do you suppose I would attach so much importance to a mere curiosity? Would Lord Wichcote risk so much to possess it, or the thief you encountered upon the rooftop go to such trouble to steal it?’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘I wonder if I might borrow that sharp little tool of yours.’

‘Of course.’ Quare reversed the scalpel and held it out.

Resting his weight on one stick and letting the other fall back against his hip, the master took the tool in a rock-steady hand. Before Quare could react, the hand darted out.

Quare yelped, more in surprise than pain, and watched a bead of blood appear on the tip of his finger. ‘What—’

‘Quickly,’ Master Magnus interrupted. ‘Hold it over the watch!’

Quare was too stunned to do anything but obey. Drop after drop of his blood dripped into the pale silver insides of the watch. It pooled there like the shadow of the sun creeping across the face of the moon in swift eclipse, a dark stain that must soon spill over.

But it did not spill over.

Instead, it seeped into the watch. The parts of the movement, the wheels and pinions and plates, the escapement, the fusee, all the pieces so cunningly carved out of … something … sucked in the blood. Drank it in like water absorbed by a sponge. And as they did, they changed colour, took on the redness of Quare’s blood. Or perhaps it was that they turned translucent as glass, only seeming to take on the hue of what filled them.

But Quare was not interested in such distinctions. He stood transfixed with awe and creeping horror, mesmerized by the sight of the watch so engorged with blood that it seemed to glow like a hot coal in the palm of his hand. He would not have been surprised had it burned him. But the watch, already warmed to his body temperature, grew not a whit warmer.

Then he felt it faintly shudder. Felt a convulsion spark and bloom within the watch and pass through it into his flesh, his blood, like a call seeking answer.

He would have dropped it then, cast it from him like a loathsome, cursed thing, but Master Magnus took hold of his wrist in an unbreakable grip, preventing him.

Quare moaned, words as far beyond him as thought, as reason. For now, as if his heart had answered the call, the watch throbbed to life, pulsing in time to the rhythm in his chest, the wheels and pinions turning, the teeth meshing: the movement running, keeping time.

‘There is your source of power,’ Master Magnus said, his voice fierce, triumphant.