It wasn’t an official rule in any handbook, but it didn’t need to be. Everyone knew forming an emotional attachment to a clock was forbidden.
Matthias had fallen in love, he said. The weak muscle of his heart had grown strong again. But as he tried to keep this supposed clock spirit affair a secret, something within the tower had broken. He had been unable to repair it, and time skittered wildly.
Danny’s father had been sent to Maldon to fix things. Days later, the town Stopped.
It was just another of Matthias’s stories, a fabrication built layer upon layer until the truth was so buried that Danny couldn’t see it. There was no witch in the Bia?owie?a Forest. There were no man-eating dragons in China.
There were no clock spirits.
Danny understood that Matthias wanted to protect himself from his mistake, that his shame could momentarily be disguised with wonder. So Danny let him tell his stories. He pretended to believe.
But he knew better. It didn’t matter how many stories you told if you were still at fault in the end.
“Here,” Danny said, pushing the mug toward Matthias. “I think I’m finished.”
Disappointment creased Matthias’s eyes, or perhaps it was guilt. He often looked that way, even though Danny had forgiven him a long time ago.
“Heading home? Give your mother a kiss for me.”
Danny knew she wouldn’t accept a kiss from her own son, let alone him. He was about to pay when Matthias waved his hand away.
“Go on, get some rest. I’ll take care of it. And Danny? The next time you have these thoughts, don’t hesitate to ring me. I’ll always be on the other end of the line.”
Danny managed a small smile. “I know.”
The pub was not far from home. Kennington was loud with the sounds of autos, carriages, horses, and the cries of costermongers selling matches and rat poison. He kicked an empty tin toward the street. It would be picked up in the morning by the cleaning crew, a new development since the sanitation reform had kicked in. A young crossing sweeper with a broom in his hand shot Danny a nasty glance.
Some thought the city was chaotic, yet Danny loved it. The cobbled roads, the tall buildings, the history, the technology. London was the thriving pulse of the civilized world. He weaved through ladies with spotless white gloves and grimy chimney sweeps dropping soot wherever they went. Steam and smoke rose from chimneys and engines, forming a gray cloud that loomed over them all.
As he walked through the front door, Danny saw his mother on the telephone. She stood hunched over the holder, the chartreuse-colored receiver clutched in one hand.
Danny’s heart stuttered. His mother had been in this exact position when they’d received the call about his father. This was the position of the world ending.
But then he realized she was simply writing something on the pad beside the telephone.
“Yes. Of course. All right. Thank you very much.”
She hung the receiver back on its holder and ripped the paper from the pad. Leila turned and jumped at the sight of him.
“Danny! When on earth did you get here?”
“Just now. Who were you speaking to?”
“Who …?” She pointed uselessly at the telephone. “Oh, that was nothing. Nora called to tell me about a new boutique on Piccadilly I might like.” Leila peered up at her son, the paper clutched in her small hands, as if waiting to be dismissed or told that her lie was good enough. Danny was too tired and too tipsy to argue. He shrugged and shucked off his coat. She disappeared into the kitchen and he followed slowly behind.
A container of milk had been forgotten on the table. “Mum, put this in the cold box, for Christ’s sake.”
“Don’t use that language,” she snapped, distracted as she cut up carrots at the counter. She had thrown on a stained apron and her eyebrows were knotted in concentration, as if she were performing surgery, not crookedly mincing root vegetables. Something had filled her with an almost manic energy. “Which reminds me—you should come to church this Sunday. An out-of-town bishop’s coming to give a lecture.”
She hardly ever spoke this much to him. She was definitely in a good mood. Danny hid his face as he returned the milk to the cold box. “I’ll see if I’m free.”
“You smell like the pub,” she murmured. “I think church’ll do you some good, Danny.”
“Church won’t earn us money.” Or get Dad back.
His mother sighed, but when she said nothing further, he escaped upstairs to his room.
As it so happened, he was busy on Sunday after all. During a breakfast of crumbs he’d found at the bottom of the bread box—his mother hadn’t bought a new loaf—the telephone in the hall rang.
“Hullo?”
“Ah, Daniel?” The Lead Mechanic’s voice came through tinny and crackled. Danny automatically stood straighter, although the man couldn’t see him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, I’ve caught you in time. There seems to be another issue with the tower you’ve been fixing this week, the one in Enfield.”
“Again?”
His mother, coming down the stairs dressed for church, threw him a startled look.