Halfway to London, it began to snow. Danny worried that Colton would catch his death of cold until he remembered that Colton did not function the way humans did.
Danny himself was frozen inside and out. He couldn’t erase the image of that gray nothingness from his mind, the feeling of time stiff and strange as he passed through the barrier. Had the protesters snuck to Enfield? Why hadn’t there been a bomb? Who’d want to steal a central cog?
He thought of his father, of Matthias, of the clock spirit who had started all of this. Evaline might not have a face that could launch a thousand ships, but Matthias had found reason enough to allow hundreds to suffer because of her. The fall of Troy, indeed.
Evaline had said Matthias was searching for a new clock tower for her. The suspicion that had latched onto him in Matthias’s house reemerged.
One thing at a time. One bloody thing at a time.
A few hours had passed outside of Enfield before Danny crossed the barrier. Afternoon light was already fading to evening by the time he reached Kennington and rolled to a jerky stop in front of his house. He looked around in case anyone happened to be watching, but only spied a shadowed couple with a poodle on the corner and the tail of a neighbor’s cat disappearing behind the next house over.
Danny clambered out and ripped his goggles off. He leaned over Colton, his breath bursting into clouds before his face, but the spirit didn’t stir. The glow had finally left his body; he looked like a pale, sickly boy. The cog, however, seemed to have done some good.
Colton murmured Danny’s name as he scooped him up in his arms.
“You’re all right,” Danny said, minding his head as he backed away from the auto. He checked the couple at the end of the street, but they were still lingering over their conversation as the poodle lifted its leg beside a letter box. “Come on. You’ll have to meet my mother sooner or later.”
Danny fumbled with Colton and his key, then pushed inside and shut the door with his back, calling for his mother. Judging by the clanging of pots in the kitchen, Leila was preparing dinner. She walked into the hall with a hard shove at the sticking kitchen door.
“There you are. I’ve been dying to tell you—” She stopped at the sight of her son carrying another boy in his arms.
“’Lo, Mum.” Danny felt like he was ten again and had brought home a muddy frog. Except now the frog was a clock spirit. The situation was suddenly so ridiculous he couldn’t stop a small laugh, which sounded dangerously like a sob. Leila hurried forward.
“What’s all this, Danny?”
“He’s sick. I’m going to carry him up to my room. Could you bring—?” He would have asked for a hot compress, tea, something of the sort, but those were for humans. What would an ailing clock spirit need?
His central cog, Danny thought bitterly.
Leila put the back of her hand against Colton’s forehead. “He’s like ice! Get him under the sheets quickly. I’ll get the hot water going.”
Danny did as his mother ordered, carrying Colton upstairs. He was glad he didn’t have to answer questions right now, though knew he couldn’t evade them forever.
His room was a mess, the floor littered with dirty socks, shirts, and crumpled bits of paper he’d used for meaningless sketches. He kicked away some of the debris as he made his way toward the narrow bed, which he hadn’t bothered to make that morning. He wondered when he had last washed the sheets. Setting Colton down, he wished he had something better to offer.
Danny stared down at him, the once-golden boy now lying in the spot where Danny’s nightmares found him, a manifestation of a new nightmare. Colton’s eyes were always open, his mind always whirring. Now he was utterly still. Even though the spirit lay right before him, even though Danny could touch his cold cheek, he’d never felt so far away.
Danny had spoken of the riches of London, of the fantastical places beyond Enfield. What good were they if Colton was dying?
Dying. The word tore him open.
Still wearing his coat and cap, Danny drew the blankets up to Colton’s chin and knelt beside him, taking his unresponsive hand. His mother appeared with a hot water bottle. She gave him a bemused look before placing the bottle under the sheets. Danny doubted it would have any effect, but didn’t have the heart to say so. Colton was a son of time; he had no mother to care for him.
“Danny,” Leila whispered, kneeling beside him. “Who is he?”
“Do you remember when I found out that Father Christmas wasn’t real, and you tried so hard to make me believe again?” She nodded, confused. “I imagine this is exactly how you felt then.”