Timekeeper (Timekeeper #1)(3)
“Is there something in your eye?” Danny asked.
Brandon nodded.
“Must be all the dust.”
Brandon remained silent.
Danny tensed, wondering if he was about to contend with yet another apprentice who resented being assigned to a mechanic barely older than himself. Danny couldn’t count all the times he’d been tripped, had his tools stolen, or been laughed at behind his back—and all that within months of becoming a full mechanic, the youngest mechanic on record.
But he’d never had an apprentice so utterly silent before. Brandon could have at least mustered up a “Yes, sir.” Or better yet, not been here at all.
Danny stripped off his gloves and rubbed sweaty hands against his waistcoat. He couldn’t let this silence unnerve him. “My name’s Danny. You are Brandon, correct?” That should have gotten a response, but the other boy only nodded after a slight hesitation.
“Cat got your tongue?” Danny gestured toward the parcel. “Help me with this. Please.”
He knelt before the package to unwrap it, and Brandon came to his side. The apprentice wore tight brown trousers and a baggy white shirt, which he hadn’t bothered to tuck in. Danny tried not to look too long at the way the collar of his shirt drooped low enough to reveal the sharp corner of his collarbone. Mechanics and apprentices were required to wear proper trousers, shirts, and waistcoats, along with sturdy boots and gloves. Not … this.
Brandon hadn’t come prepared. The blatant disregard heated Danny’s blood. This assignment was a test, and the new apprentice was going to make him fail.
Just focus on the clock, he thought. Focus on Enfield.
They unwrapped the package, which the Lead Mechanic had given Danny that morning. A large black iron Roman numeral II lay within the wrappings.
Shuddering, Danny said, “We’ll have to use the scaffolding.”
In the clock room, the scaffolding—a wooden slat with metal rails that suspended mechanics in front of clock faces—was stored on a platform above the face, which could be reached by stairs. Danny found even this small height problematic.
He opened a latch above the face and asked Brandon to lower the scaffolding down. Danny looked out and tried not to groan. He could see almost all of Enfield from up here, including the village green near St. Andrew’s church. He could also see the dirt road where his skull would crack, should he fall.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” he said, more to himself than to the apprentice. “I’ll … er … you go first, and I’ll bring the number down.”
The apprentice’s fair, nearly nonexistent eyebrows rose, but he did as he was instructed, tying a line to the belt sitting beside the equipment. Danny tugged the rope to make sure it was secure, and without waiting for approval, Brandon climbed out onto the face like he’d been a squirrel in a past life.
“Hey!” Danny called down. Brandon paused, his left eye still shut tight. “Keep both eyes open.” The apprentice waved and continued to lower himself until his feet rested on the scaffolding. The cables creaked, but there was no sudden snap or scream.
His own line secure, Danny grabbed the Roman numeral and slung his tool bag over his shoulder. He hesitated long enough to raise sweat on his brow before he followed the apprentice down.
Danny’s father used to say the most interesting sights in the world were right before your eyes. That was just his way to keep Danny from looking down, but Danny always did anyway. He snapped his eyes back to the rope and swallowed a small gasp. You didn’t see it. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re not dangling helplessly in the air.
The boards groaned. He worried the structure might not bear their weight, but by some miracle, the scaffolding held. The wind tugged at their clothing, pressing Brandon’s shirt against his slim torso.
“One thing down,” Danny said, trying to sound hopeful. “Hold this, will you?” Danny passed him the Roman numeral and laid out his tools. The scaffolding was positioned directly under where two o’clock should have been. He put a hand against the empty patch and flinched as the pull in his belly turned into a hollow, aching emptiness. He closed his eyes to better focus on the image that his normal vision couldn’t conjure.
It was as if someone had burned a hole in a woven tapestry. The fibers of time were all attached to one another, the golden threads weaving in and out in the natural flow of time that only the clock tower could produce. It spider-webbed across all of Enfield like a blanket. But there, in the corner, was a hole. The fibers were broken, and without that connection, time distorted around them.
Memories crept in. Smoke, blood, a gaping void in time.
Danny’s eyes shot open and he snatched his hand back. He was breathing fast again, and Brandon eyed him warily.
“H-hand me the micrometer, please,” Danny said, but his voice cracked on the last word.
Brandon shuffled on his feet and looked at the tools. At first Danny thought he was dawdling on purpose, but the pained look on the apprentice’s face revealed the truth.
“You don’t know what a micrometer is,” Danny said flatly. The memories, the missing hour, the height, the incompetent apprentice at his side—it all rose like an ocean swell within him, crashing up his throat, and the words poured out before he could stop them. “Great. Bloody brilliant. You don’t know a thing about clock repair, do you? You don’t dress properly, you don’t talk, and now you don’t know what a micrometer is. What the hell kind of apprentice are you?”