A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(94)
It was midafternoon by then, the shadows long and the world clammier than ever. Edwin burrowed into his muffler as he stood on the Gatlings’ doorstep. He asked if Miss Anne was at home and was given a disapproving “The family is in mourning, sir.”
Edwin hadn’t even thought of that. If he knew Anne and Dora Gatling at all, they’d be chafing under the restrictions. The traditions around mourning dress and behaviour had been easing off, in Edwin’s lifetime, but there were still plenty of people who would whisper if the family of a recently deceased man continued to pay morning calls in bright colours. Plenty of people who would have been aghast to hear that Maud Blyth had taken herself off to a house party wearing her crepe, too, even if they knew about the Blyth children and their need to kick back against their parents’ obsession with reputation.
“Of course,” Edwin said. “Would you let Miss Anne know that Mr. Edwin Courcey is here to offer his condolences?” How on Earth had he managed to exist without calling cards before now?
By not bothering to have any social acquaintances, he reminded himself.
The butler carried the message and Edwin stood in the entrance hall wondering if any of the clocks in this house—oak-hearted or otherwise—had stopped at the moment of Reggie’s death. He suspected not; this was a modern townhouse, lacking in history, and Reggie had met his end elsewhere. Or so one assumed.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said when he sat down with Anne Gatling.
Anne nodded. She looked tired and stiff. She looked like a doll enchanted to do those exact things in response to those exact words: to sit, to nod, to say thank you.
“Have you heard anything about the circumstances surrounding his death?”
Anne looked at her hands. Edwin wished for half of Robin’s compassion and ease. Surely he could have made that sound less intrusive.
“Pulled out of the river,” she said. “The Coopers visited with Mama again yesterday, but all they know is that it was probably magic that killed him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Edwin again.
She gave herself a small shake. “Dashed inconvenient; we’ve had to put the wedding back, of course. Saul’s been a brick. Such a help to Mama.”
“I meant to ask about Saul and that clock of yours. Did he get it working again?”
“The—oh, yes, he did,” said Anne. “He followed the instructions that you left, to pour magic into the mechanism, and for a few days it worked as well as it ever did.” She made a small face. “And then it went odd again. Saul said it couldn’t have been the power, in that case.”
Edwin folded his fingers under themselves as they tried to twitch. He was so close. He didn’t know whether the second ring was draining the clock’s heart, somehow, or simply throwing it all out of balance, but with any luck he’d be able to study it and find out.
“Is it wrapped in blankets in the linen cupboard, then?”
“No, we sent it to the thaumhorologist. We won’t see it for weeks, and it’ll cost a pretty penny, but it’s the last step before Dora loses patience and guts it to use as a jewellery-box.”
Edwin thought quickly. “I’ve had another thought about what could be wrong,” he said, which was absolutely true. “I’d be happy to try and fix it. If not, of course I’d leave it in the specialist’s hands.”
Anne shrugged. “If you like.”
“Do you have a receipt of exchange from the shop . . .?”
The receipt, when found, was folded around a flat piece of white stone that was charmed to have the same function as the token one received when handing over one’s hat and umbrella at a theatre cloakroom. At least the receipt was normal ink on paper, printed with the shop’s address and with the Gatlings’ name filled in beneath. Edwin slipped it into his pocket.
The thaumhorologist’s shop was near Southwark Cathedral. Tense as Edwin was with the nearness of discovery, he didn’t fancy making his way that far east only to find the place closed, as it likely would be. He made his way to his own hotel instead, and spent an uneasy night drifting in and out of sleep, restless and aching and thinking about Robin.
Robin, who deserved to know, if Edwin found part of the Last Contract. It was Robin’s mystery too.
No—Edwin was making excuses. Robin didn’t want anything else to do with Edwin and Edwin’s world, and he couldn’t be blamed for that.
The next morning heralded a grey drip of a day, with a faint fog curling through Mayfair. It was even denser and colder in the streets winding south from London Bridge, and Edwin plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets as much for the warmth as to touch the ring there, turn it with his fingertips.
His destination was easy to spot, even in the narrow street with the fog pierced dully by the illumination of streetlights not yet stifled. The window of the shop was busy with clocks, and Edwin could hear an off-kilter ticking like the mutter of a thousand insects, even before he pushed open the front door and the sound was swallowed by the tinkling of the entrance bell.
The woman behind the counter was peering down into the bowels of a pocket watch spread out on black velvet. She removed her magnifying eyepiece and set her work aside as Edwin shook off his outer layers.
“How can I help you, sir?”
Edwin brandished receipt and stone, and the woman took both. Somewhat awkwardly given that he was asking to take back some of the shop’s custom, he explained that he wasn’t there to pick up a finished order, but rather to retrieve something he’d offered to fix himself.