House of Salt and Sorrows(45)

Our eyes met, and my throat constricted. I’d longed for the chance to pull him aside and smooth over the mess from Pelage, but a rainstorm had rolled in shortly after we left Highmoor. Fisher had waved me away, citing his need for concentration as the rain soaked us to the skin, making the short journey to Astrea miserable.

Honor threw herself into a chair in a swoon worthy of the stage, and Verity was precariously close to knocking over a display of stacked boxes in the window.

“Why don’t I take the Graces for a cup of tea while Rosalie makes up her mind?” I suggested.

“Or cider?” Verity asked, pawing at Fisher with a hopeful smile.

He handed me the coins.

“Make sure your hoods are on,” I instructed before opening the shop door.

We raced across the cobblestones, skirting puddles of rainwater to huddle in the sanctuary of the tavern’s wide awning.

“Here, take these,” I said, pressing the coins into Honor’s hand. “There’s something I need to do—an errand—so you three go inside, and I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

“Where are you going?” Verity asked, clearly wanting to come too.

“Nowhere with cider,” I said, scooting her toward the large oak door. “It’s cold and wet. Hurry in, you don’t want to freeze!”

They scurried inside and I darted back into the storm, making my way to Mr. Averson’s clock shop.

My stomach twisted with guilt as I remembered how unceremoniously Edgar had been removed from Highmoor. I should have stopped Camille, should have tried harder to contact him. I was ashamed at how easily I’d been distracted.

The balls were consuming more than just my nights. Whole mornings were slept away. Often we didn’t wake until it was time to primp for the next party. After so many years of staid blacks and tepid behaviors, the balls were invigorating. Intoxicating. The masks and paste jewels, the whisper of silks and tulles, the promise of handsome dance partners—they’d all dazzled me until I was blinded to my true purpose.

I’d forgotten Eulalie.

And if I was being honest, it hadn’t bothered me until now, when I was firmly rooted back at home, back in Salann, back in the Salt.

I needed to track down Edgar and apologize. I didn’t care what Camille thought. I believed his story about the shadow on the cliff, and together we’d uncover who it was.

A silver bell tinkled overhead as I stepped into the shop, out of the rain.

“Coming, coming,” a cheerful voice called from the workroom. Or perhaps it came from behind the stack of metal hands near the corner. They were taller than me, used for clock towers in town squares.

Cogs and gears littered every available surface in the shop, and rows of clocks lined the walls. The staggered ticks of passing seconds overlapped, forming a symphony of beats. It was a soft, subtle sound, but once you noticed the ticks, they became impossible to ignore.

“How may I help you today—” Edgar emerged from the workroom. When he saw me, he came to a full stop, nearly crashing into a case displaying pocket watches and chains. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone coloring. “Come to kick me out of my own place of employment? You’ll find the Thaumas reach does not extend this far. Good day.”

“Edgar—wait! I’m so sorry about that. I should have stood up for you, I should have stopped Camille. I came to apologize and…and also to talk.”

“Talk?” He glared at me through his tiny eyeglasses.

“About Eulalie, about the shadow.”

“I already told you everything I know.” His hand raised against the swinging door.

“Not everything,” I said, stopping him before he could retreat. “I saw the way you reacted when Camille called for Roland.” He stiffened as I mentioned the valet’s name. “Why?”

Edgar turned back, reluctance on his face. He removed his glasses and polished them on the edge of his canvas apron, biding his time.

“Could he be the shadow?” I guessed.

He squinted through the lenses as though they were still unclean. “I don’t know who the shadow was…but I must admit, my first guess would be him.” His fingertips trembled as if fighting the urge to wipe the spectacles again. “Every time I was at Highmoor—helping Mr. Averson with that grandfather clock, delivering a fixed pocket watch or mantel clock—he was always about, lurking, listening. Eulalie said it was just part of his job, waiting to be needed, but it felt like more than that…. It felt…”

“Yes?” I whispered, leaning in.

“Like an obsession.”

I watched the rain fall on the soggy market outside, thinking about our day-to-day life at Highmoor. It was true, Roland was always nearby, ready to help, but as he was one of Papa’s most trusted servants, that seemed only natural to me. I didn’t know much about Edgar, but I’d hazard a guess he’d not grown up in a house like ours, full of more servants than family members.

“Did Eulalie keep a diary?” Edgar asked, trying a different approach. “She learned something she wasn’t supposed to. Perhaps she wrote about it?”

Eulalie wasn’t the type to pour her heart out onto the page, as Lenore and Camille did. She’d hated penmanship lessons when we were girls and had to be cajoled into writing letters to aunts and cousins.