by Caleb Krisp
Miss Always insisted on taking me to the kitchen for a pot of strong tea. We passed Miss Frost on the main stairs. For some reason, Miss Always seemed keen to hurry me along, but when Miss Frost showed a passing interest in why I looked so pale, I informed her that I was deeply traumatized.
Miss Frost seemed less interested in my trauma and more interested in the hooded villain I had hallucinated in the hallway. Remarkably, she didn’t think I had imagined him at all. And that wasn’t the only shock.
“I should think,” she declared with astounding certainty, “that Miss Always might be just the person to ask about such creatures.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Miss Always quickly. “Come along, Ivy, let us—”
“But are you not writing a book on myths and legends?” said Miss Frost with a faint smile. Before my friend could answer, Miss Frost continued, “I seem to recall reading about a band of tiny hooded fellows, just as Miss Pocket described. Let me think, it was so long ago that I studied mythology.” She tapped her chin. “Ah, now I remember! They are called locks.”
“Locks?” I said.
Miss Always laughed, rather too loudly. “What nonsense, I never heard of such—”
“From what I remember,” interrupted Miss Frost (she seemed to be enjoying herself enormously), “locks are hooded creatures who wear dark robes. They are small, usually travel in packs, are fast and highly dangerous. I seem to recall they serve a particularly hateful mistress—a cold-blooded hag of misery and death—though I cannot remember her name. Can you, Miss Always?”
“I cannot,” came the firm reply.
I gasped (it seemed the right moment). “That has to be them!”
“Ivy, what a foolish thought,” scolded Miss Always. “You are much too clever to be carried away by the ravings of a second-rate governess.”
Miss Frost glared at my bosom friend. “I would have thought my theory was entirely reasonable, given what has befallen Miss Pocket of late. I am shocked, Miss Always, that you haven’t heard of locks.” She folded her arms. “In fact, I would think it quite impossible.”
“Yes, well . . .” Miss Always adjusted her glasses. “I may have read of such creatures—just in passing. And from what I remember, locks are not at all as you have described, Miss Frost. They are a band of merry monks. Agents of peace, not violence.”
“You’re wrong, dear,” I declared. “They’re nasty little things.”
Miss Frost walked on, looking rather pleased with herself. Miss Always and I continued down the stairs and into the great hall. It would hardly be worth noting, if not for the fact that Miss Always stumbled rather suddenly and fell to the floor. Tripped, apparently. Which was odd, as there wasn’t so much as a speck of dust upon the polished floor. The poor dear landed with a thump, and when I helped her up, I saw her wrist was beginning to swell.
“I am a clumsy fool,” said Miss Always, looking at her injury.
“I’m afraid so, dear,” I said helpfully.
Miss Always frowned. Said her wrist was feeling numb. Apparently that was a bad sign. As she was holding her red and swollen wrist in front of my face, I felt it only proper to reach out and gently laid my hand upon it.
“Can you feel that, dear?” I asked.
“I . . . I can indeed.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. Just as quickly, they sprang open. Then she pulled her arm away, covering her wrist with the sleeve of her dress.
“I’m sure it’s fine, Ivy. Nothing to worry about.”
Which was most peculiar. Utterly remarkable.
“I hope you do not take Miss Frost to heart, Ivy,” said Miss Always as we made our way into the kitchen for our tea. “I think it is very cruel, the way she delights in unsettling you—filling your mind with mischief and folly.”
I frowned. “Is that what she’s doing?”
“Well, what other explanation is there?” said Miss Always. “A smart girl like yourself would never actually believe that a band of mythical locks have come to Butterfield Park to steal the Clock Diamond.” She poured steaming tea into a cup and pushed it towards me. “But Miss Frost hopes that you will. It would amuse her greatly.”
Miss Always had just confirmed my own fears about the devious governess.
“Beastly woman!” I said, reaching for the sugar bowl.
I would have thought no more about Miss Always’s injured wrist, if not for a peculiar incident on my way down to dinner that evening. I had been looking for Rebecca, keen to find out more about Miss Rochester. She was not in the garden, nor the schoolhouse, so I decided to check the conservatory. As I was hurrying past the morning room, I stopped suddenly. How could I not—when from behind the closed door, I heard Miss Always utter my name?
With all the natural instincts of a Russian spy, I pressed my ear to the door. Miss Always was speaking with some urgency. This is what I heard.
“She is different from all the rest . . . that much is clear.” Then her voice dropped, and all I could pick up were fragments. “My wrist . . . swollen . . . Ivy . . . hand upon it . . . healed . . . most interesting . . . my plan is—”
Then silence. Hurried footsteps. Before I could retreat, the door swung open and Miss Always was eyeing me with suspicion. With staggering subtlety, I peered around her. The room appeared to be unoccupied.
“Ivy, what are you doing?” asked Miss Always rather sternly.
“Just eavesdropping, dear. It seemed like the right thing to do, as I heard you mention my name. Which is rather odd, as you appear to be alone.”
Her hard gaze gave way to a giggle. “You must think me unhinged!”
“The thought had occurred to me, dear.”
My friend raced to a writing table by the window and grabbed her bonnet. Then, putting her arm through mine, she walked me towards the great hall.
“I was composing a letter to my mother,” she explained, “and it is a habit of mine to speak the words aloud before I write them down.” She blushed. “I’m afraid you heard me singing your praises, Ivy. Mummy delights in reading about the wonderful things you say and do.”
That explained a great deal. But not everything.
“Forgive me, dear,” I said, “but I rather thought you said something about me healing your wrist. After you fell and hurt yourself earlier. Now that I think of it, you did react rather strangely when I put my hand upon your injury.”
Miss Always roared with laughter. Put a sisterly head on my shoulder. “Oh, Ivy, you do beat all! What I said was that you held my wrist. You see, I was very touched that when I was hurt you showed such loving kindness—and I wanted to share that in my letter.”
Which made perfect sense. And yet . . .
“May I see it, Miss Always?”
My friend stopped in her tracks. Her brow buckled. I believe she gulped. “See it?”
“Yes, dear—your wrist.”
“That seems rather unnecessary, Ivy.” She smiled tightly. “But if you insist. After all, I have nothing to hide.”
Slowly she pulled up the sleeve of her dress. Her wrist looked slender and pale. There was no redness or swelling at all. In fact, it appeared to be completely healed. In a single afternoon.
I was stunned.
“It is still terribly painful, though it doesn’t look it.” Miss Aways was speaking rather quickly. “As for the swelling, well, the sprain was really very minor. Also, I am a remarkably fast healer, and these things always fix themselves, don’t they? So it’s really no great surprise.” She looked at me with a mixture of pity and mild amusement. “Ivy, you don’t seriously think—?”
“Heavens no!” I said, slapping her shoulder. “Are you mad?”
I only hoped she believed me.
When we reached the great hall, Miss Always put on her bonnet and announced she was heading out for the evening. She didn’t say where she was going—just that she had an errand to run. Something that couldn’t wait. And that she wouldn’t be joining us for dinner.
I
saw her to the door, then decided to continue my search for Rebecca before the supper gong sounded. The conservatory was deserted. As was the music room. When I tried the drawing room, I didn’t find Rebecca, but I did find Lady Elizabeth and Lady Amelia. They were already dressed for dinner. Lady Amelia was working on her embroidery, and the old bat was reading a book.
“You’re a public menace!” she barked as I entered the room. “It took three baths to get the cheesecake from my skin!”
“No need to thank me, dear,” I said humbly. “The glorious glow on your haggard face is reward enough.”
“Hideous child!” she growled.
I was about to depart when Lady Amelia pricked her thumb with the needle. She cried out as it began to bleed.
Naturally, I was delighted.
“Let me have a look, dear,” I said, hurrying towards her.
Lady Amelia was making the sort of idiotic noises you would expect from a simpleton of high birth. Threatening to faint at the sight of her own blood. Wondering if the doctor should be called for and whatnot.
“Bunkum!” snapped Lady Elizabeth. “You’re barely bleeding, you foolish woman! I shot off a toe during a fox hunt and didn’t even stop for a bandage.”
I crouched down before Lady Amelia and looked at the wound. It was a great disappointment. Barely a drop or two of blood.
“Do you think I should have it bandaged?” she asked me fretfully.
“No need, unfortunately.”
Lady Elizabeth peered at me. “You sound disappointed, Miss Pocket.”
“I won’t lie, it is a great shame.” Then I had a glorious idea. “Lady Amelia, would you be a dear and prick yourself again—only this time with slightly more vigor?”
“I beg your pardon?” came the stunned reply.
“What did she say?” barked Lady Elizabeth, cupping her ear with a bony hand.
“I only ask in the interests of science. You see, I am testing a theory.” I was explaining myself beautifully. “But I require slightly more blood—also, a little more pain.” I sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d let me slam your fingers in the door? It would be a great help, dear.”
Lady Amelia gasped and paled. “Heavens, Ivy.”
“Defend yourself, Lady Amelia!” cried the old bat, thrusting her finger rather accusingly in my direction. “I knew you were dangerous, Miss Pocket. A bloodthirsty lunatic!”
“Calm down, you abominable windbag,” I said, in my most soothing voice. “Lady Amelia has the opportunity to assist me in a most remarkable discovery. She will be famous!”
Before Lady Amelia had a chance to leap up and run away, I grabbed her hand and quickly wrapped my fingers around her bleeding thumb.
“Slap her silly!” hollered Lady Elizabeth, swinging her cane at me (but missing by a mile). The crazed fossil was squinting furiously at us. “What’s she doing, Lady Amelia?”
“I have no idea,” said Lady Amelia, trying to yank her hand away.
“Trust me, dear,” I told her, holding on tightly, “you will be amazed. Astounded. Stupefied.”
I recalled that with Miss Always, I had only touched her injured wrist for a moment. But just to be certain, I held the bleeding thumb for a full minute. I may have even closed my eyes and made the odd mmm sound. It seemed appropriate.
Then I slowly uncurled my fingers and, filled with hope, looked down at Lady Amelia’s thumb. It looked perfect. No sign of bleeding at all. I was about to call the entire household together and declare myself a mystical healer. And I would have. If not for the hideous sight of blood oozing up from the pinprick and pooling on Lady Amelia’s skin. The wound was not even slightly healed. Which was frightfully inconvenient.
I got up. Patted Lady Amelia on the head like a puppy. Wished her well with her injury. And made a swift exit from the drawing room.
Lady Elizabeth may have hollered at me as I left—something about me being a dangerous fruitcake—but I was walking so quickly, I didn’t hear a word of it.
To my relief, I found Rebecca in the library. She was slumped in an armchair tucked away in a far corner of the darkened room, her hand dangling from the armrest. She looked dead. Fortunately, I saw the rise and fall of her chest. Just asleep. Then I noticed something else. Well, two things, to be exact. The first was a small red book in her lap—her hand was wrapped around it, her finger acting as a kind of bookmark. And it wasn’t just any book. It was the book. The one I had seen Miss Frost force upon her. The same book Rebecca had been clutching when she had her midnight meeting with Miss Frost. That’s when I noticed the second thing. Something was tied on a ribbon around her wrist. The key. The key to her room.
It seemed that fate was giving me a choice. I could read the book. Or take the key. Of course, I could do both. But what if she woke up when I took the book? Then I would never get my hands on that key. In the end, my decision was an easy one. With tremendous care—for I have all the natural instincts of a safecracker—I pulled gently on the pale blue ribbon. It unfurled, and the key dropped silently into my waiting palm.
At last!
I flew up the stairs and in no time was standing outside Rebecca’s bedroom door. I looked up and down the hall. Then looked again. No one was about. I slipped the key into the lock. Turned. It clicked crisply. The anticipation was delicious as I opened the door and stepped inside.
“Heavens . . .” That is what I said.
I looked about, bug-eyed, my gaze passing quickly over the wondrous chamber. What had I expected to find? Something shocking? Something sinister. Perhaps. But not this. Not a room crowded with, covered in, blanketed by—clocks. Clocks of every conceivable kind. Cuckoo clocks. Chiming clocks. Bracket clocks. Travel clocks. Chimney clocks. Lantern clocks. Mantel clocks. Big and small clocks. Clocks in black marble and green. Clocks in brass and silver and gold. Figurine clocks. Wooden clocks. Porcelain clocks. Gold clocks. Silver clocks. There were hundreds of them. Thousands, perhaps. Clocks covering every tabletop, every chest of drawers, every side table, every shelf. Clocks covering every part of the wall. Clocks crowding the floor. A path had been carved between them, leading from the bed to the door. With smaller trails leading to each table, desk, or cabinet.
And that was not the most shocking thing.
No. What gave me chills was that every single clock in that bedroom—each and every one—was perfectly synchronized. All ticking in unison. Practically shaking the room. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a heartbeat. This was the sound I had heard coming from her room. I was certain it would drive me bonkers. Perhaps that was what had happened to Rebecca.
Suddenly her peculiar behavior made more sense. Her secret package on the train. Matilda listening to the box. It all made sense. Yet it made no sense at all.
I wandered about the room. It was a museum of time. It had a strange beauty, and I got slightly lost in it, I suppose. Which might explain why I didn’t hear Rebecca slip into the room behind me. She didn’t yell. Didn’t throw me out. Didn’t even ask how I got the key.
“It’s not what you think,” she said.
“And what do I think, dear?” I said.
“That I’m mad,” she said. “That the clocks mean something. Something bad.”
I sat down on the bed. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to explain it for yourself?”
Rebecca sat down beside me. “When my mother got sick, they gave her a year. That’s what all the doctors from London said. She had one year to live. When I heard the news, I decided to work out exactly how much time my mother had. It mattered, don’t you see? If she only had a year, then every day and every hour and every minute mattered. It was all that mattered.”
She looked at me, and her eyes were pleading. Asking me if I understood. I can’t say that I did—not completely—but I nodded. “Go on,” I whispered.
“It started with one clock,” she said, looking about the room, “then two. I figured out that Mother had eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours left. One year. That’s five hundred and twenty-five
thousand six hundred minutes. I suppose I thought if I knew how long, exactly how long, and I marked the minutes and the hours . . . I suppose I thought I could hold on to it.”
“To time?”
Rebecca nodded. “If I could watch the seconds and the minutes and the hours, I could somehow master it. That I could somehow get her more. More time.” She smiled sadly. “It’s foolish, isn’t it?”
“Monstrously stupid,” I said, slipping my hand over hers. “But it’s also rather beautiful. Did your mother know about the clocks?”
“No.” She took a shaky breath. “You see, the doctors were wrong. They lied. She didn’t have a year at all. She died on the fourth day of the ninth month. She only had two hundred and forty-six days.” Rebecca looked at me, tears tracking down her face. She wasn’t sad. She was furious. “You understand, don’t you? We lost one hundred and nineteen days. That’s two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-six hours. All stolen from us—each and every minute.”
I nodded. “But the clocks, Rebecca. Why do you keep them now, after your mother has . . . now that she’s gone?”
“It makes me feel close to her, I suppose.” Rebecca smiled sadly. “I can’t stop collecting them. I have tried, but I can’t let them go. Do you think I’m mad?”
“Definitely,” I said. “But we are all a little bonkers. And what you’re doing here isn’t crazy. I think I would just call it sorrow and leave it at that.”
She seemed to like my diagnosis. We talked for an age. About clocks. And days. And minutes. About her mother. When Rebecca had spoken of her on the train, her voice had been full of sadness and regret. But something had changed. Now she seemed remarkably . . . hopeful. Yes, that was it.
She gave me a tour of her collection. By the time we were finished, I would have gladly never looked at another clock again. But I am a kindhearted creature—so I pretended to find them all fascinating. Rebecca was babbling on about a silver clock she’d bought from a traveling salesman in Bristol, which she had smuggled into the house under her dress, as I wandered around the room, nodding at regular intervals. I stopped before a crowded bookcase by the window and examined its ticking treasures. There were perhaps fifty clocks upon the shelves. But something else too. Behind a walnut traveling clock and a fob watch on a rusted stand. The fact that it wasn’t a clock caught my eye. It was a miniature portrait in a ghastly gold frame. I was curious. So I moved the clocks and reached for the painting.
