One morning, Elle woke and stumbled out of her lightless chamber to find that bright shafts of sunlight were shining into her room. She walked up to the panes and looked out into the street below. Everything seemed hazy and brown, a bit like the sepia of a badly developed photograph, and it took her a moment to work out that the windowpanes really were very dusty indeed. She walked over to the newspaper which resting on the tray that had been left out for her as it was every morning.
It was the fifteenth of May, 1904. Her twenty-fifth birthday.
Three months had passed without her even noticing. And still, he was gone.
She pulled on her dressing robe over the pink scars that now marked her forearms. The scars were a painful reminder of the fateful night when her life had ended.
On a whim, she decided to see who else was about. She pulled on a pair of satin slippers and padded down the hallway.
The house around her felt empty and hollow. Sheets covered all the mirrors and all the curtains were drawn. For this was indeed a house of mourning.
In the drawing room, no fire had been lit and she shivered at the sight of the abandoned bath chair which still stood beside the fire. Empty.
She turned and walked through to the breakfast room. It was chilly in here, despite the brightness outside. She noticed that the plants in the conservatory had wilted and turned brown. Only a few brave ferns still clung to life in their dried out ports.
Edie came by, carrying a bucket and stopped in her tracks. “My lady!” she blurted and immediately averted her eyes.
“Edie, is that you?” Elle croaked. Her voice still felt rough and husky after all this time.
“My lady,” Edie said again.
“Where is everybody?”
“Well, ma’am, Neville has moved on. The professor did his best to give him a good reference, so he’s decided to join the army. The last we heard they were sending him to the Balkans to see if the trouble brewing there could be sorted. And for the rest, well, it’s just me and Mr. Caruthers left now. We do the best we can, but this is a big house to care for.” She looked away, slightly embarrassed at the admission.
Elle sat down on one of the chairs and rubbed her face. Her skin felt greasy and her eyes scratchy. She realized to her dismay that she could not remember the last time she had brushed her teeth properly.
“Would you like me to fetch you something, my lady?” Edie said shifting from one foot to the other, clearly becoming more and more distressed at the sight of Elle, half-dressed and wild-haired, wandering though the house like a lost soul.
These thoughts somehow jolted Elle out of her reverie. She focused on Edie who was still holding the bucket.
“You know what, I think you can,” Elle said. “Bring me some fresh towels. I think I would like to take a nice hot bath. And afterward, I think I shall have some breakfast. Perhaps a cup of tea and some fried egg.”
She had eaten fried egg on that first breakfast she shared with Marsh on the day after their escape from Paris. She had such a fight with Mrs. Hinges about setting the table with the best linen. Somehow the memory of it gave her comfort.
“Yes, my lady,” Edie said. She picked up her bucket and rushed off to tend to the task at hand.
Elle walked up to the windows of the breakfast room and dragged the floral print curtains open. A puff of dust rose up off them and sifted down onto her shoulders, but she hardly noticed, for the sun shone through the windows in and onto the carpet in glorious bright shafts.
Elle stared up at the sky. It was the perfect blue of late spring, with only a little headwind, judging by the speed of the giant white clouds that crept across it.
Then she took a deep, cleansing breath.
Today was a new day. Her life was beginning again. And the weather looked like it might be perfect for flying.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In many ways, a second novel is almost harder to write than a first. The playing field changes, the demands of the author are different and with this new world comes a whole new set of challenges.
I can say without hesitation that A Clockwork Heart would never have reached fruition in time if it had not been for the magnificent team of people assembled behind me. Writing might be the most solitary of occupations, but bringing novels into the world is very much a team effort.
So to Michael and Tricia, thank you again for everything and for dealing with my emails sent while hiding in ficus plants in the ladies’ with such grace.
To the lovely Emily Yau. Thank you so much for your patience and your dedication. Your eye for detail is amazing. To Hannah Robinson who looks after all the millions of tiny dots that make up the rather frantic pointillist world of a writer. I don’t know how I ever managed without you.
To Joe Scalora and Sarah Peed who look after me in America, and who stay with me in spirit on that side of the world.
Also, a very special word of thanks to Justine Taylor for the copy edits. Without her, the whole world would know that I mostly never know what day of the week it is.
And last but not least, a special mention Oliver Munson and Melis Dagoglu. Thank you for the support and feedback and for knowing just what to say when the clouds roll in.
I have asked Mrs Hinges to bake strawberry tarts for all of you, but even such sublime confections don’t adequately express my gratitude.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LIESEL SCHWARZ is a lifelong fan of nineteenth-century Gothic literature. She is also a hopeless romantic who loves Victorians, steampunk, fairies, fantasy monsters, the fin de siècle, and the correct way to drink absinthe. She also likes medieval things, pirates, zombies, space operas, and all subjects in between.
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