Sixty-Three
“You have overstepped yourself, Lady Espidra,” the clockmaker says. “Once again.”
Arabella rises. She stumbles to him. “Help us! Undo this curse, I beg you!”
The clockmaker takes her hands in his. His bloodless lips part and he speaks an incantation, too, but it is too little, too late.
Child, what have you summoned here?
A demon named Despair, I fear.
A heartless creature, dark and dire,
Whose hands will light your funeral pyre.
I cannot stop what she’s begun,
Or turn back what’s already done.
But some things I can yet put right:
A beast you’ll be, but at midnight.
The souls imprisoned in the clock
Must stay. Their fates I can’t unlock.
To those not yet held captive there,
I shall, for now, entrust your care.
Despair’s foul curse can’t be unspoken,
But there is one way it can be broken.
Mend what you have torn apart.
Pick up the pieces of your heart.
Seek kindness, trust, a hand extended,
Till one you shunned is now befriended.
Cross the bridge, unwind the years,
Escape this prison of your fears.
That’s how you will break this curse,
And undo this infernal verse.
And when to love you finally learn
You will be loved in return.
But a warning now, to one and all,
As you fight against Despair’s dark pall …
The clockmaker is about to speak the last few lines of his poem, but before he can, there is an explosive crash and glass shards rain down on the floor. Arabella stands behind Beau, her chest heaving. She has thrown an inkwell at the mirror, but it—not the mirror—has shattered, covering the silver glass in black ink. It drips from the frame and pools on the floor.
The mirror looks as if it’s bleeding.