Chapter 2
Chapter
Hello again, London, old girl.”
Theodore planted his crutch on the street, absorbing the rattling, growling city that thrummed beneath his single worn boot. He inhaled the city’s unique stench—burning coal, horse manure, sewage from the Thames, and a hint of pretentious cologne. Just like he remembered.
By George, how he’d missed this place. Countless times, he’d wanted to return.
Longed to return. How excruciating it had been to wait for the haggard years and hard miles to form a rusted patina on his polished appearance and thus eliminate the risk of being recognized.
Now, finally, that day had come. All that remained was to find some tucked-away spot where he could settle down, tinker for his supper, and forget why he’d been forced to become a vagabond in the first place.
A peddler woman trudged by with a basket of posies clutched in her arthritic hands.
Theodore acknowledged her with the tip of an imaginary hat.
Her wrinkled grin set him off with a jaunty air to his one-legged, crutch-aided gait.
Right-oh. Everything was going to be all right.
The sun had risen in the east, constant and reliable as a finely crafted clock.
Life carried on with a chorus of clomping horse hooves, shouting costermongers, and laughing street urchins celebrating the spoils of a successfully picked pocket. And now it was his turn to—
“Oi, get back here!”
A ragamuffin barreled into Theodore and knocked him off-kilter.
Reeling, he braced against his prop and tensed every muscle, somehow managing not to hit the ground as a ruddy constable dashed by in pursuit.
The crutch dug into Theodore’s armpit as he breathed through clenched teeth, clinging to the names he’d carved deep in the woodgrain.
The names of the men he’d lost at the Charge.
A tribute to the fallen, and a tangible reminder that he was just like them. Forgotten in death.
Father had made sure of that.
Quickly, Theodore shoved the memories back in the clock casing that kept his pain hidden.
Contained. Without that mental encasement .
. . without Arthur . . . he wouldn’t have been able to carry on all those years ago.
Only when the case door was shut tight and his broken pieces locked away was he able to find his bearings.
Right-oh. Everything was going to be all right .
. . so long as he could keep up the pretense that nothing was wrong.
After trekking along for an hour or so, he reached the tick-tocking heartbeat of London’s timepiece trade, where entire streets were lined with clockmakers’ shops. Ones that hopefully needed an extra pair of hands. Question was, which one would be willing to hire a drifter off the street?
All the shops appeared to have been designed by one architect with traditional tastes and a limited imagination.
Wrought-iron hooks held glossy signs overhead that the elements were forbidden to touch.
Marble columns framed every doorway like pairs of footmen in livery, afraid to so much as sneeze.
Immaculate window displays boasted refinement and perfection, luring full purses with ornate clocks that varied from porcelain mantelpiece numbers to longcase clocks inlaid with gold.
Fine goods that indicated a chap wouldn’t get far without a smart suit and impressive references.
Yet one establishment at the end of the lane stood out like a hearty smile amid upturned noses.
An older building ambushed by progress and surrounded by new construction.
No fewer than six paint colors flaked off the speckled storefront, each shade representing a different season—long ago—when the owner had still bothered to keep up appearances.
The windows were devoid of wares for sale.
Devoid of anything apart from dusty curtains that veiled the interior in mystery.
There wasn’t even a sign over the door, just a pair of rusted chains robbed of purpose.
Surely this place wouldn’t snub a man who blended so well into its facade?
Leaning on his crutch, Theodore limped toward the anomaly. Nails pinned a torn sheet of parchment to the sun-bleached door, bearing seven words clumsily scrawled in black ink.
Drosselmeyer and Son, Unique Clocks and Dreams.
Theodore traced his finger across the last word. Dreams too often darkened to nightmares. Why, then, was this shop’s name so appealing? Probably because this ramshackle place was likely the only one to give him a chance to make some sort of life for himself.
With his free hand, Theodore swung open the door and hobbled inside, trading brilliant sunshine for the homey glow of gaslight.
A ragtag army of clocks pitched camp on every square inch of space, tick-tick-tocking in uniform rhythm.
He stopped in the middle of the uninhabited room, mouth agape.
The clockwork regiment heralded the new hour with an enthusiastic hurrah of gongs, chimes, dings, and cuckoos, as if to extend him a friendly welcome.
A greeting that stirred the very windings of his soul.
One wounded soldier limped to join its brothers, sounding a metallic ping at two minutes past. Hmmm .
. . the regulation needed adjusting. If he could regulate the clock’s movement, it might induce the proprietor to consider him for hire.
Theodore approached the east wall’s cluttered shelves in search of the tardy timepiece, only to be distracted by a captivating cuckoo.
A graceful ballerina twirled in place of the expected bird.
Never in all his days had he beheld finer craftsmanship.
Not even amongst the timepieces he’d taken apart as a boy and reassembled gear by gear at Kingsley Court.
His mind recoiled too late. The jaws of wretched memory clamped down hard and fast, piercing him once more with Father’s words. “If you were going to besmirch the family honor so spectacularly, you might’ve at least had the decency to die.”
The memory spit Theodore from its maw, and he caved upon his crutch, trembling inside and out. Coming here was a mistake. A shop of dreams was no place to escape one’s nightmares.
As he turned to make his escape, an insect landed on his shoulder.
He brushed it off, but the persistent pest buzzed round and settled on his crutch hand.
Bothersome gnats. Ready with a well-aimed smack, his free hand stilled over a tiny butterfly.
Switching the prop to his unoccupied hand, he raised the bug to eye level. By jove, it was a machine!
Superbly crafted from tarnished brass, the automaton resembled a life-size speckled wooden butterfly, complete with white enamel spots inlaid along the edge of each delicate wing.
The butterfly’s antennae twitched and wings undulated, readying to take flight with the aid of an intricate clockwork movement, the likes of which he’d never seen.
“My inventions have always been able to recognize other clockmakers.” A male voice chuckled behind him, and the butterfly alighted, as if beckoned by the sound.
Theodore whirled round to find an elderly man with bright eyes topped by feathery brows of wizened white.
The clockwork butterfly joined a flutter of others nestled in the man’s receding hair and unkempt mustache.
A bemused grin creased the fellow’s face as he studied Theodore. “Who’d you apprentice for, lad?”
Tremors be hanged. He couldn’t afford to pass up interest from a potential employer.
“I’ve trained under clockmakers in Switzerland, Austria, Germany, France, Italy, and even as far off as Egypt and India.
None of my previous employers are notable beyond the borders of their respective countries, but each are skilled and talented craftsmen.
I learned a great deal from them, one and all.
Although I didn’t stay in any one place long enough to receive proper references, I give you my word that I’m a hard worker.
Knowledgeable and willing to learn more still.
I can prove as much, if you’re willing to give me a chance, sir. ”
The man shuffled over, leaving open the door to what must be his workshop. He extended a hand, weathered but steady. “C. E. Drosselmeyer at your service.”
Accepting the handshake, Theodore smiled. “What’s the C. E. stand for?”
“An old family name with more letters than is decent. Folks just call me Drosselmeyer. Much simpler. Rolls off the tongue like that drivel called poetry. And you are?”
“Name’s Arthur.” He’d said it often enough, it almost felt true.
“Arthur . . . what?”
“Just Arthur.” A name chosen at random, a name without shame or shadows.
“Much simpler.” Theodore winked. Respond with minimal information and misdirection.
Worked like a debutante’s charm . . . if only it weren’t becoming so dratted hard to pull off.
Five long years of stuffing traumatic memories and overwhelming emotion deep inside had stressed the hinges of the casing he’d built to confine them.
Drosselmeyer twirled his downy mustache. “From where do you hail, young man?”
“As my unwritten reference suggests, I’ve lived here, there, and everywhere in between.”
“No, son. I mean, where are you from? Where is home?”
Where, indeed. After years of searching, he’d yet to find such a thing. Theodore mustered a hearty chuckle that, on a good day, would’ve come naturally. “I don’t have any property to my name. Houses and land aren’t for the likes of me. Roads and rails, that’s where I live.”
“Again, you mistake my meaning. Home is neither house nor land.” Reaching into his wild mane, Drosselmeyer gathered three of the butterflies and arranged them in a row on one finger. “Home is your people. Generations, roots, family.”
“Family?” Pain snapped in Theodore’s chest, paralyzing breath like a broken rib.
“Aye, the ones you miss. The ones who miss you.”
The one I disappointed from birth.