CHAPTER 2
Storytellers might have described Marinda’s little cottage, yard, and garden plot as idyllic, but no storytellers would ever write about this place. It was just her home, and it was perfect because that was how Marinda chose to define perfection.
Marking the head of the path that branched off to the cottage stood a five-foot-high burlwood angel. This particular angel looked bent rather than majestic; one wing tucked under the other gave the impression that she was flightless. Only perfect burlwood angels were sent to the markets in Crown City, while less successful carvings, like this one, remained in Lugtown like beloved albeit misfit children.
Marinda headed back to the cottage much earlier than expected. But Arlen Peake could be capricious and unpredictable himself, so he wouldn’t be overly bothered by the change in schedule.
As an inventor, he was expected to be eccentric. If the rumors were true, the Watchmaker himself had tolerated Arlen’s unorthodox behavior—and if the loving Watchmaker allowed it, then the people of Lugtown wouldn’t hold it against him (although, truth be told, the eccentric behavior presented its own challenges for Marinda, on top of caring for his other infirmities).
The conversation with Benjulian Frull had troubled Marinda. She knew she had to accept that her father would pass on someday, and then the cottage would belong to her. In the typical blueprint of a life in Albion, Marinda would have settled in that cottage with a husband and a family, maybe three children, maybe even redheaded and freckled boys, but she had deviated from that norm. She would find a profession for herself, do something useful and interesting to occupy her days, and carry on.
The Clockwork Angels said that good work leads to good fortune, and she had no doubt that her fortune would continue, with or without whatever secret gold her father had stashed away from his time in Crown City. Marinda didn’t think about it often. We get what we deserve. That was what the Watchmaker always said.
In front of the cottage, she saw the three clockwork Regulators that Arlen had built out of spare parts scrounged from mining machinery at the agate quarry, engineering castoffs from the regular steamliner, and specialized components ordered from providers in Crown City. The mechanical Regulators were powered by tiny rock pearls glowing with quintessence, assisted by standard spring-driven clockwork mechanisms.
Arlen Peake had named the three windup companions Zivo, Woody, and Lee, apparently after three Regulator friends he had known back in Crown City. Her father often told wistful stories about the real friends, but he said very little about his time in the Regulator barracks or the Watchmaker’s tower. “That is a story you will get in due time, my sparkling daughter,” he had said. “All in its time, all in its place.” She could accept that.
The clockwork Regulators were four feet tall with metal arms and legs, pulleys and pistons that glowed with the addition of coldfire fuel. Each head was a smooth copper pot painted with a cheery face. They ratcheted about, did their assigned tasks. To prevent overheating, puffs of steam would blast out from tiny vents where their ears should have been. Each wore a downsized uniform just like that of a traditional Regulator, Zivo in the bright uniform of the Red Guard, Woody dressed as a member of the Blue Guard, while Lee served as a miniature Black Guard.
When Arlen Peake had built these three charming companions, he’d intended for them to do household chores and work in the garden. He wanted to ease Marinda’s burden of taking care of him, so she could have the freedom to live her own life. Alas, the three artificial Regulators required their own maintenance and supervision, which negated any time savings.
Black-uniformed Lee stood guard on the walkway, as if ruthless bandits from chaotic times before the Watchmaker’s Stability might raid the cottage…although this clockwork contraption could have done little to defend them.
Woody worked the well pump in the yard to fill a water bucket, since Wednesday was soup night. The Regulator activated the syncopated well-pumping station, a set of gears that spun an engine driven by a few drops of coldfire. He set the wheels in motion, oscillating a piston up and down, and water spilled clear and silver into the bucket.
Meanwhile, his red uniform covered with mud, Zivo used a diminutive hoe to chop weeds in the garden. Unfortunately, his crude visual sensors were poorly calibrated, and he couldn’t always tell the difference between weeds and vegetables.
“Hello Lee,” she said, as she always did when she returned home. The clockwork Regulator snapped to attention, as if to prove that he took his guard duties seriously.
“Hello Zivo.” The mechanical man in the garden swung his hoe right into the center of a thriving potato plant.
“Hello Woody.” The blue-uniformed contraption bent his copperpot head in a nod. She took the water bucket from him, and Woody ratcheted off to do other household chores, walking a path around the cottage, circle after circle after circle like a turning clockwork gear.
Carrying the bucket, she entered the cottage. Her father had heard her come up the path, and he smiled in her general direction. The old man sat propped in his calibrated chair, bathed in warm afternoon sunlight from the window. The chair was motivated by a clock that Arlen adjusted for the seasons, which moved the chair at the same speed that the patch of sunlight crossed the floor. He was like a cat soaking up the warmth. Six different clocks set within randomly shaped blocks of polished burlwood hung on the walls, ticking synchronously.
He squinted at her, although he could barely see. “Hello, my sparkling daughter.”
At his side Arlen kept an array of magnifying glasses of various diameters and curvatures. On his blanketed lap, he had spread out a map of random lines, some dotted, some bold. She didn’t know how he could discern anything even under the highest magnification, but that didn’t stop her father from trying.
He was too proud to admit he could no longer do the things he used to do, but he occupied himself with pondering rather than reading. He held up the paper and smiled at her, but his gaze was off by a few degrees. “I’ve learned a great deal. This is a secret map.”
“A map?” she asked, tucking the blanket around his legs. “A map of what?” And where do you expect to travel? she thought. How do you imagine you might get there? You should stay home and think about practical things.
“It shows the rivers under the Redrock Desert.”
“And what good is that? We’re nowhere near the Redrock Desert. I don’t even know where it is.”
“You should know your geography better, my dear. It’s on the continent of Atlantis, far beyond the alchemy mines, on the other side of the mountains.” He spoke as if he had been there himself. Maybe he had…but if so, her father had never told her about it.
“Well, Albion is a long way from Atlantis,” Marinda said, activating the efficient coldfire burner so she could boil the soup water. “And my feet are sore just from walking to Lugtown and back.”
“You should plan a trip to Atlantis,” Arlen suggested. “Book passage on a cargo steamer. Go to Poseidon City.”
“Now why would I want to do that? I have you to take care of, I have this cottage, I have everything I need.”
“But is it everything you want?”
“Yes it is. Now I have to get busy making dinner.”
As the pot simmered, she prepared the salves, unguents, and medicinal powders for her father’s various ailments. Arlen opened the small bottles and jars by feel, sniffed the preparations. He wiped a gummy substance over his milky eyes; it smelled like almonds and was supposed to increase his visual acuity, a claim that Arlen did not confirm. Other compounds were for his aching joints, his digestion, his heart. The mixtures muddled his thoughts, and her father sometimes preferred to deal with the pain rather than lose his mental sharpness. He told her he still had too many ideas to work out.
The three clockwork Regulators came inside as she and her father ate their meal. The clicking hum of the clockwork Regulators and the hiss of occasionally vented steam added to the comforting tick-tock of the burlwood clocks on the wall.
The soup contained cabbage, root vegetables, and a small amount of minced chicken, accompanied by a loaf of day-old bread she had gotten for a bargain at the Lugtown Bakery. It was a frugal meal, as was Marinda’s habit. Her father insisted they didn’t have to be so careful with their money, but since Marinda had never seen any sign of his alleged secret gold, she preferred to be conservative.
While Marinda sipped soup and judiciously sopped the rest with a hunk of bread, old Arlen talked wistfully about the remote alchemy mines on far-off Atlantis and the exotic and dangerous Poseidon City. He had read about such places in books that he kept on his shelf, but once his eyesight had begun to fail, he had asked her to read to him. Marinda did so because she loved her father (although she did the reading reluctantly, not wanting to encourage foolish ideas).
As if he could sense her impatience with fanciful tales, old Arlen tried to bring the stories closer to home. “Since you’ve never found Atlantis interesting, I’ll tell you about wondrous places right here in Albion.”
“It sounds interesting enough, Father,” she said as she gathered their bowls, wrapped the last of the bread, and cleaned the kitchen. “But Atlantis and even the rest of Albion are too far away for me to bother with.”
“Too far away?” Arlen’s eyes were still filmy from the salve. “What is the distance of dreams?” He sighed. “I’ve saddled you with too many responsibilities here, and I apologize. I never should have done that to you.”
Marinda clucked. “It’s a daughter’s duty to take care of her father. If I had gotten married according to the original plan, I would be busy caring for my family, and I still wouldn’t have a chance to gallivant off to strange continents and foreign cities.”
“Not even the Alchemy College? To Crown City? Everyone should see the Clockwork Angels at least once in their lives.”
Marinda moved his chair to the hearth where she added a lump of imported redcoal. It was late spring and the nights were getting warmer, but Arlen was easily chilled. “Maybe I’ll get around to it someday, when I’m not so busy.”
With a long sigh, her father looked right at her for the first time in months. “I am so sorry for you.”
She adjusted his blanket. “As I said, there’s truly no apology necessary.”
He looked away. “And I’m more sorry that you don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.”
Night had fallen and the stars were bright outside. On his shelf, her father kept star charts that identified constellations and asterisms. He had often encouraged her to go look at the night sky to understand the clockwork universe. More than once, she reassured Arlen that she would do just that, primarily so he would go to bed in peace, but she hadn’t yet gotten around to stargazing.
Tonight, though, he didn’t ask her to read to him or step outside to look at the stars. “I think I’ll go to bed early, if you can help me?” He just seemed more tired than usual as she took him to the bedroom.
Out of habit, Marinda turned the key in the special antique clock on his shelf, which supposedly commemorated his service to the Watchmaker. Her father sat on the bed and fumbled around the nightstand table, then patted the bedspread, searching. “Where’s my…thing?”
She knew what he meant. She picked up an unusual helmet contraption of his own devising. “Your sequential optical enhancement device. You invented it—you should remember what you named it.”
He reached out for her to hand him the helmet, which he attached to his head. Leather straps and buckles fitted it to the back of his skull, and a visor composed of integrated lenses and prisms, clear lenses, blue lenses, red lenses, covered his face. He made adjustments to the visor, shifted the lenses into place, and lay back on his pillow, letting out a long contented breath.
“I don’t know how you can sleep with that on,” she said.
“I’ve gotten used to it. My body presents enough other inconveniences—I can tolerate this one.”
She stood at his bedside, frowning. “But why do you need an optical enhancement device when you’re sleeping?”
From behind the complicated helmet, he said, “To see my dreams better, of course. Where is your imagination?” She kissed him on the chin, the only spot she could reach beneath his helmet contraption. “May your dreams be pleasant ones, my sparkling daughter,” he said. “Always.”
She dimmed the lights in his room, even though he couldn’t see anything with the optical contraption over his eyes. “Good night to you too, Father.” It did not seem to be the acknowledgment he was looking for.
Marinda dampened the motivator engines of the three clockwork Regulators, shutting them down for the night, so that the only sound she heard was the ticking of the numerous clocks. She stayed up by herself in the main room, reading by coldfire light.
Bookshelves filled one wall, and Marinda glanced at the novels, legends, fanciful stories. She had never paid much attention to the titles or subjects. In recent years, she had read some of them aloud to her father, at his insistence, although she never understood the charm of fanciful fiction.
This night, she worked on the household accounting instead, then she extinguished the remaining redcoal in the hearth and went to her own room where she slept soundly, assured that the budget was in order.
Next morning, she awoke, started the coldfire stove, and put on a kettle to boil for their morning tea. She reactivated the three clockwork Regulators and went in to wake her father. Although he usually stirred before she did, sometimes he chose to sleep in.
She entered Arlen’s room to find an odd silence and she realized that the special clock from Crown City had run down. She frowned. What had her father called that gift from the Watchmaker? A Lifeclock. Well, apparently it wasn’t good for much of anything.
Arlen Peake lay in bed with the optical contraption still covering most of his face, and when she tried to shake him awake, he did not respond. He wore a smile on his face as if the strange helmet had actually sharpened the visual acuity of his dreams.
He had died in his sleep.