“Me too,” Emmitt agrees quietly.
“Then how can you stand to be so near these?” says Fonso to Nan, flexing his meaty arms in her face.
“I barely manage,” she deadpans.
“But why so clodding many all at once?” Tiffin asks the question that rides like a phantom on my shoulder these days.
A burst of light breaks over the dark pub as Bran comes in. Something in my chest tightens. I can’t read if he’s mad at me, or hurt, or both. Maybe he regrets ever opening that cupboard door. He sits down across from me, claps Emmitt on the back, and immediately orders a drink from Gert. Seconds later she slops a huge mug before him, its contents swaying like the movement of her wide, aproned hips.
“What’d I miss?” he asks the table.
“Like the rest of us, you’re late,” says Nan. “Fonso thinks the great meat hooks he calls hands are weapons, Tiffin is drowning in a pile of molten metal courtesy of our great and lofty Margrave, and Pirouette looks as if she’d much rather be sitting next to you than me, given the way she’s been trailing you like a hawk on a mouse since you walked in.”
I blush fiercely and return my gaze to my cup.
“As for Emmitt here, well, who knows?” Nan lowers her voice. “Erundle the chromatist heard from one of the Margrave’s washerwomen, who overheard from one of the steward’s chambermaids, that the Margrave is definitely considering someone else to name as heir—someone more suited to leading,” Nan continues, tapping a fine-boned finger on the table. “You know we all have high hopes for you, Emmitt.”
The rumor that the Margrave is wavering on naming his heir still hasn’t died. Anytime the young duke appears sickly it makes the rounds at market, an undercurrent of promise.
“I can’t wait ’til that old goat is put out to pasture,” Fonso growls.
“Pure hogwash and speculation.” Emmitt shakes his head. “Such things aren’t done. Laszlo was reared at Wolfspire Hall, with the best tutors and all the lessons, breeding, and military instruction that comes with it. Much safer that way. What does a clockmaker know of such things? Forget about it. Mother and I have long put those thoughts away. The rest of you’d best do the same.”
“Rumors often spring from a kernel of truth, Emmitt! You’ve always been the first among us to speak up in the market when someone is treated unfairly or give away what you have to help someone else. Why I saw you literally give that wandering minstrel—the one who’s perpetually drunk and reeks of rotten fish—the shirt off your back just last week. Surely those things count for more than all the fine tutoring gold can buy!” Nan says passionately.
“Rumors often get the talebearer in a world of trouble,” snipes Tiffin, irritated at her for speaking of such things in public.
I sympathize with his uneasiness, especially with Papa still in the Keep.
“Fine, you dull-headed chisel of a boy,” she snaps back, lowering her voice again. “I understand it’s risky. But just think! He is the oldest of the Margrave’s sons! To have a maker ruling Tavia? Reporting to the king for us? It could change everything!”
Emmitt raises both hands in protest. “I may be the man’s offspring—unfortunately—but I’m not privy to his plans.” He fiddles with a watch on a gold chain attached to his vest. It belonged to his mother’s husband, the late clockmaker. “He speaks of nothing but clocks or the glockenspiel project when he sends for me. Fairly sure that’s all I’m good for—another tool he can use to fix something broken. And the duke?” He laughs bitterly. “He’s never even spoken to me, though I’m certain he knows who I am.”
I try to change the subject. “How is the glockenspiel coming?”
“Ach, I feel as if I will never be finished!” Emmitt sighs, rubbing the back of his head. He’s spent the better part of the past year toiling in the old clock tower among the many rows of rusty bells and gears and figurines.
“Personally, I don’t care if you ever finish it,” I pipe up, taking another drink. “I’ve never liked it.”
“Sacrilege!” cries Nan in mock horror.
The glockenspiel in the marktplatz was installed long before our time—the village center’s sole piece of architectural glory. It was supposed to be a tableau of victory from the time when wolves roamed our land and men struggled to carve out a home among the beasts, but it’s always left a bad taste in my mouth. The carousels of snarling wolves chasing farmers, the clash of soldiers at war with the wolves. The tinny, strangled sound of the old bells. Their song always sounded sad, the bells too high and haunting to be happy.
The Margrave put Emmitt to his task when the bells no longer chimed at noonday, like they always had. It’s been silent for ages.
“I’m fighting a never-ending battle against rust and damp up there. I’m doing my best to ensure the gears and cogs will last another hundred years or so, but it’s tedious work, to be sure.”
“If it’s your handiwork, Emmitt, no doubt it will last longer than that,” Bran says admiringly.
“The thing is, I keep returning to find pieces broken and missing—almost as if someone has been up there at night, messing about. I don’t understand it.”
“A cog thief?” Nan asks.
“Something like that. The Margrave isn’t happy it’s taking so long, but there’s only so much one man can do in the face of such a monumental piece like the glockenspiel. It’s no pocket watch,” he adds.
“Probably just some lazy lout’s idea of a joke,” suggests Tiffin.
“Possibly,” says Emmitt, looking worried.
“I’ll come help tomorrow, if I can,” Bran offers.
“Thanks,” Emmitt says, a smile lifting the wide corners of his mouth. “Wish I could lend a hand to you all, but I’m a bit buried at the moment.”
As if she timed it just right to bask in his smile, Gert plops a fresh mug
