“Don’t be,” he says with a sly grin. “I am sorely in need of an apprentice, and since Bran is nowhere to be seen at this hour, would you like to be useful and help me reset the carillon mechanism? I am finally close to being finished! Just another key piece to fit tomorrow and I think I’ll have it,” he says, standing up on the scaffolding and stepping back to inspect the circular racks of bells that comprise the carillon.
“Will this set the bells off now?” I ask, unprepared to be so close to the hulking chimes when they erupt. It’s late, and would wake the whole city. And I’ve had enough of the bells at Wolfspire Hall ringing endlessly in mourning of the Margrave.
“No,” Emmitt replies, rubbing his bleary eyes, “but it will mean that once I get the final piece in place, they shall be ready to ring at noon. The glockenspiel will be fully restored, finally. Just a little too late for the Margrave to see it.”
“Well,” I say, rising to stand with him and survey the inner workings of the tower, “it’s an impressive piece. Don’t worry about it being too late; your clocks are only ever on time. Tell me what to do.”
I slink home late after helping Emmitt and don’t feel the least scrap of guilt about it. The hour I go to bed now matters to no one but myself; I bolt the doors and bury myself under my covers, falling into a restless dreaming that barely resembles sleep.
I jolt awake to the screaming and scraping of the tree at my window. “Wake! See to the tower—a shadow is on the move!”
I sit up stiffly, unsure if I’ve slept at all or if this is just part of the ongoing dream I’ve felt trapped in since Papa died. Died. The finality of that word hasn’t released me from its grip.
“See to the tower!” the tree cries again. “Hurry! Before it’s too late!”
From the window I spot the distant sputtering halo of Emmitt’s lantern in the glockenspiel tower. The sun isn’t risen yet; the sky still clutches at the cover of night. But the tree’s screams do not let up.
I fell into bed clad in yesterday’s dress, so I hastily toss a cloak over my shoulders and shove my feet back into my clogs. After a moment’s debate of whether or not to wake Bran, I drop to my knees and scramble to the cupboard. I pry my side open. I shove his door ajar and call through.
“Bran! Bran!”
Within seconds, Bran’s weary face appears above bare shoulders in the cupboard. “Hurry! It’s Emmitt! The clock tower!”
He doesn’t question me.
“I’m coming!” He slams the cupboard door shut.
Meeting in the narrow alley behind our row, we run through the village to the tower.
“He said he was nearly done,” I pant. “Only one more piece was required. I helped him reset the carillon just a few hours ago.”
Bran runs even faster and I match him step for step. We sprint to the tower’s entry door, which is still closed, just as I left it.
“Emmitt!” Bran yells at the top of his lungs, unconcerned about waking anyone in earshot. “Emmitt, you still up here?”
No answer.
“Would never leave his lantern burning …” Bran mumbles, thundering up the constricting stairs. The tower seems to be narrowing the higher we climb. “He’s always cautious of fire up here! One spark could take down the whole apparatus!”
I was just here. He was just fine.
Did the cog thief return to steal something else? Did he fall? Emmitt was sure-footed, but he was up here alone, working in the darkness. One slip of a shoe on that tottery old scaffolding … I instantly fear the worst.
The trees at the edges of the square continue their bellowing, and I can still hear them faintly. “Hurry! The shadow is loose!”
Shadow?
We burst onto the lower-tier platform of the glockenspiel, both of us screaming Emmitt’s name like banshees.
“He was up there!” I cry, pointing to the ladder that will deliver us to the second tier.
We ascend, Bran’s heels nearly jamming into my head in his haste as he takes the rungs two at a time. A grating sound pours forth above and the scaffolding around the glockenspiel begins to shake. The whole tower feels as if it might take flight. Metal grinds against metal as the large flywheel and gears operating the second tier of the glockenspiel awaken and churn in rotation.
On the second level, still no Emmitt. I look to the eaves, where the doves scatter and beat their wings at the clamor of the glockenspiel coming to life. Higher still, bats swoop and dive from the high cupola. Bran shoves me back against the wall before we are nearly sheared off by the wooden figurines returning to their ancient orbit.
Emmitt did it! He fixed the old glockenspiel.
Up close, the hissing groans of the whole beastly thing are deafening. The wolves and men return to their endless hunt, circling round and round, trying to catch one another’s tails.
Creak. Ratchet. Tock, tock. Creak—hiss! Rachet. Tock, tock.
The apparatus picks up pace, making a sad, metallic music of its own. The bells are silent; only the glockenspiel carousel is set in motion. And still there is no trace of the clockmaker.
“Emmitt!” I call again, peering over Bran’s shoulder into the dark corners for any sign of him. I only see the same discarded figurines I saw several hours ago. Perhaps he was called away in a hurry. But no, his tools are still scattered at our feet. I know he wouldn’t leave them like this willingly, especially not after losing several to recent pilfering.
Bran utters a horrified gasp and pushes me back against the wall once more, covering me until I can hardly see.
“What is it?” I whisper, clutching his arm, straining around him to look.
“No!” he chokes.
“Oh,” I cry.
In one shattering moment, death pierces my heart anew. For there, emerging from the dark
