Legacy of the Clockwork Key Read online

  “Listen, girl. We never speak of that day. Never. Do you hear me?”

  I nodded.

  “You’d best get to your work and stay at it,” Agnes warned. I hurried toward the door, my mind reeling. “Don’t come down for tea. You’ve taken more than your share already.”

  The rest of the day, thoughts of the baroness consumed me. Every room I wandered through, all I could see was her touch. The teacup that had spilled in the sitting room, it was hers. It looked as if she could have just overturned it, not as if eighteen years had passed.

  She was at the heart of all of this, and for the first time I began to feel I understood my employer.

  What had happened to his wife that terrible day? My racing thoughts kept sleep away that night. The house creaked and groaned. I felt the shadows fill with the presence of the dead.

  I didn’t know what drew me out of bed, but I couldn’t ignore my restlessness. Gathering my petticoats, I threw a shawl over my shoulders. I lit a candle from the glowing embers of the fire and crept through the dark house.

  As I passed the study, a flash of something pale caught my eye. With trepidation, I entered the dark room. The light of my candle caught the crystal of the ornate clock on the mantel, but my eyes were drawn to the portrait hanging above the clock.

  A young woman with lovely dark hair and deep soulful eyes rested her hand on the back of a chair. Elegant in a white ball gown, she stared into the room with a sad smile on her softly painted lips.

  I’d seen her a hundred times. There were a lot of portraits of stuffy aristocrats in the house. I hadn’t paid much mind to any of them until now. Now I could see her, the baroness. She was the reason that time had stopped and I was bound in servitude to madness.

  What a strange thought, that this woman had the power to stop time. She was beautiful, truly lovely. I was a mouse by comparison, with my dust-brown braids and gray eyes. She looked delicate, like a porcelain doll on a shelf, the kind no child plays with for fear it will break. I opened the shutter to let in more light. The full moon shone on the snow in the garden and cast a haunting silver light across the mantel.

  My grandfather’s musical locket fell against my heart as I looked at the baroness.

  “What happened to you?” I asked. I waited for a long moment as if the portrait could tell me. She only stared. It was foolish, and I was foolish for being up so late. I placed a hand on the mantel and looked at the clock as if it could still tell me the time, but its hands remained frozen.

  That’s when I noticed it.

  The gold medallion in the center of the clock had an etching on it, a flower with three petals.

  Just like my locket.

  My heart beat heavy in my chest, flooding my ears with the sound. A chill raced down my neck as I reached up and touched the medallion on the clock.

  It swiveled to the side, revealing a brass wheel with an indent the size and shape of the structure that had risen out of my locket.

  I dropped my hand and took a step back. My throat tightened. I tried to swallow. What was this?

  The clock drew me back like a flame beckoning a hapless moth. For the first time, I noticed my grandfather’s mark on the base. Papa had made this clock. The baron had said he’d known my family. He must have commissioned the clock when Papa still ran my father’s shop.

  The locket wasn’t merely a locket. It was a key!

  I grabbed the locket from about my neck and cracked it open. The silver flower rose up, and I knew immediately what to do. I fitted it into the brass wheel and pressed the button on the back of the locket.

  The song played as the wheel turned. To my astonishment a panel rose just beneath the medallion, revealing a very small set of keys, like a tiny pianoforte.

  As each note of my grandfather’s song rang clear and bright in the darkness, I looked over my shoulder, worried someone might come through the door at any moment.

  With a click, the song stopped right in the middle of a musical phrase. My heart stopped too, even as my mind continued the melody of the song.

  What was I supposed to do?

  Like a ghost whispering in the room, I could almost hear my grandfather’s voice.

  Finish it.

  One by one I delicately pressed the keys in the clock. I hesitated as my finger hovered over the last note in the phrase, and I wondered what would happen if I pressed it. I could feel the tension in my hands. My fingertip quivered. That final note rang through my mind, daring me to play it.

  I let my finger fall.

  A heavy clunk echoed from somewhere within the wall behind the clock. I jumped back, pulling my key out of the clock.

  What had I done? Whatever I had broken wouldn’t be easily restored. I spun around, certain the noise must have woken someone in the house. Then I heard the groaning of gears moving and a grinding sound like an old millstone turning.

  I stumbled away, ready to run to the kitchens. A soft puff of ash floated up from the fireplace. I shut the key and the flower folded, hiding itself once again.

  Before my eyes, the stones in the back wall of the fireplace retreated, almost as if they were melting into the wall, opening up a hidden passage. I inched forward, grasping my candle tighter. A chilling breeze like a dying breath escaped from the opening.

  It ruffled my petticoats as I leaned under the mantel. I gasped as the light from my candle illuminated a narrow spiral staircase descending into the inky shadows below. The dank scent of mold and dust wafted up from the depths.

  I paused, listening again for any sound, any sign that I had disturbed the sleeping household. There was nothing but stillness, and I felt an irresistible urge to explore the passage.

  I ducked through the fireplace, bending low to keep from brushing against the cinder-blackened walls. The smell of ash clung to my skin as I found myself standing on the edge of the first stair. It felt like ice beneath my stocking-clad feet.

  There were probably rats.

  I took a step, sheltering my candle, my only source of light.

  It could be a passage to an old catacomb.

  I took another step.

  There might be skeletons and all sorts of unpleasantness.

  My foot moved forward again.

  I would be trapped in the dark, buried forever. No one would hear me. No one could help.

  With each step into the darkness, my mind wandered farther and farther down horrifying paths, yet my feet continued their steady descent.

  Secret passages were secret because people wished to hide something. Whatever lay so far beneath the house, my grandfather must have known about it. His clock was the unlocking mechanism for the entrance.

  Somehow I knew my Papa wouldn’t have gone to such intricate trouble to hide some rats and a bunch of rotten bones.

  Yet as the darkness pressed around me, I had only my small flame to ward off the complete and utter blackness. With the cold stone walls of the narrow stair pressing me in, I felt as if I were descending into my grave.

  The stairs ended at a narrow tunnel with a vaulted stone ceiling. It wasn’t even wide enough for two people to walk abreast.

  My hand brushed the wall as I slowly stepped forward. After the twisting stair, I’d lost all sense of direction and couldn’t tell if the tunnel led beneath the basements of the house, or to another place altogether.

  I looked back but could no longer see the stair. With no other direction to go, I continued until the tunnel ended at a heavy wooden door that was slightly ajar.

  Pushing it as hard as I could with my shoulder, I peered inside to the room beyond, unable to believe my eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AT FIRST, ALL I COULD SEE WAS THE GLITTERING OF hundreds of tiny lights. They seemed to float in the darkness, dimmed as if by a thin veil. It took me a moment to realize they were reflections of my candle shining back at me from metal and glass coated in a fine layer of dust.

  An ornate lamp sat on a small table just inside the door. With haste I lit it, grateful th
at it still held oil. I replaced the large red glass globe over the flame as the room filled with warm light.

  “Good heavens,” I whispered. I couldn’t help myself. I’d entered some sort of workshop. The room was filled with fantastic machines, their form unlike anything I’d ever seen. Great wheels, some larger than I, rested against the wall amid elegantly formed arms of brass and great curved plates of copper.

  I felt as if I’d just stepped within the inner workings of one of my father’s clocks and was caught amid the gears.

  I crept deeper into the workshop, drawn toward the machines. Shelves cluttered with odd bits and parts lined the walls. I peered at each beautifully and carefully crafted trinket, trying to determine its purpose.

  An imposing armchair was nestled near two bookcases in the corner. Just to the other side of the chair rested a lovely bassinet lined with delicate white lace.

  How odd.

  A large table ran along one wall, its surface covered with dusty papers. I lit a second lamp on the table and peered at the documents.

  They were drawings, hundreds of intricately detailed designs of some great machine. It looked a bit like an egg. Only the egg had windows all along the top and sat within an imposing cage of wheels and gears.

  One of the drawings caught my eye. It showed the layout of the interior of the egg. I marveled at the instruments and controls. It looked as if the egg were some sort of vehicle. Where would one go traveling by egg?

  A twisted contraption, like a nest of brass pipes, squatted at the edge of the table. A large oval peering glass as black as obsidian was nestled in the center, and a turn-crank jutted from one side. No cobwebs had formed between the crank and the machine, and the light glinted off the polished glass orb.

  I drew closer. With some trepidation, I reached out and turned the crank. A light flickered deep within the smoky glass, and as it grew brighter, I saw a clear but colorless image of the study and the fireplace. Confused, I leaned in to inspect the image more closely. I couldn’t figure what use it would be to have a picture of the study. Then I noticed the back of the fireplace. It was open.

  My blood ran cold. I didn’t want to believe it, but as I looked at the image, Mrs. Pratt’s words echoed over and over in my mind.

  He’s always watching.

  It couldn’t be. Such things weren’t possible. Just below the glass was a knob. I turned it. With a hushed snick the image blinked out, then returned. This time it showed me the area before the front gate and the entrance to the carriage house.

  My fear turned to dread as I realized I was peering through the eyes of one of the lions at the gate. I turned the knob again, and the image switched to the perspective of the other lion, the one staring toward the street.

  I watched as a man in a dark overcoat lingered near the gate as if studying the wall. His collar was turned high, and a top hat pulled low to obscure his face. Then he walked with a jerky gait, and the glass revealed his movement.

  Dear God, with an invention such as this, Rathford could see everything.

  I would be discovered. In a rush I turned the knob and reset the image to show the study. Grabbing my candle, I turned from the table, but in my haste, I brushed a piece of paper. It fluttered to the ground.

  Snatching up the paper to replace it near a smudged handprint, I caught a glimpse of the writing.

  In my shock, I nearly dropped the candle. It was my grandfather’s handwriting. I was sure of it. He’d taught me my letters, and the script was as familiar to me as his voice.

  My hands shook as I read.

  Rathford,

  I cannot begin to express my distress over recent events. You’ve opened Pandora’s box, and it will not easily be closed. In my heart, I still do not believe you wish it closed, and so I fear I cannot trust you. You once confessed that I was your most beloved instructor. You claimed me like another father to you. With such sentiment in your heart, please heed my advice.

  Four of our number are now gone, and more may follow. There’s already been one attempt on my life, and I refuse to stand here and wait for death. There’s a traitor among us, someone willing to murder all those who know anything of the abomination you manipulated us into creating.

  In spite of your letter protesting Charles’s accusations, I find logically, you are the one with the most at stake. While I do not wish to believe you capable of murder, I confess my mind has turned to such dark conclusions.

  There’s something I must do for Simon Pricket in the West of London. After I finish, I shall disappear in earnest. I find being dead has certain uses. As you are the only one who knows I am indeed alive, if anyone searches for me, I shall know you are the one who betrayed us. The matter of the traitor will be settled.

  You cannot open the box again, my friend. It’s time to say our goodbyes and let the dead remain so. Relinquish the heart. It is the only way.

  Sincerely,

  Henry

  For a long time I couldn’t move. All I could hear was a loud rushing in my ears, as if I’d suddenly been thrust into the center of a storm.

  The letter was dated August 17, 1858. My grandfather had died in June of that year. I flipped the letter over, inspecting it for any detail that could tell me more. On the back, a seal had been pressed in red wax, the now familiar three-petal flower with the letters S.O.M.A. imprinted just beneath it.

  I placed the letter back on the table before I could give in to the urge to rip it to pieces.

  How could he? How could he let me believe he was dead? How could he abandon me?

  My eyes stung as I extinguished the lamps and ran out the door, through the tunnel, and up the stairs. I would not cry. I had mourned for my grandfather, and I would not cry again.

  He was alive, and he hadn’t cared about the fire. He hadn’t cared about the death of his own son. He hadn’t cared that I’d been left alone with nothing.

  I ducked out the secret door and burst into the study. Yanking the key from around my neck, I threw it into the ashes of the long-dead fire.

  I didn’t want to see it again. I didn’t ever want to hear that song again.

  A hollow whistle drifted up from the stairs.

  I glanced up at the cherub with the glassy eyes. I had no way of knowing what Rathford could see, or when he was using his glass. I couldn’t leave the door open. If the baron knew I’d been sneaking around his secret workshop, that I’d read the letter, and that I knew my grandfather suspected him of murder . . .

  Fear closed in, and the air itself seemed to grow heavy.

  With haste, I pulled the key from the ashes, gently rubbing it with the hem of my petticoat. It didn’t feel right not to have it around my neck. It’d been important enough to my father that it had been the one thing he’d tried to save from the fire. It was possible he had died for it.

  It was mine now, and I was the only one who could use it.

  I placed it in the clock and pressed the button. The song played and keys revealed themselves as before.

  I played the notes without hesitation this time, and with relief watched the fireplace return to normal.

  As I entered the kitchens, the house remained still. Nothing had changed. I stopped on that thought—outwardly, nothing had changed, but in truth I felt everything had. I eased onto my tick and pulled the blanket to my neck, but my mind found no comfort.

  I couldn’t believe my grandfather was involved in such a scheme. He’d always been so sweet and odd. He was the type to hide trinkets and draw maps to them, not the type to be involved with murderous plots.

  There was no way to know if he was alive or if the murderer had found him. I never knew the details of his supposed death. I only knew that his carriage had gone into the river. They’d never found the body. That must have been the first attempt on his life that he mentioned in his letter. It had happened three years before the fire struck the shop on Oxford.

  Papa could have traveled anywhere by then, and he likely had never heard about the fire. If he had
left the country, how could he know? He could be out there still thinking we were safe and happy on Oxford Street. If he returned, he wouldn’t know where to find me.

  Then there was the question of why the baron took me in. Perhaps he felt guilty and wanted to make up for whatever falling-out they’d had. Unless he was keeping me to lure my grandfather back.

  The memory of the giant clock wheels and arms filled my mind.

  What was S.O.M.A.?

  Endless questions plagued me until nearly dawn. I still hurt. Deep in my heart I ached. In the end, the one thought that rose above all the others was that my grandfather might be alive out there somewhere.

  He was the only one who could answer the swarm of questions buzzing through my mind. I had to find him, but where to start?

  Asking the baron was out of the question. I had to begin with the last person who had seen my grandfather alive, Simon Pricket.

  How was I to find this man in all of London? How could I begin such a search? I had no clue to his occupation or location. The only way to start was to leave the mansion and ask questions about town. I had no opportunity to do so.

  I needed help.

  I needed Will.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS A FULL THREE DAYS BEFORE I COULD ESCAPE TO the carriage house. At every moment I felt I was being watched. During the day, Agnes scrutinized everything I did. Whatever friendly rapport we had shared was gone, vanished under the dark glare of suspicion.

  Day and night, thoughts of the baron haunted my every move. I still didn’t see him. In all respects, nothing in the house had changed, but I felt the threat of his presence now in a way I never had before. I found myself searching out glints of black glass and wondering if they were part of the spy glass. My only recourse was to work hard and diligently to disappear into the routine of the house, so no one would notice me or think to question what I knew.

  It was well past midnight of the third day when I finally dared to sneak out of the house. The weather had grown warmer, bringing with it heavy rain that melted the snow and turned the path to the carriage house into muddy soup. It was dark, too dark for the lion’s eyes to see me move across the courtyard in my black dress. I held my skirts with great care, fearing the mud would mark my guilt on my hem.