Clockwork Angels: The Novel (3 page)

Owen got the strange impression that the pedlar was pleased rather than disappointed by his answer. “That is the best answer a person can make,” said the mysterious old man. “Although such consistent prosperity certainly makes my profession a difficult one.”

The old man rummaged in his packages, opened a flap, and paused. After turning to look at Owen, as if to be sure of his decision, he reached into a pouch and withdrew a book. “This is for you. You’re an intelligent young man, someone who likes to think—I can tell.”

Owen was surprised. “What do you mean?”

“It’s in the eyes. Besides,” he gestured to the empty village streets, “who else stayed out too long because he had more to do, other matters to think about?” He pushed the book into Owen’s hands. “You’re smart enough to understand the true gift of Stability and everything the Watchmaker has done for us. This book will help.”

Owen looked at the volume, saw a honeybee imprinted on the spine, the Watchmaker’s symbol. The book’s title was printed in neat, even letters.
Before the Stability
. “Thank you, sir. I will read it.”

The stranger turned a dial that increased the boiler’s alchemical heat, and greater plumes of steam puffed out. The cart chugged forward, and the pedlar followed it out of town.

Owen was intrigued by the book, and he opened to the title page. He wanted to stand there in the middle of the street and read, but he glanced at his pocketwatch—3:13. He held out his hand, baffled that raindrops hadn’t started falling. The rain was never two minutes late.

Nevertheless, he didn’t want to risk letting the book get wet; he tucked it under his arm and rushed with his apples to the cider house. A few minutes later, when he reached the door of the cool, fieldstone building where his father was working, he turned around to see that the old man and his automated cart had disappeared.

“You’re late,” his father called in a gruff voice.

Owen stood in the door’s shadows, staring back down the village streets. “So is the rain”—a fact that he found far more troubling. A crack of thunder exploded across the sky and then, as if someone had torn open a waterskin, rain poured out of the clouds. Owen frowned and looked at the ticking clock just inside the cider house. 3:18 p.m.

Only later did he learn that the town’s newsgraph office had received a special updated almanac page just that morning, which moved the scheduled downpour to precisely 3:18 p.m.

We are only human It’s not ours to understand

B
ushels of apples sat in the cool, shadowy interior of the cider house, patiently ripening to soft sweetness. Owen and his father were scheduled to press a fresh half-barrel that afternoon, which would require at least three bushels, depending on how juicy the apples were.

A flurry of ideas distracted Owen as he helped his father with the work, manning the press machinery, adjusting the coldfire to keep the steam pressure at its appropriate level. As assistant manager of the orchard, Owen had already learned every aspect of the apple business. While going about his rote tasks, he pondered the mysterious pedlar, and he longed to page through the book the man had given him. As if that wasn’t enough to preoccupy his thoughts, he was even more distracted by the promise of a romantic midnight kiss from Lavinia while the stars looked down—it was like something out of an imaginary story.

His father, Anton Hardy, formed his own, entirely incorrect, explanations for Owen’s daydreaming. Indicating the cider press, he said, “Nothing to worry about, son. I’ve trained you well. Very soon now, you’ll be able to manage the orchards as well as I do, in case anything happens to me.”

Owen took a moment to piece together where the comment had come from. “Oh, I’m not worried.” He decided it was easier to accept his father’s conclusion than to tell him the truth. “But nothing’s going to happen to you. Nothing unpredictable ever happens.” He glanced at the book he had set on top of a fragrant old barrel. “Thanks to the Stability.”

“I wish that were so, son.” A surprising sparkle of tears came to the older man’s heavy eyes, and he turned away, pretending to concentrate on the hydraulics connected to the apple press. The comment must have reminded Anton Hardy of his wife; she had died of a fever when Owen was just a child.

He’d been so young that his memories were vague, but he remembered sitting on her lap, nestled in her skirts—in particular, he recalled a blue dress with a flower print. Together, she and Owen would look at picture books, and she’d tell him wondrous legends of faraway places. Though he was now grown, he still looked at those treasured books, and often, but Owen had to tell himself the stories now, for his father never did.

Anton Hardy preserved his memories of his beloved Hanneke like a flower pressed between the pages of a book: colorful and precious, yet too delicate ever to be taken out and handled. Even though Owen knew she was dead, in fanciful moments, he preferred to imagine that she had merely faked her fever so she could leave the sleepy farming town and go off to explore the wide world. “On my way at last!” He imagined her adventuring even now, and one day she would come back from Crown City or distant Atlantis, filled with amazing stories and bringing exotic gifts. He could always hold out hope. . . .

His father sniffled, muttered, “All is for the best,” then topped off the fresh-squeezed cider in the half-barrel. He hammered the lid into place with a mallet.

While Anton completed a few unnecessary tasks around the cider house, Owen seated himself near one of the small windows, which provided enough light to read.
Before the Stability
was a compact volume full of nightmares, and the young man grew more and more disturbed as he turned the pages.

The world had been a horrific place more than a century ago, before the Watchmaker came: villages were burned, brigands attacked unprotected families, children starved, women were raped. Thievery ran rampant, plagues wiped out whole populations, and isolated survivors degenerated into cannibals. He read the stark accounts with wide eyes, anxious to reach the end of the book, because he knew that Albion would be saved, since everyone was now happy and content.

He skipped ahead to the final page, relieved and reassured to read, “And Barrel Arbor is a perfect example of what the Stability has brought. The best village in the best of all possible worlds, where every person knows his place and is content.” Owen smiled in wonderment, glad to know that, despite his daydreaming, his situation here could not be better.

His father didn’t ask him about the book. They shared an early supper of crisp apples (naturally), cheese from the widow Loomis, bread and a slice of fresh apple pie from Mr. Oliveira, the baker. The Hardys provided him with all the apples he needed, and in return they received regular supplies of apple pie, apple tarts, apple muffins, apple strudel, and whatever else Mr. Oliveira could think of.

The two didn’t have much to talk about—they rarely did. Attuned to each other and attuned to the day, Owen and his father looked at their pocketwatches at the same time. They had finished the scheduled work and were satisfied by their casual meal. Afterward, Anton Hardy had his evening routine, and Owen tagged along. They headed for the Tick Tock Tavern.

In a small village, the most efficient way to hear the news was to listen to gossip, and the best place to get gossip was in the tavern. Anton Hardy sat back in his usual wooden chair, drinking a pint of hard cider, while Owen sat beside him with a mug of fresh cider. Others preferred intoxicating mead made from the Huangs’ honey, harvested from the town apiary that followed the standard design distributed by the Watchmaker’s own beekeepers.

When Owen turned seventeen, he would switch to drinking hard cider, because that was expected from an adult. (In truth, he had already sneaked a few tastes of hard cider, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He suspected his father knew, but hadn’t said anything.

As the tavern customers settled in to their routine, Lavinia’s father came in with his stack of typed reports and announcements, which were delivered by resonant alchemical signal to the newsgraph office. Mr. Paquette—a man who took great pride in his lavish sideburns—held a yellowish sheet of pulp paper up to the lamp of coldfire light and squinted down at the uneven typewritten letters. Conversation quieted in the Tick Tock Tavern as Mr. Paquette drew out the suspense.

He adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and spoke in a voice that carried great importance. “The weather alchemists announce that this afternoon’s rainshower is to be delayed by seven minutes, in order for the moisture-distribution systems to run more efficiently.” He shuffled his papers, seemed embarrassed. “Sorry, that came in this morning.”

Picking up the next newsgraph printout, he read, “The Anarchist planted another bomb and ruined a portion of the northern line, disrupting steamliner traffic. Fortunately, the airship captain was able to lift his cars to safety just in time, and no one was hurt.”The people grumbled and made scornful comments about the evil man who was singlehandedly trying to disrupt the Watchmaker’s century-long Stability. Mr. Paquette continued, “The Regulators closed in on the perpetrator just after the explosion, but he escaped, no doubt to cause further destruction.”

“The devil take him,” Owen’s father said.

“Hear, hear!” Others raised their pints in agreement. Owen drank along with them, but asked, “Why would anyone

want to ruin what the Watchmaker created? Doesn’t he know how dangerous the world was before the Stability?” He had known that much even before reading the pedlar’s book.

“He’s a freedom extremist, boy. How does a disordered mind work?”

“It’s not ours to understand,” Mr. Oliveira said. “I doubt the monster understands it himself.”

Mr. Paquette cleared his throat loudly to show that he had not yet finished reading the news. He picked up a third sheet of pulp paper and raised his eyebrows in impatience until the mutters had quieted. “The Watchmaker is also saddened by the loss of a cargo steamer fully loaded with precision jewels and valuable alchemical supplies from Poseidon City. The Wreckers are believed to be responsible.”

More grumbling in the tavern. “That’s the third one this year,” said Mr. Huang.

Little was known about the Wreckers, the pirates and scavengers who preyed on cargo steamers that sailed across the Western Sea to the distant port city of Poseidon. These ships carried loads of rich alchemical elements and rare timekeeping gems mined from the mountains of Atlantis, all of which were vital for the services provided by the Watchmaker.

“I’ll bet the Anarchist is in league with them,” Owen said. “They all want to cause disruption.”

“The Watchmaker will take care of it,” said Mr. Paquette with great conviction, setting aside the sheets of paper to emphasize that he was stating his own opinion rather than reading a pronouncement from the Watchmaker. “They will get what they deserve.”

“But how do you know that?” Owen said in a small voice.

His father nudged his arm. “Because we believe, son—and you were brought up to believe. Everything has its place, and every place has its thing.” He looked around at the others, as if afraid they would think he was a failure as a father for letting his son doubt. “And I’ll believe it myself to my final breath.”

Everyone agreed, louder than was necessary, and toasted the Watchmaker.