Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blue
The sound hits me before I even open the door—genuine laughter, bright and unguarded. I pause with my hand on the handle of Toil & Trouble, caught off guard by how foreign the sound seems in Duffy’s usually quiet establishment.
When I push through the door, I find Saylor doubled over at the bar, tears streaming down her face from laughing so hard. Duffy’s leaning against the back counter, grinning with the kind of satisfaction that comes from landing a particularly good story. They look like old friends sharing secrets, comfortable in a way that makes something warm settle in my chest.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Duffy truly relaxed with another person. She’s friendly enough with customers, professional with business associates, but this? This is different. Saylor’s got her feet tucked up on the barstool rungs, completely at ease, and Duffy’s actually remaining still instead of working—something I’ve seen maybe twice in all the years I’ve known her.
“Blue!” Saylor looks up, still catching her breath, and the sight of her face flushed with happiness does something dangerous to my composure. Her hair’s escaping from whatever she’d tried to do with it this morning, and there’s a lightness to her expression that I’ve never seen before. “Duffy was just telling me about Dame Gothel’s love letters.”
“She’s been leaving them for the mailman,” Duffy explains, barely containing her own laughter. “Romantic poetry about his ‘strong hands’ and ‘noble dedication to correspondence.’ Problem is, her handwriting looks like a serial killer’s manifesto and he can’t read a single word. The poor man is convinced she’s sending him death threats.”
This sets Saylor off again, and I can’t help but smile at the sound.
I settle onto a stool, watching them with fascination. Grimlock doesn’t welcome outsiders easily. We’re a town full of people who’velearned to be suspicious, who’ve all got reasons to prefer our privacy. Most newcomers sense the undercurrent of wariness and either leave quickly or spend months trying to prove they belong.
But Saylor’s different. Maybe it’s because she stabbed a man at my dinner party. Maybe it’s because she looks at our darker edges and sees them as features rather than flaws. Or maybe it’s simply that she understands what it means to carry secrets—and more importantly, what it means to keep them.
Whatever the reason, she’s already carved out a place here. I can see it in how Duffy’s shoulders have dropped their usual defensive tension, in the way they’re sitting together like conspirators planning something delightfully wicked.
I check my pocket watch. Nearly two o’clock. “Ready to head back?”
Saylor nods, sliding off her stool. “Thank you for the drinks, Duffy. And the conversation.”
“Anytime.” Duffy’s smile is warm but careful now. “Both of you are always welcome.”
We leave money on the bar and step back into Grimlock’s perpetual mist. The cobblestones are slick under our feet as we walk toward where Hans waits with the car, but something makes me pause at the entrance to the town square.
The clock tower rises from Grimlock’s center like a Gothic prayer made stone. Its spire disappears into low clouds, and the massive clock face showing eternal midnight catches what little light filters through the fog.
“Have you been up there yet?” I ask, nodding toward the tower.
Saylor follows my gaze, tilting her head back to take in the impossible height. “I didn’t know you could go up there.”
“Most people can’t. But I have certain privileges in this town.”
Without waiting for her answer, I guide her across the square toward the heavy oak door set into the tower’s base. I run my hand along the weathered stone frame until I find what I’m looking for—a loose brick that shifts when pressed. The iron key hidden behind it is blackened with age, left there by whoever decided Grimlock’s clock should stay frozen at midnight.
“Blue, what are you doing?”
“Showing you something pretty amazing.”
The door opens with a groan that echoes up the narrow spiral staircase. Stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet wind upward into shadow, lit only by narrow windows cut into the tower walls. Each step demands effort, and we’re both breathing hard by the time we reach the first landing.
“How many stairs?” Saylor asks, pressing her hand against cool stone.
“Too many to count. But the view makes it worth it. Promise.”
We continue climbing, the staircase growing narrower as we ascend. The windows become more frequent, offering glimpses of Grimlock spread below us in miniature. Houses and shops shrink to dollhouse proportions, connected by streets that wind through mist in patterns that make perfect sense from this height.
The mechanism chamber houses the clock’s guts. Massive gears and pendulums that haven’t moved in decades fill the space. Brass and iron components the size of carriage wheels stand frozen, their surfaces green with age but still magnificent in their complexity. The air here smells of metal and time, of machinery that once kept perfect rhythm for an entire community.
“It’s beautiful,” Saylor breathes, running her fingers along a gear wheel taller than she is. “Why doesn’t it work anymore?”
“The town decided they preferred time standing still.”
She gives me a look that says she knows I’m being deliberately cryptic, but doesn’t press. We climb the final stairs to the observation deck, and when we emerge onto the platform, Saylor’s intake of breath makes the entire climb worthwhile.
