Theodore slipped through the shop door just as it closed in Drosselmeyer’s wake. He shielded his eyes from the morning sun’s fresh-out-of-bed exuberance. Just ahead, Drosselmeyer strode down the pavement with a purposeful gait. Whatever was the old man about today? Theodore gave chase and soon reached Drosselmeyer’s side. “Shouldn’t you wait for Miss Stanton, sir? You might get lost without your navigator.”
Drosselmeyer neither slowed nor averted his sights. “I can’t be waiting today. The wind is just right, just right.”
Had Drosselmeyer and Miss Stanton instituted a new means of amusement? “Right for what, exactly?”
The man’s gaze remained fixed on the blue horizon. A March breeze skipped botanical debris along the street. Perhaps the wind impaired Drosselmeyer’s hearing?
Clearing his throat, Theodore spoke up. “I say, Drosselmeyer, right for what?”
The old fellow startled and, at last, stopped to face Theodore. The fine lines around his eyes deepened as his fluttery brows of white knit together. With a gnarled finger, he indicated the crutch beneath Theodore’s arm. “You know ... you no longer need carry that thing about, son.”
A lump, cold as a headstone, formed in Theodore’s throat. He tried to swallow the thing, but it would not be moved. Instead, he talked round it, his voice grating against the unpolished rock. “Perhaps ... but all the same ... it is mine to carry.” His thumb found the oft-visited graves of every name memorialized in its grain, letter by hand-carved letter.
GORDON.
DENIS.
THEO—
“Good thing you caught me, lad. I almost forgot to give you this.” Drosselmeyer placed a pocket watch in the palm of Theodore’s free hand. “This heirloom was meant for my son, Fritz, but since he’s long been walking the streets of gold, I should like you to have it now, Arthur.”
The lump fell to the pit of Theodore’s stomach with a sickening plunk. He held the watch at a distance, its gleaming gold case with matching chain and fob seeming to sear his work-soiled hand. The gift was too much. Too fine. Worse, it was given under false pretenses. For though he tried to pretend otherwise, he was no more worthy of a son’s inheritance than his name was Arthur.
“I cannot accept ... surely, your granddaughter ought to—”
“Keep it on your person at all times, Arthur. At all times. That pocket watch is the second-most important thing you shall ever have in your care.”
Of all the bizarre riddles. “And what would be the first, sir?”
A grin twitched Drosselmeyer’s mustache as he consulteda pocket watch that he’d attached to his wrist with a leather strap. “I must be off, or I shall fall behind schedule.”
Ah, so the pretty little grumphadmade alternate plans with her grandfather today. “I take it Miss Stanton will be following along later, then?”
Drosselmeyer lowered his goggles over twinkling eyes. Without a word, he resumed a resolute march down the streets of London.
Right-ooooh.Biting back the questions that quarreled in his mind, Theodore tucked the important watch into a waistcoat pocket and secured the fob to a nearby button. The gold chain draped across his faded waistcoat with an air of elegance lacking in the rest of his person. He’d wear the watch for safekeeping until Drosselmeyer returned this afternoon, but as soon as that dear old codger set foot through the door, the costly heirloom was going right back where it belonged—in Drosselmeyer’s family line.
A brief jaunt returned Theodore to the workshop, and a lengthy search through its nooks and crannies produced, at last, the runaway spring. And an aching lumbar. As he wedged under the dollhouse desk to carry on with his work, there arose a such clatter, he stilled. Listened. Exactly how long had he left the shop unattended? A thud reverberated through the ceiling. Apparently, long enough for someone to slip into the apartment unseen. He extricated himself from the desk and rushed upstairs. Drosselmeyer was not getting robbed while he was in charge!
On the second floor, two bedchambers faced each other in a narrow corridor. The doors, normally kept closed, were wide open, and muffled sounds came from Drosselmeyer’s room. Theodore charged inside and found a thin boy, no more than thirteen, rifling through the contents of a dresser. The lad whirled around and lunged, headbutting Theodore in the gut.
Theodore staggered backward with a grunt as the boy slipped by him like a greased eel. He snatched at the boy’s collar, but it tore off in his hand.
The scamp disappeared down the stairwell like a flash.
Theodore regained his footing and gave chase, but encumbered as he was by his prosthetic on the stairs, he was no match for an agile boy, so nimble and quick.
When he finally reached the storefront, the thief was long gone.
Leaning against the sales counter, Theodore took a minute to catch his breath. He checked the money box, stored in the false bottom of a hidden drawer behind the counter. It remained locked and untouched. He took stock of the clocks. None were missing. He examined the rooms upstairs, but again, nothing seemed to be missing. He returned to the workshop, where the usual disorder remained in perfect order. He scratched his beard, equal parts confused and concerned. When Drosselmeyer returned this afternoon, they would have a talk about their slippery thief. In the meantime, he needed to be more vigilant.
The front door whooshed open and thudded shut. Good, a customer. Perhaps he could turn this day around and make a sale. If he proved himself capable of handling the shop on his own, Drosselmeyer was sure to be pleased. Might even be the first step toward securing the good graces of Miss Stanton. Assuming she had any good graces.
Theodore combed fingers through his rumpled hair, grabbed his crutch, and hastened to attend the waiting customer. Palm outstretched, he shoved open the swinging door and froze in the middle of the room before a pair of slate gray eyes, hard as steel and twice as sharp. He gulped. “Good day, Miss Stanton.”
The store’s brigade of clocks returned his greeting with a merry tick-tick-tock that amplified Miss Stanton’s vociferoussilence. Assuming the most unwelcome of stances—arms crossed, spine rigid, lips pinched—she stared him down and denied him the courtesy of a response. Pitch-black ringlets peeked from her bonnet and framed her ghostly white face. The woman spent far too much time indoors with the family’s menagerie of animals. Probably training a raven to peck out his eyes.Stand your ground,man,and stick to the plan.Win the grump over.“May I be of service, Miss Stanton?”
By some means unknown to science, Miss Stanton’s eyes conveyed the disdain of a raised brow without troubling her face to move a muscle. “I mean to take Grand on our weekly visit to the Globe, as you well know, so save the delusive pleasantries for some ninnyhammer who’ll believe them. If you wish to make yourself useful, tell Grand I’ve come.”
