The thought that she might not be able to prevent the worst from occurring terrified Clara to the core. She’d been in such a state of shock after listening to the newspaper accounts that Mum had insisted they call it a day, retire to an inn, and recuperate from their time at sea before commencing with the scavenger hunt the following morning. Clara had protested, wanting nothing more than to carry on and find Grand as soon as possible, but she’d been outvoted when Mr. Arthur and Fred took Mum’s side. An unfair vote to say the least.
However, today was a new day, and Clara was determined to keep a stiff upper lip moving forward. She couldn’t allow fear to override her faculties. She must focus on tracing Grand’s movements and shielding his identity by securing every clue that proved he was the owl’s pilot. A task that today would take them to Amsterdam’s Royal Palace.
With their bags packed and Fred playing stole, Clara and Mum joined Mr. Arthur for a quick breakfast, then set forth to retrieve Grand’s second clue. Elbow linked with Mum’s as they walked down the cobbled street, Clara felt the heat of an unwavering gaze threatening to tan the right side of her face. Why couldn’t Mr. Arthur leave her be so she could pretend he wasn’t there? She was worried enough about Grand. She didn’t need the additional headache of having to guard herself around his clanking apprentice.
Mr. Arthur opened his mouth as if to speak, and Clara rankled. “Say anything within a fraction of ‘it’ll be all right,’ and I shall dispatch an ermine assassin to end you in your sleep.”
“Does this ermine assassin have a tiny sword, or would the fiend nibble me to death?”
Mum chuckled, and Clara shot Mr. Arthur a well-aimed glower.
As he hoisted their carpetbags and his crutch above hisshoulders to indicate surrender, Mr. Arthur’s grin diminished. “As you like, Miss Stanton. I promise you’ll not hear another comforting comment or reassuring remark from me.”
The trio soon entered a large square bustling with people and surrounded by edifices that felt remarkably familiar to Clara. And no wonder, for she and Grand had been here often. This was Dam Square, “the central heart of the city of Amsterdam,” or so said the travel guide they had read at the Globe. The still life she’d painted on the canvas of imagination had captured the square’s basic components but could not begin to convey the vibrancy of the real thing. Musicians played for coins in the street, and children tossed breadcrumbs for flocks of pigeons that strutted awkwardly along the cobbles and then all at once shot to the cloudy sky in a cacophony of flapping wings.
Mum tilted her head toward the heavens. “Look how they soar into the firmament. Aren’t pigeons majestic creatures?”
Clara smiled despite her weariness. Every creature was majestic in Mum’s eyes, no matter its frame, and therefore every creature gave her cause for awe. A beautiful gift of perception that was too often labeled as an oddity. “Indeed, Mum. I do believe they’re the most splendid pigeons I’ve ever beheld.”
The Nieuwe Kerk’s Gothic spire came into view as it stretched to touch the clouds, and just below it on the western wall, the church’s signature sundial overlooked the square. Beside the fifteenth-century house of worship stood the reason for their coming to Dam Square—de Paleis Amsterdam. As she stood arm in arm with Mum before the sandstone façade of the grand Royal Palace, conflicting emotions swelled within her. Delight, wonderment. Loss, regret.
Grand should be here. She should have let him bring her here.
Clara clutched the journal in her pocket as if to hold Grand’s hand. She could almost hear him reading aloud from one of her travel guides in that comforting timbre that never failed to take her imagination where she longed to be.
“‘On topof the Royal Palace rests a large domed cupola, topped by a golden weathervane in the form of a cogship—a symbol of the city of Amsterdam. Nestled withinthe cupola is a carillon cast in 1664, and affixedto the cupola’s exterior, facing Dam Square, is a skeleton clockface whose golden numbers and hands appear suspended inmidair.’ Remarkable, remarkable. I should like to see that formyself.”
A tug on Clara’s arm pulled her down from the heights of imagination. “Hmm? Did you say something?”
“Not me, ducky. The boy. He made a suggestion.”
Of course, he did. “And what was your suggestion, Mr. Arthur?”
“Just that we ought to head round to the back of the palace. You said Drosselmeyer’s clue referenced Atlas, and if I recall from my previous visit, the statue of Atlas is somewhere on the palace’s rear wall.”
Apparently, he had failed to memorize Grand’s clue word for word, as she had done. Although, in Mr. Arthur’s defense, he had only read it once before she’d snatched it from his hands. “The clue does reference my ‘mythical namesake,’ and there is a bronze statue of Atlas on the far side of the palace, but it is not the one we seek. Grand’s clue also mentioned ‘a mapped marble hall,’ and that is where we shall find our Atlas.”
“Are you certain, Miss Stanton? I don’t remember seeing a second Atlas when I toured the city.”
Clara made a mental notation never to entertain the thoughtin Mr. Arthur’s defenseever again. “When you toured the city, did you happen to ventureinsidethe Royal Palace?”
“Well, no—”
“Then you shall just have to rely on my expertise. Limited though it may be to paper and ink.”
Following the map in her mind’s eye, Clara led the way to Citizens’ Hall, the center of the palace that had served as Amsterdam’s Town Hall before Napoleon converted it into a royal residence during his brief imperial reign. She’d read inAn Englishman’s Comprehensive Guide to Amsterdamthat the hall was freely accessible to citizens and visitors alike, and this proved true, for no one stopped her as she navigated the interconnected galleries of white marble and passed through arches intricately carved with personifications of the planets and four elements. Mum was particularly taken by the depiction of Earth as a woman feeding her child whilst surrounded by animals, including a dromedary, a lion, and a monkey, which provoked comments about Bartimaeus and candied oranges.
The galleries led them at last to Citizens’ Hall. Upon entering the imposing room, Clara was whisked away by the surreal sensation of floating between heaven and earth. Sunlight, summoned by dozens of windows, gave the white marble walls and pilasters an ethereal glow. And there, laid at her very feet, were the earth and sky. Inlaid in the marble floor, three maps depicted the world and a celestial hemisphere with such stunning beauty and realism that she dared not tread upon them. Rather she edged around them with care, unable to tear her gaze from the floor. Her heart constricted. What had Grand thought of this place? Did he miss her as much as she missed him?
“Surely Drosselmeyer didn’t place a clue up there?” Mr. Arthur’s voice put an end to her musings.
Clara and Mum joined him at the western end of the hall. High above their heads ... high above an archway crowned with a pediment of statuary ... higher still than a pair of glittering chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling ...was her mythical namesake. The white marble figure of Atlas stood upon a ledge carved into the wall, straining not to drop an aquamarine globe dotted with golden stars. La, she’d expected the Titan to be elevated, but she hadn’t anticipated it being so completely and ridiculously out of reach!
“If only we had a mountain goat.” Mum shook her head, no doubt grieved more by the absence of a goat companion than by the predicament at hand.
Clara gnawed her lip. Had she taken Grand’s clue too literally? “Perhaps the clue isn’t hidden on the statue itself but somewhere in the surrounding vicinity?”
Splitting in three directions, they scoured the hall from end to end. They searched the great marble floor. They searched the two walls segmented by pilasters and windowed alcoves. They even searched beneath the upholstered benches tucked in said alcoves, but they did not find a slip of paper bearing precious words from Grand. As they searched, an elderly couple strolled in, took a turn about, and strolled out again. A class of young women carrying sketchbooks made a study of the sculptures while their bespectacled teacher lectured in English on Dutch classicism and the legacy of the palace’s architect, Jacob van Campen. Then they, too, left.
