Clara’s stomach began to implore for luncheon. Still, they’d found nothing.
After tucking Mum safely away in an alcove to feed her “stole,” Clara wandered back to the lofty statue of Atlas. She was missing something—some nuance in Grand’s clue she’d failed to perceive—but for the life of her, she could not think what. She rubbed her right temple before that troublesome vein could start to twitch. “Where did you put it, Grand?”
“Perhaps it’s not here.” Mr. Arthur appeared on her left, carpetbags at his feet, crutch under his arm.
The troublesome vein tugged on Clara’s eye. “Cheery thought.”
“I was under the impression you detested cheery thoughts, Miss Stanton. You did instruct me not to be comforting, remember? Death by ermine assassin and all. I take such threats on my life quite seriously. I promised not to offer you one word of consolation, so not one reassuring word shall you have. For I always keep my promises.”
Could any man make such a bold claim? Clara faced Mr. Arthur. “Do you, now?”
Mr. Arthur didn’t deflect or hesitate. “Indeed I do.” He resumed his study of the statue overhead. “I wonder why the palace architect chose to depict Atlas in two places of prominence. Why a Titan and not one of the more renowned Greek gods?”
“Could it be you were so unfortunate as to have missed this morning’s stirring lecture?” Clearing her throat, Clara mimicked the bespectacled teacher’s voice, which had conveyed the enthusiasm expected when discussing the price of corn. “‘In the Dutch Golden Age, Amsterdam was one of the most important ports in the world. A hub of finance and trade. The presence of mighty Atlas in Citizens’ Hall, bearing the sky on his shoulders, illustrates how Amsterdammers saw themselves as the center of the universe. Generations of Amsterdammers warned their children that if ever Atlas was to drop the heavens, Amsterdam too would fall.’”
Mr. Arthur leaned against a nearby column. “Fancy that, Miss Stanton. We’ve just managed to have half a conversation without you running away, terminating my position, or threatening my life. Perhaps there’s hope of you being civil to me for the span of an entire day?”
Clara squelched the barest hint of a smile before it graced her lips. “The day’s not over yet.”
“True enough.” Withdrawing a watch from his pocket, Mr. Arthur made a show of checking the time. “’Tis only noon just ... now.” At his pronouncement, the pocket watch beganto herald the top of the hour with delicate, metallic chimes that sounded very much like a music box’s melody. A melody that was somehow familiar.
Clara looked closer at the golden timepiece in Mr. Arthur’s hand, and her pulse slowed. “That isGrand’spocket watch.” The watch from the story about his wedding tour with Granny.
“I didn’t pinch it, Miss Stanton, if that’s what you’re thinking. Drosselmeyer gave me the watch just before he left for the docks, but—”
“Grand wouldn’t give away that watch! Not to you. Not to anybody. It’s—”Not an ordinary watch.Clara’s tongue stilled as the watch chimes echoed through the hall, as she recalled the story she’d heard so often in the voice she loved so dearly.
“One morning, I snuck out while Norma slept andhid an automaton on the bear fountain that was just outside our window. When we left later in search offood, my pocket watch struck the hour as we passed the fountain and activated the automaton. Norma nearly jumped outof her skin when one of the bear cubs came to life and began dancing around its bronze mother’sclaws. My, how she laughed.”
That’show Grand had done it. That’s how they were meant to find his clues.
Gesturing for Mr. Arthur to be silent, Clara lifted her gaze to the Titan statue. There. Something moved near the feet of Atlas. It was a pigeon, strutting to the edge of the marble ledge on which Atlas stood. As the golden timepiece continued its tinkling song, the pigeon alighted from the marble edifice and glided the long distance downward, perching on the shoulder of a rather startled Mr. Arthur. Clara cupped a hand over her mouth. The pigeon was, in fact, a life-size clockwork masterpiece covered in tiny shards of white porcelain to resemble overlapping feathers. An automaton. Just like in Grand’s favorite story.
The mechanical pigeon tilted its head one way and then the other before parading down Mr. Arthur’s arm to the watch in his hand, beckoned by the song of his maker. The pigeon roosted upon the pocket watch, and the melody ceased.
All was again silent and still but for the rapid beating of Clara’s heart. This was why Grand’s note had said she would require Mr. Arthur’s assistance. The dear old man had engineered his scavenger hunt so she would need Mr. Arthur along in order to locate his clues. But why would Grand arrange things in such a way? Why not leave the watch with her?
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mum hastening toward them. “Did I hear—”
“One of Drosselmeyer’s inventions. Indeed you did, Mrs. S.” With a lopsided grin, Mr. Arthur raised the automaton for closer inspection. “By jove, the thing has almost no weight at all. As if the bird’s bones are actually hollow. How did Drosselmeyer train this mechanical carrier pigeon to respond to the watch’s chimes?”
That was one part of the story Grand had never explained, and one she had never wished to have elucidated. When it came to Grand’s inventions, it was so much more delightful to stand in wonder than to understand.
“Look, ducky. The next clue is wrapped around the pigeon’s leg. How exciting!” Mum burst into fleeting applause and then clasped her hands to her chest. “Go on. See what it says.”
Clara unrolled the scrap of paper.
Dear Little Atlas,
I pray that having the world laid at your feet, here in Citizens’ Hall, has opened your eyes to the endless possibilities creation has to offer. Possibilities for joy and beauty, adventure and wonderment. Can you not see now that there is more to life than the pain and sorrow we’ve experienced?Yes, we have known the sting of betrayal. The ache of loss. But we are not without hope, Clara. For it never ceases to exist. Hope’s light lives on in the One who ignited its flame through His resurrection. The One who even now dwells within us and we in Him.
With a new awareness of that unextinguishable hope, let’s continue our scavenger hunt. My next clue can be found where an imperial crown rests atop Amsterdam’s loftiest spire and leans in deference to the King of Kings. It is my sincere hope that a turtle dove’s view will enable you and my apprentice, who I’ve come to view as a son, to tick in harmony.
Your devoted,
Grand
Clara gawked at the note, now keenly aware of Mr. Arthur’s proximity. She’d misinterpreted the clue, surely. Grand must be hinting at something else that she’d failed to comprehend. She read the note again, then a third time, heat stoking in her cheeks as she pieced together the words of Grand’s clues.Be sure to invite Arthur along. Tick in harmony. Come to viewas a son. Turtle dove.
