She gulped. That’s why Grand had given the watch to Mr. Arthur. Her mischievous grandfather wasn’t just acting as tour guide—he was bent on playing matchmaker.
CHAPTER
12
Theodore had finally won the pretty grump over.
For all of three minutes.
Now Miss Stanton strode ahead of him on the cobbles, refusing to acknowledge his presence with renewed zeal. Theodore studied the back of Miss Stanton’s bonnet, digging his fingernails into the handles of the carpetbags he toted. What the deuce had happened? One moment he fancied himself making progress—he could’ve sworn she had almost cracked a smile—and then, bang, he was right back where he’d started. Worse off, actually. For ever since she’d read Drosselmeyer’s second clue, Miss Stanton had adopted an extreme form of her reclusive nature. Gone were the cold glowers and biting remarks, and in their place was a wall of impenetrable silence.
And for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why.
Mrs. S. offered a sympathetic smile that seemed to say,“Don’t worry, lad. You’ll figureit out.”
An assurance he highly doubted. Theodore whacked astray pebble with his crutch and sent it skittering out of sight. What had that blasted note said? Miss Stanton had refused to let him see it, of course. Having surveyed its contents, she’d announced they must head for Westerkerk church, and off she’d gone without so much as a glare in his direction. He’d been left with the automaton pigeon, which he’d shoved into one of the carpetbags. When Mrs. S. had insisted on stopping for luncheon, Miss Stanton had acquired a table for two at which he was not welcome. When he’d cracked a joke about rampant chair shortages sweeping across Europe, Miss Stanton had turned her back to him as an almost imperceptible shudder disturbed her frame.
Theodore had learned to accept Miss Stanton’s perpetual anger at his existence, but for her to shudder as if afraid of him ... that he could not accept. He’d allowed Miss Stanton her separate table during luncheon and now kept his distance as they traveled to Westerkerk, but at some point, the matter must be confronted. The old order restored. For though he’d be loath to admit it aloud, he was already beginning to miss being the object of Miss Stanton’s ire.
As they made their way over a second canal bridge, the Westerkerk and adjoining Westertoren clock tower came into view. When he’d wandered through the city years ago, a few locals had mentioned their belovedOuwe Wester, but ever since the Charge, he’d made it a practice to stay well away from places of worship. No matter how renowned. No matter how much he might long to venture in ... he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He respected the Almighty too much to soil His house.
In contrast, the Westertoren rose unabashed into the heavens, assured that it belonged. The hull of the tower was constructed of modest brick, but as the structure neared the clouds, its impressive sandstone spire assumed a regal air crowned by the bluekeizerskroon—the Imperial Crownof Austria featured in Amsterdam’s coat of arms. Just below the crown, a carillon of bells was situated atop a red clockface whose numerals and hands shone of gold.
After crossing a third and final bridge, they traversed a stone street with the church to their left and a canal to their right. Iron lampposts and trees stood at attention along the canal, but the gentle hush of flowing water couldn’t be heard over a din of flapping and twittering. Theodore gaped at the uninhabited trees and then craned his neck to see farther down the road. Just ahead, beneath one of the lampposts, an elderly woman in homespun clothes sat on a crate, surrounded by sparrows. Not just surrounded—positively festooned. Little brown birds perched on almost every inch of her person, from tattered bonnet to patched apron to scuffed boots.
Greeting them with a weathered smile, all wrinkles and kindness, the woman gestured toward a row of small canvas bags. “Feed the little birds. Feed your anxious souls.” She echoed the plea again and again, alternating between Dutch and accented English. “Feed the little birds. Feed your anxious souls. One heavy burden for one bag of seed.”
Mrs. S. rushed to shake the bird woman’s hand. “Blessings upon you, fellow soldier. I must commend your efforts to carry out the great commission outlined for Noah in the book of Genesis to preserve God’s creatures from extinction. You’re here every morning, I gather?” The bird woman’s answer had no time to reach her lips. “Of course you are, dearie. Our fight is far from over, but our resolve is far from shaken. As long as tyrannical taxidermists seek to stuff and mount mammals to walls, we shall fight. As long as malevolent milliners seek to pluck and pin feathers to hats, we shall fight. As long as the tides of fashion seek to reduce God’s creation to a mountain of pelts, our fight shall continue. And we shall never surrender.”
Mrs. Stanton raised her fist as if to seize victory.
Miss Stanton slapped a palm over her face as if mortified.
And the bird woman tilted her head as if befuddled by bizarre foreigners.
Theodore choked back a chuckle as Mrs. S. jabbered on. “I should consider it an honor to contribute to your efforts. Come, ducky, let’s purchase a few bags of seed and feed the birds.”
Prying her gloved hand from her face, Miss Stanton looked toward the sky as though imploring for aid and then pulled her mother aside. “We haven’t the time. If we don’t make haste, we’re sure to miss it.”
So the pretty grump had looked up to check the hour, not to inquire of the Lord. What exactly did she not want to miss?
“I’ll not be joining you, ducky. The tower is much too high for my liking. I shall stay on solid ground while you and Arthur make the upward trek. No doubt you’ll need his pocket watch to locate Father’s next clue.”
Miss Stanton’s lips pinched so hard they blanched. “It’s nothispocket watch.”
Heat emanated from the watch in Theodore’s pocket. Was that why Miss Stanton’s behavior had altered at Citizens’ Hall—because she’d learned Drosselmeyer had given him the watch? No wonder the woman was incensed. Heirlooms ought to be kept in the family, and he’d tell her as much. He set down the bags and reached into his pocket.
Holding her daughter’s gaze, Mrs. S. laid a hand on his coat sleeve. “Clara, your grandfather gifted the watch to Arthur for reasons of his own, and we must respect his decision.”
A slight quiver disturbed Miss Stanton’s delicate jawline, but she nodded in acquiescence. She kissed her mother on the cheek and her stole on the whiskers. “See to it she behaves, Freddy. I’d better find Mum on this exact cobble when I return.” With that, she entered the Westertoren.
Mrs. Stanton tossed him a wink. “Go on, then. Don’t let her get away.”
Not sure he wanted to dissect the double entendre contained in that wink, Theodore handed the luggage to Mrs. S. and dashed into the Westertoren. He soon caught up to Miss Stanton, and in single file, they ascended the clock tower’s series of wooden staircases, some spiraling, others vertical, all so steep and narrow as to feel more like ladders. Only half of his automaton boot fit upon the shallow steps, forcing him to climb at an awkward angle. How Miss Stanton’s full skirts managed to squish between the railings, he couldn’t guess, but they certainly weren’t slowing her down.
By the time they reached the sixth floor, Theodore’s burning calf and thighs felt all one hundred and eighty-six steps. Hardly seemed worth it ... until they ventured onto the viewing platform and were rewarded with a panoramic view of central Amsterdam. Sunlight glinted off the Prinsengracht canal as a pair of boats saluted each other in passing. Homes in the neighboring Jordaan district clustered together in comradery, some with tiled roofs the color of slate, others the color of cinnamon. In the opposite direction, he could just make out the bronze statue of Atlas on the Royal Palace’s rear gable, holding a huge globe against the vast firmament.
Theodore was about to remark to Miss Stanton on the breathtaking blueness of the sky when a triumphant clang of bells resounded from the carillon overhead. Knocked off-kilter by the ensuing vibration, he dropped his crutch and caught himself on the balcony’s chest-high railing of sandstone. The bells continued to toll with increasing jubilance as a carillonneur, unseen within the tower’s frame, played Bach’s classic chorale “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The stirring music joined forces with the wind and swayed the Westertoren gently, recreating the sensation of sailing on the North Sea, this time aboard the mighty cog ship of Amsterdam.
