Miss Stanton pointed upward. An automaton sparrow fluttered down from the carillon and landed atop the timepiece, immediately silencing its chimes. Although he was beginning to expect such marvels, Theodore couldn’t help but be amazed. The life-size sparrow in his hand was plated with layers of finely hammered brass feathers. Strapped to its back was a tiny leather tube, the sort that would protect works of art or important documents in transit.
Miss Stanton removed the tube, which most likely contained her grandfather’s next missive, and tucked it away in her skirts.
“You know ... if you let me read Drosselmeyer’s clues, I could lend that support I spoke of earlier.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble you with matters of paperand ink. Your vast experience is much better suited to handling unforeseen obstacles—like transporting a mechanical menagerie.” Unfurling a sardonic smirk, Miss Stanton patted the automaton sparrow on the head and disappeared into the tower. “See you outside, hobgoblin.”
Theodore attempted to catch up to her, but the climb down with his cumbersome boot proved to be even more challenging than the climb up, allowing her to gain a significant lead. Back outside Westertoren, he found Mrs. S. seated on the ground, so covered in twittering sparrows that he almost mistook her for the old bird woman to her right. Miss Stanton was speaking with the pair, trying to convince her mother it was time to leave the birds behind.
A smirk tilted Theodore’s lips as he tucked the mechanical sparrow into the carpetbag with its pigeon friend. He’d let Miss Stanton have that battle. As the women parried, something down the street moved, and he snapped to attention. A man stood near the canal, half-concealed behind the trunk of an elm tree, intently watching them.
Chills pricked Theodore’s neck. This wasn’t the lingering effects of nightmare. He’d been spared his usual terror last night, and with it, the residual haze of fear, exhaustion, and paranoia that caused him to startle at the touch of a breeze. This man wasreal. And he was eyeing the Stantons like a hungry fox on the scent of an unsuspecting sparrow, or perhaps ... anowl. Had they been sniffed out by one of the reporters hunting for Drosselmeyer?
Theodore’s grip tightened on his crutch. He needed to investigate, and if need be, throw this fox off their scent. He moved in the direction of the man, but the clank of his prosthetic startled the sparrows, who took to the air en masse, creating a whirlwind of feathers that obscured his view.
When the birds cleared, he rushed down the street. But the man was gone.
CHAPTER
13
Dear Little Atlas,
I hope you lingered at Westertoren long enough to enjoy a performance from the carillonneur and allow the bells to resonate in your soul. The beautiful and formidable sound, I thought, was almost like hearing the voice of God. I couldn’t help but smile. I couldn’t help but weep. I’d have taken to my knees if I could have got up again! Oh, how I pray you were awed in equal measure. For though these old knees grumbled all the way up the staircase, the experience of Westertoren was well worth the temporary discomfort.
In my two and seventy years, I’ve discovered that oftentimes life’s greatest joys are found on the other side of discomfort. We must fall before we can walk. We must look the fool before we can learn. We must labor before we can feast. We must travel the distance before we can see the destination. With that said, I urge you to gird yourself forthe discomfort that lies ahead with the assurance of worthwhile joy.
The first leg of our merry scavenger hunt has come to an end, and the second leg will take us further abroad. Make your way to Station Amsterdam Willemspoort and acquire a ticket to Prague, Bohemia. Yes, dear one, you shall travel by train. Now that we’ve a renewed outlook of hope and possibility, it’s time your fear of locomotives was overcome by the thrilling rush of traveling clickety-clack over the rails.
Clammy palms trembling, Clara read Grand’s note for the hundredth time. Rush indeed. One would feel a rush while traveling at the ungodly speed of forty miles per hour—a blood-chilling rush of panic as the railway carriage packed with all manner of strangers swayed, bounced, and clickety-clacked right off the track.
A shudder rattled her spine. Storing the note with the others in her journal, Clara pocketed the leather book and reclaimed her tight grip on Mum’s gloved hand. Fumes belched from the waiting steam engines of Station Amsterdam Willemspoort, polluting the air with coal dust and dread.
Why must Grand put her through this exercise? He knew how terrified she was of locomotives. When the Tottenham Station railway disaster rocked the London papers back in February with horrific eyewitness accounts and a list of fatalities printed in mourner’s black, her wariness of railway travel had been validated, and she’d vowed never to set foot on a train.
Yet here she stood, waiting in a long ticket queue at Grand’s request. White columns gave the train station’s classical façade the appearance of an ancient Greek temple, while the sails of a windmill, waving over its right shoulder, reassured impressionable imaginations that they yet stood on Dutchsoil. A quaint sight she might have enjoyed, were it not for the imminence of being locked in a smoke-spewing death trap.
Dazzling morning rays elbowed through the clouds, prompting parasols to raise as the queue slugged forward. A boisterous party of spiffed-up dandies, five tickets to Paris. A couple of middling years, two tickets to Rome. A subdued gentleman with naught for company but a briefcase, one ticket to Brussels. On and on travelers became passengers, and on and on the line stretched before them, seemingly unaltered. The shrill whistle of a departing train pierced her senses like the incisive claws of a startled cat. Tremors coursed through her veins. How could Grand call this terrifying prospect a temporary discomfort? How could she go through with this?
Mum gave Clara’s hand three quick squeezes.I love you.
Warmth traveled up Clara’s arm, spreading over her lanced nerves as a soothing balm. She squeezed Mum’s hand four times in return.I love you more.
Mum responded with a prolonged squeeze of rebuttal.Most.
At last, Clara breathed with a measure of ease. Thank heavens, she was forgiven for the sparrow debacle. Yesterday at Westertoren, Mum and Mr. Arthur had purchased bags of seed to feed the birds, but when she’d been pressed to follow suit, Clara had refused. She simply couldn’t consent to the bird woman’s requested payment—one heavy burden for one bag of seed.Others might find pseudo-confession to an octogenarian birdwatcher an amusing exercise, but she knew the weighty cost of such openness. Divulging cares of the heart rendered one vulnerable, and she couldn’t hazard vulnerability in the presence of a stranger ... or Mr. Arthur.
Aloft in Westertoren, Clara had allowed Mr. Arthur’s promise to return Grand’s watch to lure her into conversation, but she couldn’t afford to repeat such an exchange. Not with Grand penning allusions to romance. Not with Mr. Arthurmaking a study of her face. Henceforth, any words exchanged between them must be starched with formality. While she might not be able to prevent Grand from viewing Mr. Arthur as a son, she could most certainly prevent him from viewing the man as a grandson-in-law.
Besides, the burden she carried was hers alone. How could the responsibility of protecting her family belong to anyone else? Were they not her own blood? Indeed, they were the very heart beating in her chest, which was precisely why her tender heart must be bricked over.
After dragging Mum away from Westertoren, they’d settled at a nearby inn, which had saved them the trek back to the Dancing Clog on the other side of Amsterdam. Mum had wanted to explore the city, but Clara reasoned it was best to save their strength for the morrow’s travels, and oddly, Mr. Arthur had agreed that they ought to seek shelter straightaway. That’s when Mum had gone silent. Uttering not a word through dinner, nor bidding her good night. Poor Fred, perceiving they’d quarreled, had wedged himself betwixt them in bed like a furry bolster.
As the ticket line progressed another step, Clara rubbed her thumb along the back of Mum’s hand. It was such a relief to have the spat ended and the lines of communication restored.
Finally, they reached the front of the queue. Once their tickets to Prague were in hand, Clara made to leave and bumped straight into Mr. Arthur, whose gaze was fixed on the people behind them. “Do move along, Mr. Arthur. You’re holding up the queue.”
Mr. Arthur seemed to come to himself as one woken from a dream he was keen to have ended. “Right-oh. My apologies. Just sad to bid Amsterdam farewell, I suppose.” Adjusting the crutch under his arm and the trio of carpetbags juggled in his hands—the newest of which had been acquired to transport their automaton souvenirs—he gestured for them to lead the way. “Let’s be off, then, ladies. New sights to see and all that.”
