Mrs. S. leaned into the niche, bonnet tilting downward, as Miss Stanton held fast to her arm. “Gracious me, it’s the very heart of the Orloj! Whoever maintains the clock must use this little hatch and iron ladder to access the movement. Get yourself over here, Arthur! Dawdling is for snails and slugs.”
Though everything in Theodore longed to see the Orloj’s movement with his own eyes, he couldn’t compel his feet beyond the threshold. For he knew he had no right. With its vaulted ceiling and prayer kneelers, the small chapel possessed a grandeur unassuming and pure.
One he daren’t sully.
Theodore set Drosselmeyer’s pocket watch upon the chapel floor, careful not to let his fingers brush the tiles. He retreated from the slowly closing door, withdrawing into the adjacent Council Hall with its elaborate wooden paneling, brass chandeliers, and row of alcove windows. Here, he could accept the sun’s warmth. Bask in it without demeaning his Maker.
Tucking away in one of the alcoves, Theodore set down the luggage and unlatched a stained-glass window. He leaned upon the sill and drank in the fresh air. Latched on to the welcome distraction of observing life on the streets below. The top of the hour must be drawing near, for groups of peoplemeandered in streams toward the Town Hall, pooling at the base of the astronomical clock in a swirl of browns and grays and ... one blot of yellow that looked alarmingly familiar. Was that the man from Amsterdam?
Theodore rubbed his bleary eyes with his free hand, but the man remained on the street. This was no delirium born of nightmares and fatigue. Thiswasthe very same man who’d been watching them outside Westertoren—as real and certain as that waistcoat was hideous and startling. Dapper. Shifty. Vigilant. The man stood out among those gathered before the Orloj. For he was the one personnotadmiring the medieval clock with upturned gaze and rapt attention.
His gaze was fixed on the crowd.
Searching, as though hunting a specific quarry.
Examining, as though jotting down mental notes.
Theodore’s hand fisted around his crutch, strangling the wood. The manhadto be a reporter. Somehow he’d connected the clockwork owl to the Stantons and their swift departure from London. Now he was tracking them in the hopes of finding the machine and beating his fellow journalists to the story every newspaper in Europe was clamoring to print first. It made sense. It was theonlything that made sense. Why else would this man follow them to Prague?
The clock’s chimes touted a new hour, and a hush fell over the crowd. All too soon, the parade ended. The chimes faded. And the reporter looked up.
Dangerously determined eyes seemed to find Theodore in the window, casting a grim shadow of dread that darkened the bell’s lone toll into an ominous death knell.
CHAPTER
18
Dear Little Atlas,
The time has come to ride the rails once again! I hope the memories you’ve made in Prague are the fond sort. The kind that, like a shiny curio, are tucked away in the mind’s attic and taken out years later on rainy days and dreary nights to be enjoyed and shared with others. And shared they must be, child. For humanity was designed to share everything—dreams and memories, joys and sorrows, gifts and burdens. The Creator never intended for us to shoulder all alone.
Miss Clara Marie Stanton did not require smelling salts in the face of crisis. She did not swoon. She did not blubber. She was a resilient and self-sufficient woman because life had molded her into one after “sharing her dreams and burdens” proved disastrous. Grandoughtto understand that. He ought to be proud of her for possessing the fortitude to carry on alone. He ought to know her shoulders were strong enough to bear life’s yoke unaided.
After all, here she was, departing Old Town by way of the Stone Bridge with her head held high, having learnt from their previous experience. This time she’d secreted the coin purse containing their monies in the pocket of her traveling skirt, secured the firmest of grips on Mum’s hand, and returned nudge for nudge as she cut through the bustling crowd with a self-assured pace. Soon she would have Mum conveyed to the other side, safe and sound.
Perhaps Grand might recognize her strength then.
Mr. Arthur glanced over his shoulder and met her gaze, then Mum’s, before pressing onward. This wary practice, along with the shadows beneath his eyes, did not suit. Where was his jaunty saunter? His lopsided grin and carefree air? Mr. Arthur looked back again, this time without meeting her eyes. She had an eerie sense that he was looking behind them. More troubling still, as not once today had Mr. Arthur voiced a blandishment or jest.
Come to think of it, he’d hardly uttered a word of any kind since their visit to the Chapel of the Virgin Mary yesterday. When she had returned Grand’s watch to Mr. Arthur’s care, he’d given no explanation for leaving it upon the floor and declining to enter the chapel. When she had shown him the gold-plated rooster that had strutted out from behind the Apostle Peter, he’d shoved the automaton in the gadget bag without a hint of interest. When she had tried to make conversation during dinner last night, he’d replied in monosyllables and kept his gaze trained upon the inn’s front door.
Something had disturbed him ... but what? Her questions regarding his upbringing had clearly pricked a nerve, but he’d seemed to rally once she redirected the course of conversation.
No, something must have happened at the chapel itself, and while it was none of her concern, Clara found herself wanting to put Mr. Arthur at ease. Not because she cared for him, ofcourse. She simply didn’t wish to resume their former manner of taut silence. Despite herself, she’d grown accustomed to his voice. And at present, she’d appreciate a distraction.
Mr. Arthur’s gaze darted to her again, his countenance becoming more intense. Frenetic. Might he also benefit from a diverting conversation? “Mr. Arthur—”
Like a horsewhip, he cracked to a halt.
Clara and Mum stuttered still, barely avoiding impact with the carpetbags Mr. Arthur toted. Gasping, Clara clutched at her bodice. “My apologies. I never meant to startle you.”
“You didn’t.” The sheer whitewash over Mr. Arthur’s tanned complexion contradicted his rebuttal, but in a blink, color returned to his cheeks as though they’d never paled. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, lad.” Mum smiled as Fred batted at the faux fuchsia blooms hanging from her silken bonnet of the same hue. “We’re contented as a pair of sunbathing salamanders.”
“I didn’t mean to alarm you, Mr. Arthur,” Clara added. “Only to remark that there’s no need for you to glance back at Old Town as though you’re bidding it farewell forever. You can always return. Visit the Orloj again.” The air seemed to thicken as the flow of pedestrians split and veered around them begrudgingly. “Do let us keep moving.”
Without so much as a “right-oh,” Mr. Arthur walked on for perhaps a dozen paces. At which point, he froze mid-stride, and Clara collided with his rather solid back. The force of impact knocked her bonnet askew and flattened her nose, which fortunately sprung back to its customary pertness. Though the same could not be said of her good humor.
