“Time.” Drosselmeyer gawked at his pocket watch, the glint restored to his eyes. “Remarkable, remarkable. Five minutes, squarely on the dot.” He hunched to inspect the clock. “And you’ve managed to fix the regularity problem and eliminate the two-minute delay. Remarkable. With skills such as this, and a quick visit to a tailor, you could get hired at any shop in London. Are you certain you wish to settle for an apprenticeship here, lad? I can’t offer much.”
A chance to settle was all he asked for. “Absolutely, sir. But only if you’re certain I can be of service.” He’d not take advantage of this kind man’s grief-induced vulnerability. Not for anything. “Perhaps a trial period would be wise? To ensure you’re pleased with my work.”
“Nonsense, nonsense. I’ve seen enough to be pleased, and I’ve orders enough to make use of an extra pair of hands. If you agree to lighten my workload, I can provide you with an apprenticeship that includes your food and lodging. No salary, I’m afraid. However, I could build you a mechanical leg to rid you of that confounded crutch.”
Food and lodging with clocks to tinker on. Perhaps this was a shop of dreams after all. A place he could belong ... at least for now. “How long would this apprenticeship last?”
“Why, for as long as you care to stay, of course. I much prefer when friendships last indefinitely, don’t you?” Drosselmeyer extended a hand. “So what say you, lad?”
A permanent apprenticeship? The offer was unusual, unorthodox, and unquestionably just what he needed. Theodore shook Drosselmeyer’s hand. “When do I start, sir?”
“This very minute. First order of the day is to get your new leg sorted out, and then we’re off to my daughter’s house for a dinner party. Come along.” Drosselmeyer scuttled off to his workshop.
“D-dinner party?” Theodore gulped. Either he was soon to enjoy a splendid evening of good food and jolly conversation ... or he was about to face a firing squad of inquiring minds.
CHAPTER
3
“Call me a tart one more time, and I shall formally take offense. Are we quite clear, Mr. Fowler?” Clara glared at the Timneh parrot perched on her fingers, her thumb firmly clamped over black talons to prevent the cheeky bird from alighting to the crystal chandelier hanging above the foyer of the Stanton Zoological Society or, as she called it, home.
Pale yellow eyes unrepentant, Mr. Fowler fanned his mottled gray feathers and squawked. “Quite clear. A right pretty tart, pretty tart.”
Insufferable.“This is why you’re not permitted to converse with genteel company. Those sailors taught you to spit vulgarities like chewing tobacco.”
Clara ascended the broad oak staircase, free hand gliding over the ornamental railing carved with climbing vines. She really must speak with Mum about this latest act of charity. It was one thing to care for animals with physical wounds, restoring the ones that healed to their natural habitat andsheltering those with disabilities that prohibited such restoration. But to rescue delinquent animals in an attempt to reform their character went a step too far. Mum was neither a vicar nor a practitioner of psychology. Her methods might be inspired by love, but that didn’t make them effective. Calling a parrot Mr. Fowler didn’t make him a gentleman any more than reading the Gospels to him would sanctify his lewd beak. Mum must be made to see that before Mr. Fowler insulted a humorless constable.
The longcase clock on the second-floor landing met her with a face dear and familiar. Out of habit, Clara traced a finger along the beloved name Grand had carved into the mahogany case.Norma.Grief sliced through her with the force of a gravedigger’s shovel. How she wished Granny Drosselmeyer were here to help with tonight’s slapdash dinner. She’d have brought flowers to dress the table and a sunny outlook that could brighten even the darkest of days. Her peaceful spirit, words of wisdom, and steadfast love had been the family’s anchor—until her sudden passing had set them adrift. Preventing shipwreck had become Clara’s responsibility, one that allowed no time to sort through her own grief. Even now the clock’s brass hands tick-tick-tocked away minutes that ought to be spent preparing for their guests’ arrival, not fighting back tears.
Stiff upper lip, girl. Andbe quick about it.To compose herself, Clara reexamined her mental list of tasks. She’d outlined a three-course menu and received assurance from their capable cook, Mrs. Collins, that dinner would be served on time despite the short notice and short-staffed kitchen now running without the scullery and kitchen maids who’d quit them rather than work for a “mad” mistress. Clara had hidden evidence of their private zoo, dusting feather and fur off the furnishings and draping doilies over claw-marked varnish. Mudgett, their fastidious butler, had polished thesilver and arranged the table. All that remained was corralling Mum’s menagerie upstairs, and the guise of normalcy would be complete.
“Pretty tart.”
“Oh, do shut up!”
Clara stomped across the landing and swung open the door to her parents’ bedchamber, where three geese and one duck that thought itself a goose roosted on a nest of shredded pillows amid the general chaos left behind by the chimney sweep. She hadn’t the time to tackle that mess, or the lingering fear it incited. Depositing Mr. Fowler amongst the avians, she shut the door and locked it from the outside, using the master key on her chatelaine.
Heaving a sigh, she plucked stray feathers off her dinner dress of plum taffeta and hid them in a pocket. Let’s see ... had she missed anyone? The twelve feline apostles were sunning in her room’s bay window. The canine quartet was lounging in Papa’s office. The rabbit and goat kid were feasting on vegetable scraps in the kitchen. Who was she forgetting? Perhaps she ought to scour downstairs a tenth time.
Clara made for the stairs, only to halt before the library door, now ajar despite her having closed it minutes prior. Aha, that’s who she’d forgotten. A breeze fluttered the library’s gold damask curtains hanging over the double doors, now open to the balcony, where a Pygmy marmoset scampered along the precarious marble ledge. Mercy, not again! Dashing onto the balcony, she snatched up the oblivious monkey just before his paws met open air.
Clutching the wee dear to her chest, Clara stroked his soft brown fur to calm her racing heart. “Really, Bartimaeus. How could you give me such a fright? Blind you may be, but your sense of smell ought to have deduced that Mum’s pocket of treats isn’t on the balcony. She detests heights, you know.”
Bartimaeus trilled, as if to say he’d forgotten, then reached tiny paws in the general direction of her pockets.
She smirked. “You are a determined scamp, but I’m afraid your candied orange craving will have to wait.”
After locking the balcony doors, Clara placed Bartimaeus on the tufted sofa between Fred, the living stole, and Beatrix, the perpetually napping hedgehog. She patted each creature in turn. “You’re in charge, Fred. Keep a sharp eye on the monkey.”
As she walked back onto the landing, the longcase clock harkened the top of a new hour with a single gong that harmonized with the doorbell’s metallic pring. Clara smiled. Grand, precisely on time, as always.
Mum’s voice leapt from downstairs. “Hurry along, ducky. Your grandfather’s arrived, and he’s brought a friend.”
Unease pricked gooseflesh along Clara’s nape. All of Grand’s friends had long since passed into eternity. Had Mr. Forrester hired a new spy so soon after the last? She leaned against the banister, craning her neck in hopes of appraising the stranger below unobserved.
In the foyer, her parents exchanged pleasantries with the “friend” at Grand’s side. A young man with hair so fair as to seem white. Beard scruff of the same fairness contrasted against a tan complexion that indicated he spent a great deal of time outdoors. Not a gentleman, then. His well-worn coat and oft-patched trousers suggested he possessed little to no income. He held a crutch like a walking stick. An old battle injury, perhaps, for he stood with militaristic perfection. In short, the outsider presented the optimum sympathetic figure for Grand’s emotions—a penniless, crippled, veteran-turned-vagrant.
How convenient. Clara pursed her lips, disgusted by the acidic churn of cynicism in her gut. If this man had arrived at their door last year, she’d have smiled as Mum served hima hot meal, Grand offered the coat off his back, and Papa slipped a few pound notes into his pocket. But she couldn’t afford to hazard smiles now. Not when the last man she’d let near her family had proven to be a viper. One determined to slither his way back into their lives.
