Together, they dismantled the haystack. When this taskwas completed, they paused to let Grand catch his breath and allow Clara a moment to get reacquainted with the old friend who’d been concealed by straw and shadow.
The great owl machine.
It roosted in a nest of stale hay, with broad wings folded against its sides, long legs tucked under its barrel-shaped body, and ear tufts nearly touching the vaulted wooden ceiling. Brass feathers, individually and intricately hammered, reflected the sun’s warmth onto the world with an intensified radiance. The owl’s circular eyes of amber glass regarded her unblinkingly with the gentle gaze of a loved one that can be held indefinitely without discomfiture.
Grand presented a skeleton key to her with a ceremonious air. “You do the honors, Little Stargazer.”
Clara accepted the key and approached the owl, a delightful thrill coursing through her veins. Locating a feather that was almost imperceptibly raised above the others on the owl’s chest, she swiveled this escutcheon aside and turned the key in a secret keyhole beneath.
A metallic clank activated an unseen mechanism, which languidly whirred and hummed like a person rolling over in bed, vacillating between slumber and awareness. The owl’s great head lethargically rotated to the left, and as it did so, the feathered abdomen opened a sliding pocket door to reveal a cylindrical lift. When the head completed a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree rotation, the mechanism drifted back to sleep.
After fetching their baggage and wicker basket, Clara and Grand stepped into the owl. Inside the machine, a second aperture awaited the skeleton key. She reunited the pair, and with a resounding clank that echoed all around them, the mechanism reactivated. The sliding door reemerged from its pocket, sheltering them within the owl’s plumage. Overhead, an amber glow kept darkness at bay. When the door clangedshut, the hydraulic-powered lift began to rise, elevating them up ... up ... up the owl’s spine. The cylindrical wall fell away as they ascended into an open space, bright and wonderful and homey.
Here, inside the owl’s extraordinary head, the lift stopped. The torpid hum of machinery waned as the listless owl fell asleep once again.
A pair of leather chairs was situated before the owl’s round eyes. These windows to the soul were the pilots’ windows to the world. Though the glass was amber-tinted, a means of ocular protection from the sun, the view through them remained unaffected and true to color. Clara and Grand gravitated toward their respective seats—he on the left and she on the right. The well-worn leather was as comfortable as she remembered. A modified ship wheel stood in front of each chair, fixed upon a wooden panel littered with levers, knobs, and buttons. Amongst these controls were a central compass and a keyhole. Balancing the basket on her lap, she inserted the skeleton key in the hole but didn’t turn it just yet.
Instead, she lifted the basket lid and peeked at Donatello. The sweater-clad turtle raised his head and opened his mouth as though to ask for more strudel. She smiled. “Don’t worry, Donny. Snacks will be distributed once we reach a safe flying altitude.”
“Quite right, quite right. But first we must safely stow our luggage in the underfoot compartment.” Grand pressed a button on the floor with his boot. A section of the metal floor whooshed open, revealing a cubbyhole wherein he placed his knapsack and Clara’s carpetbag. Then he strapped on his chair’s safety harness, which resembled a gentleman’s suspenders, and reached for the wicker basket. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that you can’t very well fly an owl with a turtle in your lap.”
Clara chuckled as she passed off Donny. “ReadingPride and Prejudiceagain?”
“I had to have something to keep me company while I waited for a certain Little Stargazer to follow my trail of clues.” A glimmer of jest sparked in Grand’s eyes. “Truth be told, she’s a rather slow mover, that one.”
“Is she, now?”
“Donatello moves faster.”
She gasped. “Well, that hardly seems a fair assessment. Little Stargazer was unexpectedly waylaid, if you’ll recall.”
“I recall.” All humor fled Grand’s voice, and the mechanical butterflies sank into his wispy white hair as if weighted by the abrupt solemnity. “That certainly was unexpected.”
The change in tone and allusion to her abduction raised gooseflesh on Clara’s skin, and she found herself looking over her shoulder reflexively.
The time they’d spent in Bern’s Old City had been so idyllic, so peaceful. A holiday from reality. But now their holiday was coming to an end, and they were going home to resume their everyday lives. The prospect shone light on a cobweb of dread that yet lingered in the corner of Clara’s mind, sticky and hard to shake, no matter how vigorously she tried. Could she really move forward and stop looking over her shoulder for haunting specters? Mr. Forrester was incarcerated, yes, but he’d escaped a prison once before. Was it so unreasonable to fear he might do so again?
“What’s wrong, child?”
Clara’s gaze fell to her lap, where she’d unconsciously been wringing her gloved hands. “Do you think it’s over, Grand? Is Mr. Forrester truly out of our lives for good?”
Placing a hand on her knee, Grand gave it a squeeze. “Yes, love, it’s over. For good and all. I had the magistrate’s personal assurance that young Forresterwillserve time for his crimes. When he’s released in the years to come, London is the lastplace he’ll want to go. His creditors will have seized what remains of his assets and would likely kill him if he ever stepped foot on English soil again. Nay, I don’t think he’d be so foolhardy as to try and reclaim his former life. ’Tis much more likely that he’ll make a fresh start for himself someplace far, far away. Perhaps, when his fever of desperation breaks, he’ll realize imprisonment has in fact set him free from the dire circumstances of his father’s making and come to regret what he has done. But even if he never repents, one thing is certain, my girl. You needn’t fear that man anymore.”
The logic of Grand’s words dusted away the cobwebs, freeing Clara’s mind from their sticky grasp. She needn’t look over her shoulder any longer. It was over. Truly, blessedly over.
A single butterfly alighted from Grand’s hair and kissed her cheek with its wings.
Clara smiled. And now it was time to fly. “Where are my goggles?”
“Right where you left them, dear.”
Ah, that they were. Hanging from one of the handles of Clara’s steering wheel were her old goggles and fingerless leather gloves. She replaced her cotton gloves with the leather pair, and after strapping herself into the safety harness, donned her goggles. Grabbing a lever between the two steering wheels, she pulled it to the right, giving her control of the machine. Giddy anticipation fluttered in her stomach. “Hold on!”
Turning the skeleton key, Clara brought the owl to life.
This time, the machine didn’t merely hum in a drowsy stupor. It awoke with a wide-eyed alertness—clockwork heart tick-tick-tocking with an exhilarating vitality that pulsated through the machine’s body. Stirring Clara’s blood. Awakening her desire to soar!
With a boot, she flipped a lever on the floor, and the owl rose on taloned feet. She pulled another lever on the controlpanel, feeling the clicking together of unseen gears. Unfurling its wings, the owl hopped from the loft and landed on the straw-covered barn floor. Grand cheered, and Clara laughed, even as her stomach tried to recall where God had originally placed it. Taking hold of two smaller levers, she flicked them back and forth. The owl walked with an awkward bouncing gait out of the barn and across the Spyri farm’s sprawling fields of green.
