A Clockwork Heart by Liesel Schwarz

blinked out of existence. But that was no longer his chosen path. He was going to have to endure the slow steady decay into a gout-ridden rheumatic old age.
    An ember popped in the fireplace sending a burst of sparks up the chimney. Marsh stared at the glowing coals as he thought things through. The Council of Warlocks had not been amused when they received his resignation. Threats and admonishments had flown; it had taken all of his control and influence to walk away from them. But he did not mind, because was doing it for her.
    For Elle.
    Marsh felt his heart constrict at the thought. She was slipping away from him. He could feel the distance between them widening—every day a little more. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he fought, to keep things as they were when they had first met; the way she smiled at him in Florence when they stood huddled in a doorway to take shelter from the rain, but it was like trying to hold on to desert sand.
    He sighed and rubbed his eyes at the thought. He should never have let her go off to Singapore like that. And with Richardson of all people. The chap was decent enough but he could not fight his way out of a paper bag. What on earth could he do to protect her if they ran into trouble?
    He sighed with frustration. Why did she have to go running off at every opportunity? He knew the answer to that, for the same passion for adventure that drove his wife, drove him too. But at least he was able to control his urges. Suppress them for her sake.
    Marriage. Him. It wasn’t enough for her and the thought made his insides quiver. Perhaps it was because she was so young, but after all they had fought for and all they had survived, she simply refused to acknowledge how vulnerable she was.
    He had nearly died a thousand deaths when she had run off after whatever Shadow creature had been in the audience at the opera the other night.
    That’s it, he thought. Sitting alone in this house brooding was not going to help anyone. So perhaps Elle was right. Perhaps he needed to get out of the house. He would meet Willoughby to see what the man had to say. The distraction would help the time pass.
    He knew it would take almost a week to get to Singapore and that Elle would be unable to contact him until then, but he found the silence was almost unbearable.
    He picked up Willoughby’s invitation from his desk. Yes, he would go. At the very least he would have an amusing story to tell her when she finally did come home. He stood and rang the bell pull for Neville to bring round the car.
    Willoughby’s club was a small obscure Georgian building hidden in an alley off Dean Street in Soho. Marsh hitched the collar of his gray wool coat up higher to keep the drizzle off his neck and knocked on the door.
    An elderly footman with extremely old-fashioned powdered hair greeted him. “May I help you, sir?” he said, raising an eyebrow at the scuffed and slightly frayed top hat Marsh wore. He had deliberately dressed in his simpler street clothes today. They were the ones he had worn when on Shadow business for the Council. He liked the anonymous, comfortable feel of the worn fabric. It made him feel unobtrusive, like he blended into his environment.
    Marsh handed him the invitation and his visiting card.
    The doorman scanned his visiting card and glanced back up at Marsh. The only indication of surprise the man gave was a slight rise of his carefully plucked eyebrow. “Please, do come in from the rain, my lord. May I take your lordship’s coat?”
    The doorman snapped his fingers and a footman appeared from behind the counter to assist.
    â€œThank you.” Marsh shrugged out of the soggy wool and handed it to the man.
    â€œRight this way, my lord,” said the footman said as he led Marsh up the narrow stairs that led into the main sitting room of the club.
    Commissioner Willoughby looked up from a table where he was reading the newspaper near the window. His