Clockwork Angels: The Novel by Kevin J. & Peart Anderson Page A

long, just needed a place until he could figure out how to get back home. “I’m . . . I’m always happy to help,” he finally managed to say.
    Francesca placed her hands on her hips. “Well, what can you do?” She was a saucy, energetic, and independent woman—in every way the opposite of Lavinia. Her very presence seemed to sparkle.
    Owen wished more than ever that he knew poetry. “I was the assistant manager of an orchard.”
    “Excellent,” Francesca said. “Unfortunately, the carnival has no orchard to tend, so we’ll have to find something else for you to do.”
    A loud but muffled thump came from Tomio’s trailer. With a clatter, the window shutters blasted open, and curls of smoke wafted into the air. Owen’s mouth dropped open. “Should we go see if he’s all right?”
    Francesca wasn’t concerned. “That’s only the first of the daily explosions. We don’t come running unless there’s a much bigger boom. Otherwise, we’d spend all day, every day, rushing to rescue Tomio.” They watched the smoke change colors as it curled from the rooftop vent stacks.
    The trailer door opened, and Tomio staggered out, coughing, rubbing his eyes, but he waved to show he was unharmed. He waited for the fumes to clear from his trailer before he ducked back inside and closed the door.
    Francesca cocked her head. “He insists that if I worry about his experiments, then he’ll worry about me practicing on the high wire, and I can’t allow that. So we’ve made an accommodation. We have to accept who we are, or it’s not worth being ourselves.”
    Near the cook tent, she spied a basket of apples that had been set out for the breakfast hour. She snatched one from the top of the pile. “So, you picked apples?”
    “Yes—Sunrise, Red Flush, Ruby Delicious, Tartfire. We had different varieties on the trees.” He was about to relate to her which type of apples made the best fresh eating, which made the best cider, which were most appropriate for pies, and which created potent vinegar. She tossed him an apple, and he instinctively caught it.
    “And you cared for the apples?”
    “I was a very diligent assistant orchard manager.” She tossed him a second apple, and he caught it.
    “Then you should never let the fruit fall on the ground. Don’t let it get bruised.”
    “I wouldn’t let any apples get bruised!” He scrambled to catch the third apple she tossed.
    “You’d better not.” Francesca grabbed another apple from the basket. “So you’ll have to learn how to catch them all.”
    She tossed the fourth one, and Owen had to release one of the apples into the air so he could catch the new one, but then he caught the apple falling down, scrambled to toss another one. But he could not keep the rhythm going, and they all came tumbling down in a disappointing mess.
    Francesca chuckled, but it was not mocking laughter. “Needs some work, but it’s a good start.” She picked up the apples and stepped back. “We could use a juggler.” She tossed the apples at him again.

CHAPTER 10
     
    Clockwork angels, spread their arms and sing
    Synchronized and graceful, they move like living things
     

    W hen the carnival packed up to move on, the flurry looked like a random whirlwind but had a choreographed efficiency. César Magnusson had filled out the proper paperwork, paid the appropriate fees, and received permission to perform in a different sector of Crown City.
    Without being asked, Owen helped the carnies wherever he saw work that needed to be done. They loaded the tents, the game booths, the disassembled whirling rides on flatcars. Tomio packed up his wagon, powered up its engine to join the line of vehicles, and the caravan puttered back toward the city like a long, slow exhale.
    In spare moments, Owen practiced tossing apples into the air and was dismayed each time he dropped one. His fruit was bruised and battered by now, so he suggested to Francesca that he should try juggling with rubber balls. She