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

dismissed the suggestion. “Absolutely not.”
    “But then I wouldn’t bruise any apples.”
    “Correct—and then you wouldn’t care . That’s more important than a few apples.”
    As the carnival followed the curving arc of an outer road in toward Crown City, Owen walked beside the vehicles. Cautious, he juggled with only two apples, but he was growing more proficient. He understood the parabolic arc, the gentle path of gravity. He strode along while maintaining his intense concentration: he watched each apple as it rose and fell, considered the symphony of his muscles, his fingers, his wrists, the palms of his hands. It was like one of the Watchmaker’s equations that governed the universe.
    When Francesca was nearby, though, he had a hard time thinking of anything but her. She rode aboard a rolling wagon that slowly passed him, and she laughed when he dropped the apples again. He scurried to pick them up from the dusty side of the road as he followed the moving carts. After he had gathered the apples, she patted the bench beside her. “Up here.”
    “You want me to ride with you?” he said.
    “I want you to talk with me.” She patted the seat again, and Owen grabbed a rung on the side of the wagon, stepped on the running board, and swung himself up; somehow, he managed to keep hold of his two apples. As he settled himself beside her, Francesca took one of the apples, polished it on her sleeve, and took a bite.
    “I could get you a better apple, one that’s not bruised.” Owen turned around, looking back to the food wagon.
    Francesca shrugged. “Nothing in life survives without a few scuffs and dents. It adds character, and it tastes just as good, maybe a little better.”
    Owen ate the other apple, and it did taste better, but primarily because he was sitting beside her.
    He told her about his disappointment at not being able to see the fabled Clockwork Angels. “Ah, I do enjoy the Angels,” Francesca said. “And when I see how wonderstruck you are by simple everyday things, I’m afraid you’ll become euphoric and useless when you see them.”
    He sighed. “Yes, it sounds wonderful.”
    She took pity on him. “Owenhardy, I love your optimism and your innocence. We don’t see much of that.” His ears buzzed after she the word love, and he had to concentrate to understand the rest of her words. He didn’t even catch that she had used the teasing contraction of his name. “I do remember you from the audience a few days ago, when I flew down on angel wings and landed in front of you.”
    “I’m keeping the rose,” Owen said, patting his homespun shirt.
    “That sort of wonder and appreciation is usually reserved for children, but sometimes adults can experience it.”
    “I’m not an adult,” Owen admitted. “Not quite yet. My birthday is in a little more than a week. I should probably go home before then. . . .” He looked ahead as the tall buildings of Crown City grew larger. “But I haven’t seen the Clockwork Angels yet.”
    Francesca reached into the folds of her peasant dress, found a pocket that he had never suspected was there, and withdrew two tickets etched on metallic paper, embossed with the honeybee symbol of the Watchmaker. The tickets shimmered like a prismatic illusion. “Hmm, I just happen to have these tickets, and I’ll take you to see the Clockwork Angels tonight.”

    Overhead, the stars were aglow like scattered sparks. As Francesca led him into the city, toward Chronos Square, Owen didn’t even need a tightrope to walk on air. He was in the most fabulous city in the world, going to see the Clockwork Angels at last, in the company of the most beautiful and fascinating woman he had ever met.
    During his travels so far, he might have become bruised and scuffed like a dropped apple, but none of that mattered. Surely, this was part of the Watchmaker’s perfect plan. All had indeed turned out for the best.
    As he and Francesca flowed along with the people approaching the