Godspeed by February Grace Page B

only one who had treated me; was he referring to Schuyler, whose arguments I remembered in greater detail than almost anything else during that time?
    “Then, even the box began to create scars, damage upon the fragile vessel it was meant to help to operate.” His eyes took on a sorrow, a burdened quality — so deep, so painful, that I was certain that there must be more to it than simply fear for my continued existence. I was still virtually a stranger to him, still kept to myself even the name by which I was rightly called in this world. The pain that he was feeling was much more deeply rooted; and it had, I was convinced, a specific proper name.
    He ceased speaking, sat down in the chair, and began to stare at the clock now himself, his chin resting on his hands, eyes half closed.
    “When was it that you had the idea for this?” I asked, indicating the box still tethered to me.
    He shifted uncomfortably, the first sign I had ever seen in him of uneasiness. “I've had many ideas for similar devices over the years,” he said, offering nothing more specific as to how many years or other attempts he'd made to design such a thing. Observing the questioning look in my eyes, he added, “It is the realization of many nights’ lost sleep, anguish, and untold grief.”
    I was surprised he was so forthcoming, and though I wished I could restrain myself, I could not. I asked the question that followed.
    “Grief over whom, sir?”
    Suddenly he rose, swept the clock away from me, and returned it to its place on the mantle. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to replace the glass, causing it to clink and clank as it bumped against working metal gears. Finally, he turned to face me.
    “All you must know is that a high price was paid for the invention which keeps you alive.”
    His voice had lost all tone of softness and intimacy now; he was back to being the statue that I had first known him to be.
    “Mind that, and do as you're told, so that the gift bestowed upon you does not prove to be given in vain.”
    He returned to his desk, sat down, picked up his journal and pen, and began to write. Without looking up at me, he said two words more that served both as a directive and an end to our conversation.
    “Good night.”
    *   *   *
    The following evening, I was summoned to the laboratory again, and nervous as to the reason.
    I found Quinn Godspeed still and silent at his desk, and he did not speak to me or move until Schuyler had locked the door behind me.
    I watched him, staring at something through a jeweler's loupe, his eyes fixed upon what he was doing with inhuman intensity; more like a cat observing its prey with unflinching focus,
    waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
    I studied him with rapt attention for some time, thinking that he had no idea until the moment he turned to me, loupe still in place, and nodded in my direction.
    “My father was a clockmaker,” he declared, without my having to ask. “He was… sort of a business partner of Schuyler's father. He built timepieces, restored antiques for the shop on a regular basis. I learned everything I know about clock repair and watch making from him.”
    He closed the case on the back of the watch he'd been working on and set his tools aside. Last of all, he removed the loupe and put it away. “I find concentrating on the task of repairing such a thing helps me to think.”
    I marveled that work so intricate, requiring such meticulous attention, could help anyone think about anything else. It just served as evidence again of the unusual mind at work here, someone so brilliant that clockworks were no challenge at all, and only in the mysteries of the inadequacies of the human body could a true challenge be found.
    “Your mother?” I asked softly. Hearing how dry my throat was, the doctor rose from his chair and brought me a glass of water.
    “I do not remember.”
    He did not elaborate as to whether she left him by choice or by chance, taken in death