it. If I had to spend twenty-eight more days here, then I would not allow those days to turn me into the likes of Aunt Alice. No matter what I had to do at the end of them.
T he next day I was back in the workshop, the steam engine humming through the floor, Uncle Tulman huddled in his usual position, hunchbacked and cross-legged on a floor cushion, his papers now blackened with jottings of numbers. Lane was at the workbench, painting in silence, the gray eyes never once piercing mine.
“Do you think I might play today, Uncle?”
My uncle looked up, his joy bubbling. “Oh, yes! You must! You must, indeed, little niece!”
That got Lane’s attention. The brush stopped moving, paint dribbling down it. “Why, Mr. Tully?” He looked as if he hadn’t meant to speak that thought aloud.
“Because she likes it, just as she likes clocks! My little niece is very good at clocks, she knows just the right way to wind them.”
I got up from my place on the floor. “Shall I help Mr. Moreau paint, Uncle?”
“Yes, yes! But let him show you how, niece. Show my little niece, Lane, so she can do it the right way. Lane always knows the right way.” He went happily back to his scribbling while I approached the bench, trying to seem friendly. The paintbrush was already moving again.
“He let you wind the clocks,” Lane said. But I knew it was not really a statement; he was demanding my answer.
I kept my eyes on his paintbrush. I had stood for a long time after leaving that cabbage for Davy, thinking of my twenty-eight days, the garden breezes pushing me this way and that before I picked up my skirts and ran through the house to the clock room. There I’d stood once again, this time just outside the doorway, watching my uncle. He’d been chattering as he wound, happy and lost in his own ticking world until he whipped around, the beard spreading wide, his shout of “Simon’s baby!” ringing out over the noise of the clocks. We took turns after that, counting the revolutions of the winding keys, my uncle clapping when I did it right. But it wasn’t until I was tiptoe on a stool, stretched full length to wind the birdcage clock, that I saw my uncle was no longer counting. He was waiting, eyes closed. The little bird whistled and the clock beside us boomed, the first chime of the noon hour, one clang in a cacophony of sound that made me drop the key and cover my ears. Uncle Tully jumped to his feet, laughing and waving his arms as if the noise were something he could swim through. “Listen, little niece!” he’d yelled over the din. “They are telling us when! Listen to the clocks tell us when!”
“He let you wind the clocks,” Lane’s low voice repeated, breaking my reverie. I looked up to see the gray eyes now fully on me, dark brows down, and realized I had been smiling. I settled my expression, lowering my eyes back to the paint.
“Yes, he did. The essential thing was to note how many times the winding key should be turned, and to always be turning clockwise before the reverse. We made short work of it, and … I think my uncle enjoyed himself very much.”
Lane’s paint went up and down on the wooden square, his fingers moving the brush in long, expert strokes. Here was someone else I could not sort. I did not like that. I thought of the silver falcon and the intricate cuts on its ruffling wings, and wondered what other skills Lane chose to hide from the world. The silence stretched long.
“Well, are you going to show me how, then, or shall I just stand here?”
He set down the brush, jaw tight, and handed me a piece of wood identical to his. It was very light. “What is it?” I asked.
“A dragon scale. A few got knocked off during your little demonstration the other day, and need to be fixed.” He gave me a brush, and I dipped it into the green paint. “The ‘essential thing,’ as you say, is to leave no lines in the paint. If there are lines, then Mr. Tully will have to count them.”
I
T he next day I was back in the workshop, the steam engine humming through the floor, Uncle Tulman huddled in his usual position, hunchbacked and cross-legged on a floor cushion, his papers now blackened with jottings of numbers. Lane was at the workbench, painting in silence, the gray eyes never once piercing mine.
“Do you think I might play today, Uncle?”
My uncle looked up, his joy bubbling. “Oh, yes! You must! You must, indeed, little niece!”
That got Lane’s attention. The brush stopped moving, paint dribbling down it. “Why, Mr. Tully?” He looked as if he hadn’t meant to speak that thought aloud.
“Because she likes it, just as she likes clocks! My little niece is very good at clocks, she knows just the right way to wind them.”
I got up from my place on the floor. “Shall I help Mr. Moreau paint, Uncle?”
“Yes, yes! But let him show you how, niece. Show my little niece, Lane, so she can do it the right way. Lane always knows the right way.” He went happily back to his scribbling while I approached the bench, trying to seem friendly. The paintbrush was already moving again.
“He let you wind the clocks,” Lane said. But I knew it was not really a statement; he was demanding my answer.
I kept my eyes on his paintbrush. I had stood for a long time after leaving that cabbage for Davy, thinking of my twenty-eight days, the garden breezes pushing me this way and that before I picked up my skirts and ran through the house to the clock room. There I’d stood once again, this time just outside the doorway, watching my uncle. He’d been chattering as he wound, happy and lost in his own ticking world until he whipped around, the beard spreading wide, his shout of “Simon’s baby!” ringing out over the noise of the clocks. We took turns after that, counting the revolutions of the winding keys, my uncle clapping when I did it right. But it wasn’t until I was tiptoe on a stool, stretched full length to wind the birdcage clock, that I saw my uncle was no longer counting. He was waiting, eyes closed. The little bird whistled and the clock beside us boomed, the first chime of the noon hour, one clang in a cacophony of sound that made me drop the key and cover my ears. Uncle Tully jumped to his feet, laughing and waving his arms as if the noise were something he could swim through. “Listen, little niece!” he’d yelled over the din. “They are telling us when! Listen to the clocks tell us when!”
“He let you wind the clocks,” Lane’s low voice repeated, breaking my reverie. I looked up to see the gray eyes now fully on me, dark brows down, and realized I had been smiling. I settled my expression, lowering my eyes back to the paint.
“Yes, he did. The essential thing was to note how many times the winding key should be turned, and to always be turning clockwise before the reverse. We made short work of it, and … I think my uncle enjoyed himself very much.”
Lane’s paint went up and down on the wooden square, his fingers moving the brush in long, expert strokes. Here was someone else I could not sort. I did not like that. I thought of the silver falcon and the intricate cuts on its ruffling wings, and wondered what other skills Lane chose to hide from the world. The silence stretched long.
“Well, are you going to show me how, then, or shall I just stand here?”
He set down the brush, jaw tight, and handed me a piece of wood identical to his. It was very light. “What is it?” I asked.
“A dragon scale. A few got knocked off during your little demonstration the other day, and need to be fixed.” He gave me a brush, and I dipped it into the green paint. “The ‘essential thing,’ as you say, is to leave no lines in the paint. If there are lines, then Mr. Tully will have to count them.”
I
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