“Claret?” Laverick calls. “Claret!”
Harlow shouts another name. “Killian, are you out there?”
The whale grumbles loudly, the deafening noise echoing all around us. The women quiet.
Jamison fists the back of Harlow’s dress and pulls. The weight of her soaked dress and petticoats drags her down, so I grip a fistful as well. The cloth is slick and reeks of fish oil. Together we haul her out of the water and into the bottom of the boat.
She lies on her back, panting, and stares up at us. “Do you see Killian?”
“Who cares about the prince?” Laverick replies. “Where’s Claret?”
Radella flies out over the water again. She circles the boat, moving farther away from us with each lap. The pixie stops near the outer wall and flits around excitedly. She has found something. Jamison takes up our single oar and rows us out to the pixie.
Harlow sits on a bench and leans over the side of the boat. “Is it Killian?”
Part of me hopes he has been stuck in this cesspool, mostly because that means my sword would be here somewhere. But as we approach the light, I spot a woman.
“Claret!” Laverick perches on the side of the boat, sending us swaying. I pull her back before she tips us over.
Claret floats on her back with her eyes closed. Laverick and I heave her out of the water and lay her in the bottom of the longboat. Claret is missing both her shoes and one of her stockings. Laverick shakes the Cat, but she’s unresponsive.
I place my hands over her chest like I’ve seen Dr. Huxley do with his patients. Finding her heartbeat, I exclaim, “She’s alive.”
Laverick pats her cheeks. “Wake up, Claret. Wake up.”
Radella flies straight up above us, taking the light with her. All of us gaze up at the pixie in question and watch her dive at the boat. She speeds past us and lands, driving into Claret’s abdomen.
The Cat jolts and coughs up water, gradually coming awake.
“Well done, Radella,” Jamison says.
The pixie lands on his shoulder and preens.
Laverick strokes her friend’s sopping hair, both women silhouettes in the dimness. “I’m sorry,” says the Fox. “We should have never followed Vevina’s plan.”
“Why did you?” I ask.
“Vevina didn’t want to leave our world,” Laverick explains dully. “We didn’t want to lie to you, but we thought once we conquered Dorcha and gave you the short sword, you would forget about your other sword and the prince.”
Her voice warbles with fear. I rub my chilled arms and breathe through my mouth to lessen the nauseating reek in the air. I understand her trepidation about where we are and where we’re going, but I wish they had been forthright with me about their intentions.
Claret lays her head against her best friend’s. “We’ll be all right, Lavey. We have each other.”
The two of them huddle together for comfort. By comparison, the gap between Jamison and me on the bench feels monumental. I know he did not intend to come along, but just his presence eases the worst of my apprehension.
He faces the inky pit of the whale’s middle. “Do you hear that?”
Air stirs deep within the whale, a hollow rustling that unnerves me. A sudden drop sends everyone scrambling to hang on. Water sloshes over the edge of the boat, splashing my boots. Radella dives into Jamison’s breast pocket, and I grip the bench harder.
We sit, frozen, waiting.
The water slopes and pitches us backward in our seats. Our boat slides forward, deeper into Dorcha’s belly. Laverick and Claret scream as we fall farther into the murkiness. Before we enter the recesses of the whale’s bowels, a tremendous draft of air pushes us forward again.
We hang on while we speed toward the whale’s clamped teeth. His mouth opens, and sunlight blinds us as our boat soars out of his mouth and splashes into the water. We dip low and then bob up again.
Waves surround us every which way, their peaks glistening the colors of diamonds and sapphires, reflecting the flawless sky.
“Look out!” Harlow cries.
A wave pushes us off-balance and the boat tips down on one side. As I start to slide toward the edge, I grab for Jamison, but my fingers slip through his and I topple into the sea.
I flail toward the surface, and then another wave piles me. My hand presses down on my ticker to seal out the salt water. I kick up and break the surface again.
Our boat is pulled away by the rolling crests, my friends veering out of sight. I swim after them, but a large wave slams into me and drags me under mountainous, sun-drenched waters.
A dripping noise floods my mind. The patter is not unlike the ticktock of a clock—consistent, niggling, unrelenting.
I sit up in bed. My dim bedroom window is cracked open, rain leaking in and collecting on the floor. I rise to shut it and crush something under my foot.
A daisy.
Father Time’s symbol sends a prickle of awareness across my skin. He leaves me daisies when he’s close by or when magic is afoot.
I tiptoe out of my room. The chairs in the sitting area are empty, and a fire crackles in the hearth. Uncle Holden’s steaming cup of whisky tea rests on the table untouched. Rain beads down the kitchen window that looks into the alley. Wet footprints puddle on the floor, tracks leading from the back door to his workshop.
Another daisy rests in front of the partially ajar door. I creep up to the workshop and pick up the second flower. My uncle’s voice carries out.
“What would you have me do, Brogan?”
Brogan . . . ?
“Stash it here a few days,” replies a familiar voice. “I’ll return before I leave for the isle. Ellowyn won’t allow this weapon under the same roof as the children. Your shop is the only other place the blade will be protected. Killian won’t think to look here.”
A roar fills my ears, like the ticking of a thousand clocks. Ellowyn was my mother. And the second man’s voice . . .
I pad to the door, toward the scent of fresh wood shavings, and peek through the opening. My father stands with his back to me. I would recognize his tall, top-heavy stature at any angle. His shoulders, torso, and arms are thick compared to his lanky legs. He wears his riding outfit, his breeches and boots mud stained.
I blink fast to clear my eyes. Father is alive?
“You shouldn’t go back there,” says Uncle Holden. He’s seated on his stool at his workbench, the sword of Avelyn lying before him. He looks so young. After my family died, he seemed to age overnight. “Ellowyn and the children need you, Brogan.”
“All the more reason why I must finish this,” answers Father. “Worlds will be destroyed if he gets this.”
“I know.” Uncle Holden stares across his workshop at a sandglass, an object I haven’t seen since I was a little girl. After my uncle took me in, he put the sandglass away and I never saw it again.
“Don’t let him find the sword, Holden. I trust you to protect the relic.”
“The sword is safe here. I swear.”
My father grasps his shoulder. “Will we see you on Ellowyn’s birthday?”
“I’ll ride up in the evening. I bought her the red gloves you suggested.”
I clutch the daisy in my hands, which are clad in my mother’s gloves. She died on her birthday before my uncle could give them to her.
My father starts for the door, and my heart vaults into my throat. From his hooked nose to his russet eyes surrounded by smile crinkles, straight down to his pronounced throat knob, his face is home. I often combed back his straight hair, slicking down the front pieces that would stick out when he took off his tricorn hat. Those unruly strands poke out now and point down over his troubled eyes.
“Papa?” I whisper.
Without any acknowledgment, he puts on his damp hat and strides to the back door. I hurry into the alleyway after him.
“Papa, wait!”
He untethers his horse from a post. I maneuver in front of him and grab for his sleeve. My hand passes thro
ugh him, sliding like a ghost through a wall. I gape at my fingers. They feel and look solid, and yet . . .
My father raises his gaze in my direction.
“Papa, it’s me, Evie.” I imagine he will grab me up and nuzzle his whiskers against my neck as he used to do. But he lifts his hand and waves to Uncle Holden, who is standing in the kitchen doorway.
Father vaults into the saddle, then snaps the reins and his horse trots off. I dash after him, calling his name. He turns on to the main road and rides out of view.
I bend over my knees, my head reeling. Why can’t he see or hear me?
While bent over, I catch sight of my reflection in a puddle. My boots are not wet nor my clothes damp. I straighten and stare up into the rain clouds, waiting for the drizzle to dampen my face. I feel nothing, smell nothing. No rain, no soggy chill—no ticktock of my heart.
Jerking down the neckline of my shirt, I see the minute hand is motionless.
I drop the daisy and run down the alley. My footsteps make no splashes. I am here, yet I’m not.
Something strange like this happened once before. On the isle, when my ticker became waterlogged, my spirit floated out of my body and soared to far-off places. I saw things that still resurface in my nightmares—the battlefield with the warrior giants and Markham as master over my enslaved friends. Father Time let me see the future as a warning for what’s to come if we don’t stop Markham. Could this be a warning too? But how could it be when this is the past?
Uncle Holden closes the back door. I grab for the latch, and my fingers pass through it. I squeeze my eyes shut and step through the door into the kitchen.
My uncle stands at the hearth, sipping his whisky tea.
“Uncle Holden?” I ask, drawing nearer.
He glowers into the crackling fire. The sword of Avelyn is propped against the stone hearth. I reach for the hilt, and my touch goes straight through. My uncle sets down his teacup and picks up my sword. He walks past me to the staircase and starts upward.
“Uncle Holden. Uncle Holden, please!”
I scurry after him up to his loft. He kneels in front of his cedar chest and wraps my sword in a quilt. That’s where the blade was when he first showed it to me.
My ticker clunks in my chest, then a fast ticktock sounds as the minute hand winds forward. Before I can figure out what’s happening, the room spins. When the spinning stops, so does my ticker, and another daisy has appeared in my hand.
I’m still in the loft, but the scenery has changed. Moonlight floods through the dingy window onto the dusty floor, and Uncle Holden sits at the edge of his bed beside a girl.
She’s me.
My raven hair is short like a boy’s. This must be soon after my parents died, as that’s the last time my hair was this length. Markham set fire to our house to conceal their murders. My uncle pulled me out in time, but it took nearly three years to grow out my burned hair.
“Let’s go over this once more,” says my uncle. He looks older than he did moments ago, as though he lost years off of his life in a matter of months. “What’s your name?”
“Everley Donovan—oof, I squelched it again.” The younger me pushes out her chin. “Give me another chance. I can do it.”
“Of course you can. Take your time.”
His kindness sends a current of affection through me. Good sin, I miss him.
“I’m Everley O’Shea,” says younger me, “apprentice to Holden O’Shea, the clockmaker. Mr. O’Shea took me in off the streets. My father abandoned me—” She makes a sour face. “Do I have to say that?”
“It’s the furthest from the truth, so yes.” At her hesitancy, Uncle Holden pats her arm. “Have you heard of a distraction?”
“Carlin would accuse me of distracting him while he was practicing his flute.”
My brother Carlin always let me know when I was getting on his nerves. Most of the time, I deserved his irritation. I would hum a different tune while he practiced to mess him up.
“Precisely,” replies my uncle. “When you tell our customers or neighbors that your parents are gone, you will distract them from the truth.”
Younger Everley rubs her palms over her knees. “Why can’t we tell them what really happened?”
“Because it’s our secret. Sometimes a secret hurts people less than the truth would. People believe you aren’t with us any longer, that you’ve passed on with your mother, father, and siblings. Finding out you are here with me would make them curious.” My uncle fixes the neckline of the lass’s dress, concealing her scar. “Then they might find out how special you are.”
“I don’t feel special.”
I feel her words weigh heavy in my own mouth, remembering how unpleasant they tasted. The lies—the necessary falsities—left traces, like grime on a glass windowpane. No amount of time will ever wash them clean.
Uncle Holden hugs her to his side. “No one who is special feels they are. What makes you different isn’t shameful, Evie. You aren’t hiding because you did something wrong. People fear what they don’t understand. Now, you did well, except you left out one part.”
The lass’s expression scrunches in contemplation. “I’m Everley O’Shea, apprentice and adopted daughter to Holden O’Shea, the clockmaker.”
He added the part about him so I wouldn’t feel alone. My uncle never attempted to replace my parents. Yet late at night, when nightmares of big flames and deafening gunshots woke me, I would stare at the ceiling and recite this practiced speech. At times, the lies felt so real I wanted them to be true. I wanted to have never known my parents and my uncle to be my only family. Though I felt guilty for wishing something so selfish, living the lie lessened my heartache.
My uncle wraps his arm around her shoulders. “That’s enough for today. We’ll do this again tomorrow. Well done, Evie.”
“You shouldn’t call me that anymore.” Her little voice holds resignation. “The lie must distract from the truth. I can’t be Evie Donovan. I have to be Everley O’Shea.”
“You must be Everley O’Shea around everyone else, but with me, you will always be Evie.”
“No,” she replies tightly. “The Donovan family is gone, and so is your niece.”
Uncle Holden gathers the lass closer. Her head rests against his shoulder, so she doesn’t see the tears trickling down his face. “Would you like to visit their graves?” he asks, tears absent of his voice.
“You said someone could see me.”
“We’ll go early in the day, and we won’t stay long.”
She gives no immediate reply, but I remember the battle raging inside her. My desire to see my family’s headstones was intense, yet I thought this was a test of how well I could maintain my new identity. Ultimately, my decision came down to the truth that my family’s remains were not in the cemetery for me to visit. Their ashes were shoveled away with the crumbled debris of our leveled manor. Their gravestones marked nothing but dirt.
“No, thank you, Uncle Holden,” she answers softly, her head still against his shoulder and her gaze on the floor.
Her polite refusal unleashes more tears in him that I never saw. I wish he would have shown me them, even once, so I could have revealed my own without feeling weak or ungrateful.
My ticker begins to spin, faster and faster. An invisible force seizes me, and I float off the rug toward the ceiling. Alarmed, I drop the daisy and it vanishes in midair.
“I cannot go yet, Father Time,” I say. “I want to stay home with my uncle.”
The force holding me ignores my plea. I fly up through the ceiling into the night and the force suspends me over our rooftop. The city of Dorestand extends beneath me, a sprawling array of pitched roofs, smoking chimneys, brick buildings, and wet cobblestone roads brightened by lampposts and softly lit windows.
My clock heart spins continuously as I float again, higher and higher above the clouds and into a soft quilt of stars. Their radiance intensifies, flooding my vision with piercing light.
Whoosh.
Whoosh.
Are those . . . waves?
I peel open an eyelid and peer into the sun. Scrunching my eyes shut again, I rub sand from my lips and roll off my back onto my hands and knees. My body feels hollowed out, the middle of me cored straight through.
Something tugs my hair. Radella hovers beside me, hands on her hips. I look around at the clear sky and scorching sun warming the pale sand. Huge rolling waves barrel in from the sea and slam into the beach. Beyond the breakwater, there are no boats or whales in sight. No debris from a boat wreck litters the shoreline, and I spot no tracks or footprints from other survivors. I crane my neck to view the coastline behind me and see nothing but sand dunes. Not a single tree or scrub brush is in view.
“Have you seen the others, Radella?”
She shakes her head solemnly.
Brushing my stringy hair back, I sit up. The tide has gone out, leaving a slope of wet sand between us and the surf. Gone are my pack, cloak, and short sword. I must have washed ashore, but my clock heart isn’t waterlogged. Each beat sends a pang to the back of my teeth.
“How is my ticker not broken?”
Radella points at herself.
“You fixed it?”
She makes a motion like she’s fluttering her wings and raining down dust.
“You disappeared the water?”
The pixie nods several times. Radella has already taught me the rules of pixie dust—it must touch something to make it disappear, and it cannot vanish anything made of creation power, only inanimate objects—apart from iron. She could have disappeared the water, but wouldn’t she have vanished my ticker too?
I rub at the aching spot between my eyes, trying to remember what happened after I fell in. I recall visiting the past, something I had no idea one could do. But if Father Time can send me forward to the future, then it’s reasonable to think that he could send me back to my childhood. He has the power to do so, yet why he showed me those moments is lost on me.
Into the Hourglass Page 4