We row out to the Undertow and up to her port. The massive ship is longer, taller, and wider than any I have ever seen, nearly double the size of our navy’s intimidating first-rate vessels. Crewmen above toss down a rope ladder for us.
“Up with you, Ticker,” says Captain Redmond.
I have never been comfortable on the water, and I don’t enjoy heights, but I force myself to follow his command.
Grabbing the rope ladder, I climb to the top of the gunwale and hop onto the deck. A saltwater crocodile growls at me from where it lies a few strides away. I scramble away and flatten my back against the rail. From tail to snout, the croc is longer than a man is tall. I fully intend to scurry back down the ladder to get away, but the croc meanders off, tail sliding from side to side as it goes.
Once the crocodile is a safe distance away, I notice the crewmen standing at attention. There must be fifty of them, each one handsome, exquisitely so. They are impeccably dressed in a crisp uniform of gray trousers, a clean ivory shirt, and a head scarf that bears the symbols of their flag—a sandglass over a skull and crossbones.
All are elves, except for a second giant standing off to the side. His shoulders are rolled forward in a permanent hunch, but he is still larger than anyone else on board. He’s brutish in girth, and his hair and mustache are gray and his face is thin like an old man’s. His long nose hangs so low it nearly touches his upper lip.
The giant stares at me in puzzlement. I quickly grip my shirt closed.
Jamison steps aboard next, with First Mate Osric right behind him, and then Laverick. My husband watches me with such tender concern I am afraid tears might come to my eyes, so I direct my attention to Laverick. She scans the main deck, probably in search of a weapon for defense. The crewmen aren’t carrying pistols, and I don’t see a single cannon on the expansive deck. What kind of a pirate ship has no guns? My assumption that the pirates would be slovenly, disorganized, and unregimented also appears misguided. Their deck is in impeccable condition and order. The Undertow could easily sail for the royal navy and fit right in.
Harlow steps on deck and then helps Markham down beside her. The pirates unbound his hands but left him gagged. The first mate and captain must have warned Markham not to remove it.
“Prince Killian,” Osric says, binding the prince’s wrists again, “I have never felt this fondly toward you.” Having thought the same of his gag, I scoff under my breath. The elf aims his severe stare in my direction. “Do you have a grievance with the prince, woman?”
“You could say so. He murdered my family and stabbed me through the chest as a child.”
Osric grunts. “He’s done worse.”
Captain Redmond climbs aboard, Radella still captured in his hand. The huge ship accommodates the addition of his weight without any creaking or swaying.
The crocodile reappears and slinks toward us. Laverick gives a chirp of surprise as the large reptile slides past her to the captain. My upper lip curls as the giant strokes the croc’s leathery head. The scaly beast goes very still and lets the giant touch him, not nipping or growling.
A crewman hurries forward with a birdcage, and Captain Redmond shoves Radella inside. The pixie flutters her wings, raining her dust to try to disappear the bars.
“Save your dust,” says the captain. “The cage is iron.”
Radella kicks and bangs against the bars, trilling furiously. The noise seems to irritate the crocodile, and it waddles down the deck again.
Captain Redmond chuckles. “Pixies are such expressive creatures. First Mate Osric, lead our guests to their accommodations.”
“Happily, sir.” Osric shoves Markham into a pair of elves, who grab his bound arms. “Take him to his cell and throw the others in the brig.”
“I want to go with Killian,” Harlow says loudly.
Osric smacks his lips in distaste. “You should reconsider your allegiance, woman. The prince is a dangerous fellow. He has betrayed many a lady companion, several of whom were far more beautiful than you.”
Harlow holds on to her defiant glare, though her cheeks flush. Markham tries to say something, his expression scathing, but his gag muffles him.
Osric barks a dry laugh. “Look at you, Your Highness. You’re a disgrace to your people and world.”
“That’s enough, Osric,” says the captain, a gentle insertion. “The others will go below, but I want the girl with the clock heart in the day cabin.”
Jamison wrenches from his guard’s grasp. “Everley and I stay together.”
The captain glares down at him. “Who are you?”
Jamison draws up to his full height. “I’m Lieutenant Jamison Callahan of the royal navy and the Earl of Walsh, a lord of the Realm of Wyeth. Everley is my wife. The countess and I will stay together.”
“You’re a mighty important human. He’s impressive, isn’t he, lads?” The captain snickers along with his crew. Then in the next second, he replaces his mirth with a sneer. “I own your wife now, Lord Human. She’s part of my collection.”
“Everley is a person, not a trinket,” Jamison counters. His coldness is every inch that of a blue-blooded naval officer. If I had a heart of flesh and blood, it would swell.
Captain Redmond bends over Jamison, his massive size dwarfing him. To his everlasting credit, Jamison does not balk. “You speak on behalf of your wife as though she belongs to you, as though she’s your possession. How does my ownership of her differ?”
Jamison cranks his jaw. “The difference is I care about her.”
The giant smooths down Jamison’s windswept hair, petting him as he did his crocodile. “Humans have so many emotions. We giants are taught to use our minds over our hearts. You must do the same if you hope to survive this world, Lord of the Humans.” He swats Jamison on the back and knocks him into his guard, who detains him. “Take them below. The rest of you scrub the deck! I want to see my reflection in these planks!”
Crewmen scurry off, and the guards direct Jamison, Laverick, Harlow, and Markham to the hatch that leads belowdecks. Another pirate brings Radella along with them in her cage.
Osric prods me to a huge door off the main deck at the stern of the ship. I try yanking from his grasp, but he pushes me inside and locks me in.
“Let me out!” I bang my fists against the door. My torn shirt falls open, and my anger from the beach returns. “I said let me out, you two-bit elf! My name isn’t Ticker! I’m Everley Donovan, and you’re going to be sorry! I swear to the moon you will regret this!”
His laughter carries through the door.
I kick the door and my toe crunches. While I wait for my foot to quit hurting, I glance around at the day cabin. Windows line the far side, letting in ample daylight. A bunk and a workbench like the one in my uncle’s workshop dominate the longest wall. Baskets of tools, cogs, gears, and balance wheels are piled beneath the bench. Scattered amid the furniture and set out on the floor are clocks—water clocks, pendulum clocks, watch clocks, cuckoo clocks, and a grandfather clock. Among them are even a couple sundials and sandglasses. The room must hold at least a hundred timepieces of various sizes, ages, and materials. Most are constructed out of fine wood, though some are brass inset with colorful jewels.
The absence of noise sends my hand to my chest. Other than the sound of my ticker, I hear no ticktocks from the timepieces, no swoosh of swinging pendulums or whir of spinning cogs. The noise in my uncle’s shop wasn’t uproarious, but one couldn’t enter the presence of his dozens of merchandise clocks without the pieces welcoming them into the motion of time.
Pressing my ear to the side of the grandfather clock, I listen for life. More silence greets me. I inspect its mechanisms for bad gears or blockages and find nothing visibly wrong with the inner workings. The clockwork is so shiny I can see myself in the brass pendulum, and the gears are immaculate, as if the grandfather clock is brand new.
I go from clock to clock in search of a functioning mechanism. My hunt takes nearly an hour from start to finish. After
I have inspected the last timepiece that has moving parts, I sit on the bunk and drop my face into my hands.
Every clock in the captain’s collection except my own is dead.
Hours later, an elf brings me a pail of steaming water and a washcloth, then slips out again. I don’t want to accept anything from these damn pirates, but sand has worked its way into hidden places, itching me and grating against my skin, and every time I scratch my scalp, thick grit collects beneath my fingernails.
I stare at the steaming-hot water until I cannot bear the itchiness any longer, then I strip down to my underclothes and wash my hair.
Someone clears their throat behind me.
The first mate entered the cabin while my head was in the bucket. My wet hair drips down my back as I cover my chest. My thin undergarments conceal most of me, but I am still apprehensive about one of my captors finding me in a state of undress.
“Have you any decency?” I ask.
“I’m a pirate,” Osric responds, as though that is all the explanation I need. “Don’t concern yourself with modesty, woman. Elves aren’t attracted to humans. We mate only with our own kind. Humans are no more appealing to us than a dog or a rat.”
I’m not seeking his approval, but his repulsion is a little more than I was prepared for. “You’ve stated your disgust well.”
“Yet you still fear me.”
“I do not.”
“Your fingertips twitch toward your waist—where your sword must usually hang?—when you’re distressed.”
I clasp my hands in front of me. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Perhaps you should be.” Osric begins to tour the room, examining the captain’s vast clock collection. “Why did the prince wish for Captain Redmond to capture him and bring him aboard our ship?”
His phrasing perplexes me. “How do you know Markham wanted you to capture him? He protested quite loudly.”
“Too loudly. Killian never knows when to shut his mouth, but he’s no fool. He does nothing without a cause.”
I wring out my damp hair. “How do you and Markham know each other?”
“We were friends once.”
I’m surprised. His rancor for the prince is as plain as my own. I do not trust this elf, but I didn’t lie when I said I was not afraid of him. Still, true to his word, Osric has shown no interest in my half-undressed body.
“We were friends ages ago,” Osric explains. “I was young and precocious.”
“How long ago was it?” I ask. Osric doesn’t look much older than me, but elves live a long time, up to a thousand years, and Markham has the infuriating advantage of immortality, so for all I know they could have been friends decades, or even centuries, ago.
“We were friends long enough for me to see who he really is under all that charisma and bravado.” Osric removes a small red apple from his pocket. He inspects the fruit for the right place to bite and then sinks his teeth in. I’m hungry from not eating all day, yet he offers me none and speaks between chews. “Before you dress, the captain has asked that the cabin boy take a close look at your ticker.”
“No one meddles with my clock heart.”
“You can trust Neely. His job is to fix things.”
“He can’t be very good at it or these clocks would be working.”
“That’s no fault of his. The tides rule the Land Under the Wave. Gear timepieces are easily corroded by the heavy air and salt water. Yours will be no exception if we don’t act soon.”
I clamp my mouth shut and quickly finish dressing. My clothes are dirty and my shirt is still torn, but I put them back on to stop the first mate from appearing as though he ate something rancid whenever he looks at me.
The door opens, and the stooped giant enters with a canvas bag, his bent head brushing the ceiling. “Good day, poppet. I’ve come to have a look at your clock heart.”
I fold my arms across my chest and take in his big size and bushy gray hair. “You’re the cabin boy?”
Neely’s blue eyes dance. “Aye. I like when the crew calls me that. Makes me feel young again.”
“How old are you?”
“It’s rude to ask a giant’s age,” Osric says through a mouthful of apple. Then he adds in a poorly veiled murmur, “Humans are so ill mannered.”
The hypocrisy of his statement, said with a mouthful of food, galls me so much that I cannot stop myself from tsk-tsking.
Neely sets down his bag. “I had my centennial birthday last year.”
Giants don’t live as long as elves, but they still outlast humans. Most humans would consider themselves fortunate to make it to their tenth decade.
The century-old giant strides to me, his attention fixated on the location of the clock heart under my shirt. “You needn’t be shy, poppet. The captain said your clock isn’t functioning properly. I’ve come to fix you up as good as new.”
“Good as new” would mean a working heart of flesh and blood, something I gave up wishing and praying for when I was a child.
Neely towers over me and patiently waits for me to cooperate. Looking up at him brings on another bout of light-headedness. Despite my hope that my ticker will eventually improve on its own, it still beats faintly. The possibility that Neely may help encourages me to peel my arms away from my upper body.
The giant opens his tool bag. He doesn’t tug down my shift—he is too polite—so I pull the neckline sideways to reveal my ticker. He removes a monocle from his shirt pocket and places it over his right eye. His small eye suddenly looks larger and more proportionate with his oversize features.
He leans over to study my clock heart up close. “How long has it been beating faintly?”
“Since before I left my world.” I think back and hedge. “Actually, it started after I escaped the destruction of Markham’s world, the Land of Youth.”
“Prince Killian told you the Land of Youth was his world?” Osric asks, a chunk of apple bulging inside his cheek.
I nod, and the first mate grunts. I don’t appreciate his interruption, so I finish answering Neely’s question. “Not too long ago, my ticker was waterlogged, but Jamison fixed it and replaced the broken parts.”
“Jamison? You’re referring to the human lord who was disrespectful to Captain Redmond?” Neely asks. I remember their exchange quite differently, but I nod, and again, Osric grunts. “How long have you had your clock heart? The materials and workmanship are remarkable.”
“My uncle is a clockmaker. He installed it almost ten years ago. He said Father Time directed him.”
The giant’s frown expands, multiplying the lines around his lips. He presses a fingertip against my ticker. The longer he seeks out the beat, the deeper the crease between his shaggy eyebrows grows.
Osric observes from across the cabin while he eats his apple. Could he chew any louder?
Neely finally sits back. “This is the finest clock I have ever seen. Regrettably, it isn’t working at capacity.”
I rub at the gooseflesh on my arms. “Can you repair it?”
“I will try, but I need to consult the captain before we go any further.” The giant tucks his monocle away. “You and your clock heart truly are extraordinary.”
My uncle often told me I was extraordinary too, but all I wanted was to be ordinary, to stand close to someone without worrying if they could hear the ticktock of my heart, to wear a flattering neckline instead of a collar buttoned up to my chin, to marry and have children someday and even grandchildren, and to live a long, full life in every sense.
“Extraordinary” really means missing out on the life that everyone else has.
Neely tries for an encouraging smile. “I’ll return when I can, poppet.”
The giant grabs his tool bag and hobbles out. Though I am relieved he won’t tamper with my ticker without due consideration, I’m still anxious to figure out what’s wrong with me.
Osric picks his teeth with the stem of his apple. He ate the rest of the fruit, including its seeds and core. He opens a trun
k and removes a pile of clothes. “Captain Redmond is expecting you for dinner. Get dressed, and I’ll be back soon.”
In the wake of his departure, I dress swiftly. My movements are mechanical, my mind stuck on Neely’s findings, or lack thereof. Osric left me a clean shirt, a leather vest, a belt, and trousers. The thick wool puts an end to my chilliness.
As I tug on my mother’s red gloves, Osric returns. “Must you ruin your appearance with those dirty things?” he asks of my gloves.
“What do you care? You said humans repulse you.” He grunts, which I’m coming to understand is his form of a chuckle. “Do you have any humans in your crew?”
“Off and on. Your kind don’t survive long in the Land Under the Wave. Come along, Countess,” he says, his use of my title mocking.
He grips my forearm and drags me outside. The moon nearly outshines the waning sun, the sunset fading to dusk. I hardly get a glimpse of the happenings on deck as the first mate pulls me into the captain’s cabin.
No one else is here. The galley must be on the deck below, because the scent of cooked meat is strong, yet no food is on the table.
My fingers start to quake. On the nights when my uncle read me tales about giants, I would lie awake, petrified that one would smash through our roof, scoop me from bed, and carry me away to its den. There, the giant would stuff me full of stewed apples cooked in pork fat, and when I was round and plump, it would drop me in a pot and boil me into a stew.
“Captain Redmond will be along shortly,” Osric says.
“Are you joining us?” Elves don’t eat humans, at least not in our legends. Osric’s dinner attendance may be a sign that my childhood nightmare won’t come true.
Into the Hourglass Page 8