All the years I’ve spent listening for stories and all the miles I’ve traveled were worth it. I now have one of the most valuable items in existence. No words can describe the piece. It is like the most wonderful thing in the world spun with every terrible nightmare that exists.
I am still trying to determine whether it can be controlled in some way, or whether it simply operates of its own accord. One thing is certain: ownership of this item will be a burden. It’s far better suited for one who lives a dark and lonely life, who has no light left to share in the world. Such an existence would lift the burden, to be sure, but it’s not a life I desire. I must be careful not to fall down that path.
Someday, my turn will come to pass along this valuable piece to another trustworthy soul. Until then, I hope to complete what I’ve set out to do.
Although Elbert was unsurprised to learn Santiago owned a piece of the time touch, he found it rather curious that the piece was inside, of all places, the music box. He had yet to see evidence of the box’s magic. Aside from the tingling sensation he had when he’d first touched it, the music box seemed like an ordinary thing. No matter how he tinkered, toyed, and fiddled with the box, he couldn’t get it to open. It remained tightly shut, day after day, month after month. Santiago had told him it only played on certain occasions, but he never said what those occasions were.
So Elbert went back through Santiago’s transcribed notes seeking clues. He spent several weeks ruminating on a particularly enigmatic verse the clockmaker had written:
There are three parts to the time touch, locked in three separate objects:
One in which all is foretold,
One in which lie gifts of gold,
One in which past days unfold.
One piece of the time touch lay, of course, in the music box. Which piece it was, Elbert couldn’t say. He deduced it was not the third, since a diary entry late in Santiago’s life specifically mentioned it as something that eluded him.
New York—July 10, 1904
The one in which past days unfold—the most important piece of all. My guess has always been that the object is a clock of some sort. The hands would go backward and allow the user to go back through time. For fifty years and counting, whenever a customer brings in a watch or timepiece that needs fixing, I’ve kept a keen eye out for such an item. I’ve written to my colleagues in other cities, I’ve watched the international papers for news of strange timepieces. But to no avail. I worry I’ve been mistaken.
Elbert also suspected, though Santiago never wrote or spoke of it explicitly, that the clockmaker had a second piece of the time touch in his possession: the one in which lie gifts of gold. He thought back to his days performing onstage. The golden pendulum Santiago had sold him had always been extraordinary—perhaps a tad too extraordinary. Elbert recalled how whenever he’d used it, time seemed to stand still briefly, not just for the person he was hypnotizing, but also for himself. But that was where the magic seemed to end. If the pendulum did contain a piece of the time touch, Elbert had yet to see its true powers (much like the music box). Nonetheless, he made sure he kept the pendulum close to his heart as he continued his research.
Perhaps what haunted him most was the last and final page in Santiago’s diary, written in a shaky hand:
It is my own folly that I expected to have time and energy to continue my search at this stage. Despite my best efforts, I failed to locate that most important piece—the one that I am certain would have allowed me to save the Governess. Even so, my work has resulted in a good and interesting life, and I think of what is to come when I am gone.
I met a bright young magician the other day. Full of potential, with a good heart. Worthy of the responsibility.
Like the hermit in the tower, it is time for me to pass on the legacy.
I believe in you, Elbert. Keep safe what you’ve been given, and I wish you luck in finding what eluded me.
The research kept Elbert busy. At first, he saw no one, talked to no one, and barely went outside, unless it was for a quick run to the market for some bread and fruit.
But bread and fruit cost money, and it soon became clear to Elbert that he would have to engage with the world if he wanted to eat and continue his quest. To pay the bills, he sold homemade lavender candle clocks, exactly as Santiago had taught him. Day and night, the studio apartment was crowded with pots of wax, lavender, and batches of long, white-and-green-striped candles that burned precisely one stripe every hour. They lasted twice as long as the other candles on the market, and were touted to have healing powers thanks to their gentle lavender scent. The candles became immensely popular. (It helped, too, that a small group of Elbert’s most ardent fans from his magician days promoted the candles wherever they could.) Soon, Elbert had loyal customers returning to his apartment each week, from fishmongers to teachers to wealthy doctors in three-piece suits.
“Several of my patients said these cured their headaches,” a doctor told him after buying five dozen. “I give them to everyone who comes to see me now.”
A banker told him the candles kept time better than his own pocket watch.
Another buyer asked, impressed, “Where’d you learn how to make these extraordinary candles?”
“A wise clockmaker taught me,” was Elbert’s simple answer.
Each week, after paying his expenses, he sent half his remaining earnings to his parents, who did not know much about their son’s research but were nonetheless thrilled he had left the fickle show business for a more stable career.
Then one evening, a little after midnight, the music box opened for the first time. Elbert woke to a strange, eerie tune. The music was short yet long, simple yet complicated. When the melody ended, the music box closed by itself, and remained shut.
The very next morning, Elbert’s pet dove flew headfirst into the window. The poor bird died instantly.
A year after that incident, the music box opened and played for the second time. Elbert had just returned from visiting his mother in the hospital, where she was staying due to fevers and weight loss. That very afternoon, his mother passed.
When the music box played again, several weeks later, Elbert immediately tried to close the lid. But while the music box wouldn’t open before, now it wouldn’t shut no matter how hard he pushed, not until the entire melody had finished.
Three days after, a letter arrived stating his father had been crushed to death by an anchor at the docks.
Now, Elbert was not a superstitious person. You’d think a magician might be especially susceptible to the blurred line between reality and the mysterious, but Elbert was not. He had never dreaded Friday the thirteenth. He didn’t blink twice when he’d accidentally broken a mirror in his youth, nor did he trouble himself with the many black cats that had crossed his path over the years. But now, the meaning of the music box loomed over him like a shadow, and warnings from Santiago echoed in his head. He began to have doubts.
“Must not let anyone else have this bewitched object,” he vowed. Such an object could drive people insane with its premonitions—starting with himself. He thought of chucking it to the bottom of the ocean, or burning it altogether in his fireplace, but Santiago’s many years of chasing the object guilted Elbert.
So he kept the music box buried inside the wall in the back of his closet. That’s where he hoped it would quietly lie, until his own death.
Then had come the candle theft.
Over the years, the popularity of Elbert’s candles had caught the attention of a wealthy businessman. He appeared at Elbert’s doorstep on an autumn evening, wearing a decorative three-piece suit and clutching an elegant walking stick.
“Elbert Walsh, I presume?”
“That’s me.”
“Pleased.” The businessman had hair the color of salt and pepper, and two long, heavy eyebrows, which rose in a scornful sneer as he glanced inside the small apartment. In a self-important tone, he said, “My name is Robert Baron. Word on the street is that your ca
ndle clocks are more precise and last longer than any other on the market, and that they apparently possess healing powers.”
“Er, yes—” began Elbert.
“I’ll get to the point,” the businessman interrupted. “I wish to buy your candles.”
“Certainly, sir. How many would you like?”
“No, no, you misunderstand me,” huffed the businessman. He gave an impatient sigh. “I want to buy the rights to your candles—goods, formulas, and all. I’ll brand them and make an empire out of them.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The formula is not for sale.”
Although Elbert didn’t know it at the time, this businessman was a particularly greedy fellow. So greedy, in fact, that he had five companies to his name, all of which had been acquired by a mix of bribery, theft, and, failing those, any means necessary, no matter the cost.
In order to convince Elbert to give up his candles, Robert Baron tried the first tactic: bribery.
“I will pay you handsomely, of course,” lied the businessman. “I will exchange most of my savings for the mere candle recipes. Four hundred dollars, not a penny less.”
Although it was a lot of money (four hundred dollars back then was enough to pay Elbert’s rent for a year), Elbert politely refused. His candles carried a lot of sentimental value for him. He had made an honest living with them, and the candles had allowed him to carry on Santiago’s research and ruminations about the time touch.
A good businessperson isn’t one who gives up easily. Robert Baron pressed on, “All right then, why don’t I pay you five hundred dollars? Mm, no? How about six hundred?”
On and on this went, until the bid rose to fourteen hundred. It was more money than Elbert had made from a year’s worth of stage performances, and infinitely more than what he made from selling bundles of candles.
“Well…all right,” Elbert said after thinking it over. “On one condition. I want to be a full partner in the business. These candles mean a lot to me. I want to oversee the candle-making process, and make sure the candles meet the expectations of the man who originally inspired them.”
“Yes, that can be arranged.” The businessman gave a slick smile.
So Elbert signed the contract (which turned out to be fake). He handed the secret formula for the candles to Robert Baron (who turned out to be a snake). And it wasn’t until the businessman left chuckling to himself that Elbert had an inkling something was wrong.
Half a week later, Elbert lost the rights to his candles. Stern-faced lawyers appeared at his door, warning him that if he sold one more candle, he would be arrested. Candles that Elbert himself had created.
Elbert angrily went to confront Robert Baron, but the man had many powerful connections from years of carrying out bribery and blackmail. Elbert was dragged away by the police in handcuffs before he could finish shouting at the crooked business tycoon, “You thief! What do you think you’re playing at?”
“Sorry, boy,” Robert Baron cackled. “It’s only business.”
Elbert spent three months in jail for disorderly conduct. When he returned to his apartment, he found everything covered with an inch of dust—and ransacked. Half his silverware was missing. His clothes littered the floor. His bookshelf had been overturned, and many of the books had been burned. To his dismay, this included his careful research on the time touch, along with Santiago’s journal, the remains nothing more than blackened scraps of paper in the dusty fireplace.
Elbert dashed in a panic to his closet. He breathed a sigh of relief. The music box was still hidden safely inside the wall. Even after everything that had happened, breaking a promise to the clockmaker would have made Elbert feel guilty.
His brief moment of relief quickly evaporated.
One more item was missing from the mess: his prized golden pendulum.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
M IS FOR MENACING
Back at the bakery, Adam had limited free time. Word about the bakery had spread, thanks to the candles that had attracted many customers during Halloween, and, as the holidays approached, more and more people continued to stop by the Biscuit Basket. Some days, there was barely enough room to fit all the customers. Order after order of birthday cakes piled up in the kitchen. No breakfast pastries were left at the end of each day.
When Adam did find a few moments to himself, he slipped to the library in order to read more about the town of Candlewick.
It seemed the boy Jack had not been exaggerating about the candle factory’s owner, who went down in history as a particularly notorious man. It was said none of the factory workers got time off, apart from one day at Christmastime each year. There had also been accidents at the factory, each one expertly swept under the rug.
In the few photos Adam could find, the Gold Mold faced the camera with a greedy smile on his chubby pink face, his enormous belly squeezed into an extravagant suit that was much too tight. In each photo, a golden disk hung from a chain around his neck.
One of those photos accompanied a newspaper article that went into great detail about the fire that had burned down the candle factory.
CANDLEWICK’S CANDLE FACTORY CATCHES FIRE
August 17, 1967
Factory headquarters of Candlewick’s Candles Corporation, located in the town of Candlewick, New York, caught fire on the afternoon of August 15. Police reports indicate one hundred and ten people were caught in the flames and died, including the corporation’s owner, Mr. Robert Tweed Baron III.
Candlewick’s Candles was founded by Robert Baron III’s grandfather, Robert Baron I, in 1913, and soon became known for its high-end, long-lasting scented candles that enjoyed an exclusive niche in the luxury home goods market. The factory was eventually due to pass to Baron III’s heir, Robert Baron IV, who declined to comment for this article. Candlewick’s Candles had been the town’s largest employer, despite recent investigations into what some suspected were hostile working conditions at the factory.
No Candlewick employees or residents were available for comment at press time.
Although witnesses are currently scarce, the lead detective on the case is confident the blaze was caused by simple negligence. “The candles were carelessly stored, and they made a bad situation worse when the boiler blew,” he said. “That thing should have been replaced years ago. There were also a lot of open flames from the candles, which we’ve learned has caused many smaller incidents in the past. You know, the only thing more dangerous than a candle factory is probably a needle factory.”
The detective is also confident that were it not for an anonymous caller to the fire department, the number of casualties would have been far higher.
“More people would’ve died,” agreed a volunteer firefighter. “We got a call about potential smoke just moments before the building went up in flames. We went over for a routine inspection and were able to get some of the workers out.”
To date, there have been no charges filed against the Baron family.
From what Adam could piece together, the candle factory had been abandoned on the hill since the fire. Candlewick itself quickly became a ghost town.
Adam thought back to the candles Francine had. She’d mentioned they’d come from a small town just north of the city.
Adam tried to locate a list of the survivors’ names, but couldn’t find any. The curly-haired librarian gave him a puzzled look when he timidly asked if she knew where such records were kept, and soon began peppering him with curious questions, so he left in a hurry without the answers he needed.
On his way back home, an uneasy feeling lingered. He couldn’t believe he’d met Jack the same month the candle factory burned down. Had they met mere days before the incident? What if it had been that same day?
If he could somehow go back in time again, he could warn Jack and the rest of the town.
But right now, there wasn’t anything he could do. The snow globe stayed empty each night.
About two weeks after Adam’s visit to Candlewick, a new visitor stopp
ed by the Biscuit Basket.
It was almost closing time. Adam was wiping down the counter when the door opened.
“Hello, hello,” greeted Uncle Henry in his usual cheerful manner. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Something specific,” a soft voice answered.
It was no normal voice, but one tingling with frost and danger—like a sharp icicle dangling from an awning and ready to break off any moment. It was this voice that made Adam turn. When he saw who stood in the bakery, he dropped his rag.
The tall stranger in the black suit stood before them. It was the same man who had stalked Adam in the streets, on the corners, and behind the windows of the bakery. Underneath his unkempt dark hair were a pair of long eyebrows that swooped down like two angry checkmarks. He had a thin, straight mustache above his pointy chin. His black eyes shifted to Adam.
Uncle Henry followed the man’s piercing gaze. “Oh—yes, this is my nephew,” he said with a friendly gesture. “Best helper ever. Can’t run my bakery without him.”
“I see…” the man said, his black eyes glinting.
Adam grabbed the nearest weapon—a wooden mixing spoon—and held his stance. But the stranger had already turned his attention back to Uncle Henry.
“I am looking for something specific,” he said again in the same soft, dangerous voice. “Something that I’ve traced to this spot.”
“You must mean my strawberry jam doughnuts,” laughed Uncle Henry. “Here, try a sample. It will knock your socks right off.”
“Um, Uncle Henry?” Adam spoke up quietly. “I don’t think—”
The stranger in the black suit interrupted. “You misunderstand me. I do not want your silly sweets.” His gaze fell on Adam again. “I am looking for a snow globe.”
Uncle Henry finally began to sense something was odd. “All right, sir,” he said. “I’d be happy to help you, but first, let’s start with some introductions. What’s your name?”
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