The box itself gave nothing away as to its purpose, other than some pretty carvings of the sun, moon, stars, and what looked like clockfaces. The glass ball was the easiest item to clean. It was about two inches in diameter and as Holly wiped away the dust, she could see that it was made of something other than clear glass. The orb had a perfectly smooth surface but, at its core, there was a small, silvery prism that reflected light from its center. It glinted softly in the warm sunlight. Setting it to one side, Holly concentrated her efforts on the cogs. Beneath the dust and grime the brass shone, and that was when she noticed an inscription running around the edge of one of the larger cogs. The inscription was well-worn and unreadable in places, but she could just about make out a few words. “Reflection” was one, “key” another, and she guessed another said “time.”
“Found something else to do to avoid the dreaded Mrs. Bronson?” Tom asked her. He was covered in scratches from his hard labors, but as Holly peeked out of the window at the garden she had to admit it was starting to take shape.
“Billy found it in the outbuilding. I’ve cleaned it up, but I’ve still not got a clue what it is.” Holly showed him the inscription on the cog.
“In time, reflection is the key to traveling,” Tom read.
Holly’s jaw dropped open. “How on earth did you read that? Some of the words have completely worn away.”
Tom beamed with superiority. “I keep telling you. I have hidden depths.”
“Is it a well-known saying? I’ve not heard it before. What does it mean?” she demanded.
“Haven’t the foggiest.” Tom shrugged.
“Tom?” Holly asked, eyeing him with suspicion now.
“You know that stone plinth stuck in the middle of the garden with no apparent use? Well, I found a matching top hidden in the overgrowth. It has the same inscription written on it.”
“Show me,” Holly insisted, leaving the array of freshly polished brass cogs to sparkle on the kitchen table.
The stone slab was facedown in the dirt, half-buried by years of leaf fall. It was a deep-gray color with sparkles of quartz glistening through it. Despite working with a wide range of materials in her sculptures, Holly didn’t recognize the type of stone at all. The slab was perfectly round and, as Tom had described, it had an inscription, currently upside-down, around its outer edge. There was also a large hole in the center that looked like it would match the top of the plinth perfectly.
“Considering it’s been buried beneath all of this mulch, I can’t believe how clean it is,” Tom told her, shaking his head in disbelief.
Holly traced her fingers across its cold, smooth surface. Her fingers tingled as if a faint charge of electricity had flowed up from the stone and she pulled her hand away.
“Does it feel weird to you?” Holly asked, unsure if she had imagined it.
Tom gave her a puzzled look and then stroked the surface of the slab. “Feels like stone to me,” he assured her. “What were you expecting it to feel like?”
Holly tentatively touched the stone again and this time there was no tingling sensation. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Nothing, it’s just me. Can we move it?”
“And do what? You seriously think we can lift it onto the plinth?”
“Yes, of course.” Holly could visualize the stone circle balanced perfectly on top of the plinth and taking center stage in the garden. It belonged in its rightful place and Holly wasn’t going to rest until it was moved.
“Are you sure you don’t want to ask the builders?”
“Are you a man or a mouse?” Holly stood with her hands on her hips, challenging him.
“I’m a man, of course. But it doesn’t help that my only partner in crime is a feeble woman.”
“Just get on with it,” warned Holly.
Holly put her hands on the stone again, almost hoping the latent power she’d felt in that first touch would help them with the task that lay ahead. Tom joined her and they dug their hands deep into the dirt to find a hold. As they lifted the slab, Tom’s face went a beautiful shade of puce, and he grunted and groaned. Holly matched him groan for groan and could feel the veins in her neck throbbing with the effort. After what seemed like an eternity of laborious shuffling, they dropped the stone to the ground to take a rest.
“Not bad,” panted Tom.
“Sure,” gasped Holly. “We’ve moved it all of six inches.” She looked over at the plinth, which was still about twenty feet away. “At this rate, we’ll get there in three days and two hernias.”
There was a tut-tut of disapproval behind her. Holly turned to see Billy shaking his head.
“Mr. C., I’m disappointed in you. You should know better than to treat your lady like a common laborer,” he said, before turning around to his workmates who had followed him into the garden. “No offense, lads.”
Holly was about to tell Billy that heavy lifting was an occupational hazard as far as she was concerned, but then she thought better of it. “My knight in shining armor,” she said.
Tom groaned as he tried to straighten his back. “Mine too,” he said, winking at Billy.
Billy and his crew of builders picked up the stone slab as if it were made of balsa wood and two minutes later they were lifting it over the plinth.
“Hold on a minute,” Holly shouted. She realized that the inscription was still upside-down.
With a little more effort, the slab was turned over and placed on top of the plinth. It was a perfect fit. Everyone gathered around the newly formed table and stared at it.
“It’s a clock,” one of Billy’s lads said.
“And it’s telling me it’s time to get back to work,” replied Billy pointedly.
The builders disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, leaving Holly and Tom alone with their puzzle. Billy’s lad had been right about it looking like a clock. The top had a large dial carved with Roman numerals in much the same way as a traditional clock. There was still a gaping hole about two inches deep in the center of the dial where the top of the plinth didn’t reach the surface. It was only now that Holly noticed that there were grooves and notches in the upper surface of the plinth and this must be where the dial’s mechanism would fit, the mechanism that was no doubt made up from the box of gizmos Billy had discovered. As well as the inscription running around the outer edge, there was also an assortment of symbols, similar to those on the box, etched beautifully into the stone surface.
“It’s a sundial,” Holly said.
“It’s going to make a great feature in the garden.”
“All I need to do now is work out how to fit all the cogs into it and get it to work,” Holly replied, eager to return to the kitchen to retrieve the wooden box and its contents.
“Well, I’ve done all the hard work, so I’ll leave the rest to you. I’ve still got plenty of clearing to do. Unless you want to help me?” offered Tom.
“Didn’t you hear what Billy said? I’m not a common laborer,” grinned Holly.
Holly spent the rest of the afternoon fitting the pieces of the puzzle together. When she finished, all the cogs were in place in the center of the dial. Uppermost were four claws, pointing toward the skies, reaching out and waiting desperately to grasp the glass orb. Holly dropped the orb into the claws and it rattled into place, although the claws were open too wide to hold it snugly. The reflection from the sun as it glinted off the prism deep inside the orb was painfully bright. Holly called Tom over and they both stepped back to admire their new garden centerpiece.
“I thought a sundial was supposed to use shadows, not reflections from the sun,” Tom said as he squinted at the orb. He tried to push it down farther into the mechanism to see if the claws would clasp it more tightly, but the dial creaked stubbornly and refused to move. “Looks like you didn’t put it together properly.”
Holly thumped him.
“What was that for?”
“You’re not supposed to force the claws like that.”
“How do you k
now?” asked Tom.
“I just do,” replied Holly, a frown appearing on her brow. She didn’t know anything about sundials, but this one made her feel uncomfortable. She removed the orb and put it back in the box.
“I’ll put this somewhere safe. I don’t suppose it’s a good idea reflecting sunlight across the garden when there’s so much deadwood still around.”
“If that’s a hint, then I’ll get back to work. Time is running out.”
Tom’s words sent a shiver down Holly’s spine. She had a sudden sense of foreboding that she couldn’t quite explain.
2
The house felt empty. Tom had left for Belgium in the early hours of the morning. Holly had clung to him until his taxi arrived and Tom had had to prize her fingers away from the lapels of his jacket as she gave him one final kiss, a kiss that would have to last her for six whole weeks.
“It won’t be for long. I’ll be back before you know it and, besides, it’s less than two hours away by plane. If you need me, I could be back in no time at all.”
“I should come with you. Whose stupid idea was it anyway for me to stay at home?”
“Yours,” answered Tom, as kindly as he could.
He was right; it had been her idea. She had to accept that she was at a critical point in her career. Moving out of the city when her work was starting to receive critical acclaim had been a huge risk. Moving out of the country would be vocational suicide.
Holly had retreated to her bed, where she allowed herself to wallow in self-pity as she sensed the distance growing between them by the minute. She knew she was being self-indulgent; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been on her own before. She could quite easily fend for herself, but that wasn’t the point. Her dream had been to move into the village with Tom, not to be on her own. As she lay in bed, the cheerful birdsong that accompanied the dawning of the new day only served to mock her. At least the weather was a little more sympathetic as the storm clouds gathered overhead. Holly pulled the bedcovers over her head and did her best to go back to sleep. It was Sunday, so at least there would be no builders to look after today.
The birds had recovered from their early morning hysteria and settled into just occasional midday tweets by the time Holly pulled on her sweats, tied back her hair, and dragged herself into the kitchen to make a strong cup of coffee. She spotted Tom’s half-empty mug abandoned on the kitchen table and bit her lip to stifle a sob that appeared from nowhere.
“You pathetic idiot,” she told herself. “Mrs. Bronson’s sculpture isn’t going to create itself.”
She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back, willing herself to find the motivation to start moving. As she exhaled, her body sagged like a deflated balloon. She tried again and, before her resolve was allowed to falter a second time, she picked up Tom’s mug, gently washed it, and put it away, out of sight.
Armed with her coffee, Holly shuffled into the study, where her heart sank a little further. Although this had temporarily become Holly’s domain while the studio was being finished, it was always intended to be Tom’s room. Tom, however, wasn’t around to make it his own.
The study was at the front of the house and had an open fire, a large bay window, and pastel-colored, flowery wallpaper—all the essentials for a warm and welcoming country cottage feel. In her current mood, however, Holly could see only a cold and uninviting, heartbreakingly empty room. The clean, modern lines of the city-living furniture Holly and Tom had brought with them no longer seemed like a quirky contrast but rather a violent clash of two alien worlds. She was starting to think she was never going to adjust to country life.
The distraction of the decor was too much, so after a halfhearted attempt to start her work, she picked herself up and shuffled into the more spacious living room. It had windows to both the front and back of the house, but even with so much more natural light to work in, she still couldn’t settle.
Eventually Holly returned to the kitchen, which was the one room she had no intention of changing. The only furniture they had added was a large wooden kitchen table that had belonged to Grandma Edith. The table had history, a good history.
At last, Holly’s thoughts turned to her commission. The showdown with Mrs. Bronson was now only three days away. She had a couple of concepts she thought would suit her client’s taste, but she still hadn’t been able to find something that she personally could put her heart in. She needed to believe in the piece if she was going to bring the chosen design to life. Taking the job had been purely financial and she wasn’t proud of that fact. The end result wasn’t going to be just about the money, though: her conscience wouldn’t let it. She wasn’t prepared to produce something that she wouldn’t want to put her name on.
Holly picked up the two sketches that were on the short list so far. One was of a mother and child, their arms curved around each other in an unbroken circle. The concept wasn’t exactly original, but she intended to make the piece by merging etched black stone with white, which was a trademark she was becoming renowned for. The second sketch showed a swirling image of a mother twirling a child through the air. It had more energy than the first and it was the one Holly preferred. There was still something missing, though. She suspected it lacked an emotional connection between the two figures, something she knew too little of—and it showed in the sketches.
Startled from her inner thoughts by a knock at the door, Holly crept down the hallway and did a quick check in the mirror, which was now properly hung in place on the wall next to the door. She seriously considered running back into the kitchen to hide rather than frighten off her unknown caller with her sullen features and unkempt hair. If she had still been in London it would have been an easy option to take, but here in the village, she felt obliged to welcome her visitor. Reluctantly, Holly opened the door.
“Hello, you must be Holly. I hope I didn’t disturb you.” A gray-haired woman with deep brown eyes was sheltering under a huge blue-and-white polka dot umbrella. The rain was thumping savagely against it, but despite her frail appearance the old lady kept the umbrella firm in her grasp.
“Not at all,” lied Holly, unconsciously rubbing her cheeks to bring some color to her complexion. She opened her mouth to continue but then had a lengthy internal debate with herself, wondering whether or not to invite this woman into her home.
Was she an old, lonely lady looking for company, a nosy busybody on the hunt for gossip to spread across the village, or a well-disguised saleswoman selling something? Of course, she might simply be what she appeared: a friendly face, welcoming Holly to the community. Whatever the answer, Holly could write off the rest of the afternoon if she let the old lady cross the threshold, but failure to do the right thing now could see her ostracized from the village. She’d been warned by fellow Londoners that if she upset the wrong person, she could create a village feud that could last generations. Those particular friends had never set foot outside the city and Holly knew it was just scaremongering, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
“Perhaps it’s the wrong time to call,” the woman suggested sympathetically. “I’m Jocelyn and I live just down the road in the village. It was only a quick call to introduce myself, but please, tell me to go away if you want. Really, I’ve got the skin of a rhino. I won’t be offended.”
“No, please, where are my manners? Come in.”
Holly relieved Jocelyn of her umbrella and her overcoat and led her into the kitchen. She quickly cleared away her artwork and made space for Jocelyn to sit down. Jocelyn was looking around the room and a gentle smile curved her lips.
“Would you like a hot drink to warm you up?” offered Holly.
“No, honestly, I won’t put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I was about to get another cup for myself.”
With the polite debate laid to rest, Holly put the kettle on and rummaged through the cupboards for proper teacups and some biscuits to offer her guest.
“I heard you’re a successful artist a
nd now I can see why. These drawings are amazing,” Jocelyn said, tapping one of the sketches Holly had put aside.
“Thank you. It keeps me out of trouble.” Holly had only met a handful of people from the village so far. For the last two weeks, she and Tom had been too wrapped up in their own company to pursue introductions with their neighbors beyond the occasional polite hello. It shouldn’t have surprised her, however, that the village grapevine had already sized them up.
“Billy has been telling me all about your new studio. He’s quite proud of it.”
“Oh, I see.” Holly didn’t see really and was trying to make the right connections. Jocelyn must know Billy quite well, but she looked at least eighty years old, while Billy was perhaps early sixties. “You’re not Billy’s wife, are you?” Holly blushed at her own bluntness.
“Good grief, no,” laughed Jocelyn. “He’s a good friend and I love him to bits, but I can only take Billy in small doses.”
Holly laughed. “I think I know what you mean. He does seem rather set in his ways. He certainly gave Tom a hard time for going off and leaving me.” Presuming that Jocelyn wouldn’t know Tom was working away, Holly explained herself. “Tom left for Belgium this morning and he’ll be away for six long weeks.”
“Yes, I know. It’s why I called around, really,” Jocelyn admitted with an awkward smile. “Billy thought you might need a shoulder to cry on and it was either me or him.”
Holly wondered if there was anything in their lives that would remain private. It was certainly going to take her a while to get used to village life. Perhaps there was a village committee that would need to ratify her next five-year plan, she thought to herself.
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