CHAPTER 2
We are only human
It’s not ours to understand
Bushels of apples sat in the cool, shadowy interior of the cider house, patiently ripening to soft sweetness. Owen and his father were scheduled to press a fresh half-barrel that afternoon, which would require at least three bushels, depending on how juicy the apples were.
A flurry of ideas distracted Owen as he helped his father with the work, manning the press machinery, adjusting the coldfire to keep the steam pressure at its appropriate level. As assistant manager of the orchard, Owen had already learned every aspect of the apple business. While going about his rote tasks, he pondered the mysterious pedlar, and he longed to page through the book the man had given him. As if that wasn’t enough to preoccupy his thoughts, he was even more distracted by the promise of a romantic midnight kiss from Lavinia while the stars looked down—it was like something out of an imaginary story.
His father, Anton Hardy, formed his own, entirely incorrect, explanations for Owen’s daydreaming. Indicating the cider press, he said, “Nothing to worry about, son. I’ve trained you well. Very soon now, you’ll be able to manage the orchards as well as I do, in case anything happens to me.”
Owen took a moment to piece together where the comment had come from. “Oh, I’m not worried.” He decided it was easier to accept his father’s conclusion than to tell him the truth. “But nothing’s going to happen to you. Nothing unpredictable ever happens.” He glanced at the book he had set on top of a fragrant old barrel. “Thanks to the Stability.”
“I wish that were so, son.” A surprising sparkle of tears came to the older man’s heavy eyes, and he turned away, pretending to concentrate on the hydraulics connected to the apple press. The comment must have reminded Anton Hardy of his wife; she had died of a fever when Owen was just a child.
He’d been so young that his memories were vague, but he remembered sitting on her lap, nestled in her skirts—in particular, he recalled a blue dress with a flower print. Together, she and Owen would look at picture books, and she’d tell him wondrous legends of faraway places. Though he was now grown, he still looked at those treasured books, and often, but Owen had to tell himself the stories now, for his father never did.
Anton Hardy preserved his memories of his beloved Hanneke like a flower pressed between the pages of a book: colorful and precious, yet too delicate ever to be taken out and handled. Even though Owen knew she was dead, in fanciful moments he preferred to imagine that she had merely faked her fever so she could leave the sleepy farming town and go off to explore the wide world. “On my way at last!” He imagined her adventuring even now, and one day she would come back from Crown City or distant Atlantis, filled with amazing stories and bringing exotic gifts. He could always hold out hope…
His father sniffled, muttered, “All is for the best,” then topped off the fresh-squeezed cider in the half-barrel. He hammered the lid into place with a mallet.
While Anton completed a few unnecessary tasks around the cider house, Owen seated himself near one of the small windows, which provided enough light to read. Before the Stability was a compact volume full of nightmares, and the young man grew more and more disturbed as he turned the pages.
The world had been a horrific place more than a century ago, before the Watchmaker came: villages were burned, brigands attacked unprotected families, children starved, women were raped. Thievery ran rampant, plagues wiped out whole populations, and isolated survivors degenerated into cannibals. He read the stark accounts with wide eyes, anxious to reach the end of the book, because he knew that Albion would be saved, since everyone was now happy and content.
He skipped ahead to the final page, relieved and reassured to read, “And Barrel Arbor is a perfect example of what the Stability has brought. The best village in the best of all possible worlds, where every person knows his place and is content.” Owen smiled in wonderment, glad to know that, despite his daydreaming, his situation here could not be better.
His father didn’t ask him about the book. They shared an early supper of crisp apples (naturally), cheese from the widow Loomis, bread and a slice of fresh apple pie from Mr. Oliveira, the baker. The Hardys provided him with all the apples he needed, and in return they received regular supplies of apple pie, apple tarts, apple muffins, apple strudel, and whatever else Mr. Oliveira could think of.
The two didn’t have much to talk about—they rarely did. Attuned to each other and attuned to the day, Owen and his father looked at their pocketwatches at the same time. They had finished the scheduled work and were satisfied by their casual meal. Afterward, Anton Hardy had his evening routine, and Owen tagged along. They headed for the Tick Tock Tavern.
In a small village, the most efficient way to hear the news was to listen to gossip, and the best place to get gossip was in the tavern.
Anton Hardy sat back in his usual wooden chair, drinking a pint of hard cider, while Owen sat beside him with a mug of fresh cider. Others preferred intoxicating mead made from the Huangs’ honey, harvested from the town apiary that followed the standard design distributed by the Watchmaker’s own beekeepers.
When Owen turned seventeen, he would switch to drinking hard cider, because that was expected from an adult. (In truth, he had already sneaked a few tastes of hard cider, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He suspected his father knew, but hadn’t said anything.)
As the tavern customers settled in to their routine, Lavinia’s father came in with his stack of typed reports and announcements, which were delivered by resonant alchemical signal to the newsgraph office. Mr. Paquette—a man who took great pride in his lavish sideburns—held a yellowish sheet of pulp paper up to the lamp of coldfire light and squinted down at the uneven typewritten letters. Conversation quieted in the Tick Tock Tavern as Mr. Paquette drew out the suspense.
He adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and spoke in a voice that carried great importance. “The weather alchemists announce that this afternoon’s rainshower is to be delayed by seven minutes, in order for the moisture-distribution systems to run more efficiently.” He shuffled his papers, seemed embarrassed. “Sorry, that came in this morning.”
Picking up the next newsgraph printout, he read, “The Anarchist planted another bomb and ruined a portion of the northern line, disrupting steamliner traffic. Fortunately, the airship captain was able to lift his cars to safety just in time, and no one was hurt.” The people grumbled and made scornful comments about the evil man who was singlehandedly trying to disrupt the Watchmaker’s century-long Stability. Mr. Paquette continued, “The Regulators closed in on the perpetrator just after the explosion, but he escaped, no doubt to cause further destruction.”
“The devil take him,” Owen’s father said.
“Hear, hear!” Others raised their pints in agreement.
Owen drank along with them, but asked, “Why would anyone want to ruin what the Watchmaker created? Doesn’t he know how dangerous the world was before the Stability?” He had known that much even before reading the pedlar’s book.
“He’s a freedom extremist, boy. How does a disordered mind work?”
“It’s not ours to understand,” Mr. Oliveira said. “I doubt the monster understands it himself.”
Mr. Paquette cleared his throat loudly to show that he had not yet finished reading the news. He picked up a third sheet of pulp paper and raised his eyebrows in impatience until the muttering had quieted. “The Watchmaker is also saddened by the loss of a cargo steamer fully loaded with precision jewels and valuable alchemical supplies from Poseidon City. The Wreckers are believed to be responsible.”
More grumbling in the tavern. “That’s the third one this year,” said Mr. Huang.
Little was known about the Wreckers, the pirates and scavengers who preyed on cargo steamers that sailed across the Western Sea to the distant port city of Poseidon. These ships carried loads of rich alchemical elements and rare timekeeping gems mined from the mountains of Atlantis, all of which were vital for the services provided by the Watchmaker.
“I’ll bet the Anarchist is in league with them,” Owen said. “They all want to cause disruption.”
“The Watchmaker will take care of it,” said Mr. Paquette with great conviction, setting aside the sheets of paper to emphasize that he was stating his own opinion rather than reading a pronouncement from the Watchmaker. “They will get what they deserve.”
“But how do you know that?” Owen said in a small voice.
His father nudged his arm. “Because we believe, son—and you were brought up to believe. Everything has its place, and every place has its thing.” He looked around at the others, as if afraid they would think he was a failure as a father for letting his son doubt. “And I’ll believe it myself to my final breath.”
Everyone agreed, louder than was necessary, and toasted the Watchmaker.
As the evening wound down, he and his father spent a few quiet hours in their cottage. Anton Hardy sat by the fire with a sharpened pencil and his ledger, going over how many barrels of fresh cider were to be delivered, how many would remain in storage to ferment into hard cider, how many were reserved for vinegar, and how much the Watchmaker allowed him to charge for each. Every villager had a role to play, and all accounts balanced.
Finished, Owen’s father set the ledger aside and began reading the Barrel Arbor newspaper, which was little more than a weekly compilation of newsgraph reports from Crown City, thought-provoking statements from the Clockwork Angels, and a few local-interest stories that Lavinia’s parents wrote and appended to each edition.
The current issue had an early announcement of Owen’s impending birthday, to which Mrs. Paquette had added a small comment, “And we hope to have more substantial news to report on this matter soon.” By tradition, of course, his betrothal to Lavinia was more than likely.
Owen had already read the newspaper and was more interested in looking at the well-thumbed volumes he had taken down from the high shelf. Reading Before the Stability that afternoon had disturbed him, but these other publications were dear to his heart, the picture books he had loved as a child: beautiful hardbound volumes with tipped-in chronotypes, color plates specially treated with a reactive alchemical gloss that gave the reader a giddy feeling of looking into the image.
First, he paged through the picture book of Crown City, dwelling on the poignant chronotype of the Angels, the most famous symbol of the Watchmaker’s ordered world. Four graceful female figures installed in Chronos Square, looming high above the crowds—symbolic, yet utterly perfect, divine machines who spread their wings to dispense grace on humanity. Though he could barely remember his mother, Owen was sure that each of the four Clockwork Angels must have been molded with her face.
The second volume was even more inspiring, though none of it was real. Legends of sea monsters and mythical beasts, centaurs, griffins, dragons, basilisks … and imaginary places far from Albion, including the wondrous Seven Cities of Gold, collectively called Cíbola. These volumes were so old that they had been printed before the Stability; after reading about the chaotic times in the pedlar’s book, he considered it a wonder that any publication had survived that turmoil.
Owen was so intent on the book that he didn’t notice his father standing behind him. Anton Hardy had never forbidden his son from looking at the books, but neither had he approved of the young man’s fascination.
Startled, Owen tried to close the cover, but his father reached out to stop him. In the vivid chronotype on the page, sunlight gleamed through an exotic rock formation in the Redrock Desert. Together, the two stared down at the fanciful pristine towers of intricate stone, the amazing architecture of the Seven Cities of Gold.
“These were your mother’s books. And I miss her, too.” Anton Hardy held his hand on the page for a long moment, staring down, but no longer seeming to see the illustration. “I miss her, too,” he said again in a faint voice, barely a whisper. “Ah, Hanneke …” Owen had never heard such emotion in his father’s voice before.
The emotion was gone as quickly as it came. “Soon enough, it’ll be time to put away these books for good, lock away that part of the past. The Watchmaker says we can’t make time stand still. Don’t look back, but take the time to look around you now.”
“But it’s all we have left of Mother—these books and our memories.”
“You have to look forward,” Anton said. “Once you become an adult, the Watchmaker has expectations. You must put all this foolishness behind you.”
Owen closed the book but kept it on his lap. In his quiet, ordered world, he’d never been allowed any “foolishness” in the first place.
His father turned the coldfire lanterns down to a comforting glow. “Time to wind the clocks.” Before getting ready for bed, the two went through their ritual. Owen turned the key in the mantle clock and wound the spring; his father did the same with the kitchen clock. Owen hung the counterweight and set the pendulum swinging in the main grandfather clock. They went from clock to clock, shelf to shelf, room to room. As a final check, Owen poked his head outside and looked at Barrel Arbor’s main clocktower to verify that the time was accurate and every tick was right in the Watchmaker’s world.
Each night, this was time he and his father spent together, but because they took such care to maintain the clocks, they didn’t actually spend the time at all: they saved it. Not one second was allowed to slip away.
When they were done and his father was satisfied, he bade Owen goodnight. “I’ll stay up just a little longer,” Owen said. He usually did.
Saddened by the reminder of his lost wife, his father didn’t object to letting Owen look at the picture books some more.
Sitting alone, Owen’s pulse raced as he thought of his planned foolishness for midnight. Only two more hours before he would slip out and meet sweet Lavinia for a stolen kiss. Although he knew it would be over in a moment, the memory would last for a long time.
After he turned seventeen and the rest of the Watchmaker’s safety net wrapped around him, he would have no further opportunity to be so impetuous. He intended to make the best of it.
***