The thaumhorologist’s shop was near Southwark Cathedral. Tense as Edwin was with the nearness of discovery, he didn’t fancy making his way that far east only to find the place closed, as it likely would be. He made his way to his own hotel instead, and spent an uneasy night drifting in and out of sleep, restless and aching and thinking about Robin.
Robin, who deserved to know, if Edwin found part of the Last Contract. It was Robin’s mystery too.
No—Edwin was making excuses. Robin didn’t want anything else to do with Edwin and Edwin’s world, and he couldn’t be blamed for that.
The next morning heralded a grey drip of a day, with a faint fog curling through Mayfair. It was even denser and colder in the streets winding south from London Bridge, and Edwin plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets as much for the warmth as to touch the ring there, turn it with his fingertips.
His destination was easy to spot, even in the narrow street with the fog pierced dully by the illumination of streetlights not yet stifled. The window of the shop was busy with clocks, and Edwin could hear an off-kilter ticking like the mutter of a thousand insects, even before he pushed open the front door and the sound was swallowed by the tinkling of the entrance bell.
The woman behind the counter was peering down into the bowels of a pocket watch spread out on black velvet. She removed her magnifying eyepiece and set her work aside as Edwin shook off his outer layers.
“How can I help you, sir?”
Edwin brandished receipt and stone, and the woman took both. Somewhat awkwardly given that he was asking to take back some of the shop’s custom, he explained that he wasn’t there to pick up a finished order, but rather to retrieve something he’d offered to fix himself.
“Are you a thaumhorologist?” the woman asked with a hint of sourness.
“Are you?” Her fingers had been steady on the cogs, but the name printed on the receipt had been Joseph Carroll.
“I’m Hettie Carroll. My father’s teaching me the trade. Hold tight, I’ll fetch it. We’re backlogged by a few weeks, he won’t have touched it yet. Standing clock, you said?”
He nodded. “Making odd noises at odd times.”
Miss Carroll gave him a knowing look, and took the stone with her up a winding metal staircase in the corner, leaving Edwin standing in the small shop full of . . . things making odd noises at odd times. She returned with the clock wrapped in a fold of cloth and placed it on the counter. Her eyebrows raised when Edwin uncovered the clock immediately and removed the back panel as he’d done at the Gatlings’ house. Miss Carroll cradled a small light charm, illuminating the contents of the clock for both of them to see better.
It was there. Hanging on the inner wall of the clock, along with the other seemingly random objects. Edwin removed the oak-heart from its bracket first, so that he had better access. The piece of wood was perfectly round and uncannily smooth and showed a desire to roll right off the counter, so he put it in his pocket for safekeeping. Then, with infinite care, he lifted the silver ring from its small hook. He pulled the first ring from his pocket and laid them both side by side on the runner of cloth that covered the counter. Identical. Silver rings—slim, flat things, both with that triangular notch. They looked modern and plain and uninteresting, and not in the least like objects of power that deserved to be hidden from murderers at the centre of a labyrinth.
A tinkle of bells behind him signalled another customer entering the shop. Edwin didn’t look around until there was the sensation of someone standing at his elbow.
“Yes, sir?” said Miss Carroll.
Edwin glanced up, then straightened entirely when he recognised the man next to him, who was smiling with affability and the same faint surprise that Edwin was feeling himself.
“Hullo, Byatt,” Edwin said. The informality of first names belonged to Penhallick alone.
Billy kept smiling his easy smile. “Hullo, Courcey. Excuse me a moment, won’t you?”
And it didn’t take more than a moment. He reached out and lifted Edwin’s arm by the sleeve, slipped something over his hand, and pulled it tight.
Every part of Edwin’s body except his eyes stopped listening to the commands of his nerves. He looked down at his own hand, motionless on the polished shop counter, and the glow of the bridle where it sat snug against his cuff. He felt as though he’d been plunged into a body of water, chilled and nearly dizzy with the suddenness of his fright. He really hadn’t given Robin’s courage enough credit; this was far more terrifying than Flora Sutton’s hedge maze, because at least then he’d been able to move. Fight back.