All three bleary-eyed contestants shuffled out of the library, mostly silent but for Melanie who muttered to herself, “Billy Dee Williams? How did I not see it?”
“I didn’t see it either,” Hugo told her. “Hope that helps.”
“No, it doesn’t help,” she said. “At all. In the least.”
Hugo bade them all good night with a jaunty, “Better luck tomorrow.”
When Jack didn’t follow them out, Hugo closed his sketchbook and went into the library. He found Jack with an antique carriage clock in his hands, winding it with a tiny key.
“You’re up late,” Jack said as he turned the clock to face him, checking the time against his wristwatch.
“Am I? Didn’t bother to check the time.”
“In this room, that’s an act of aggression,” Jack said, nodding sagely toward the wall of clocks, nearly fifty of them in total. “Come to scold me again?”
Hugo stood with his back to the fireplace. The fire had died down, but ambient heat still radiated from the embers.
“I won’t scold you. Just curious how you’re enjoying having company?”
He nodded, looking pleased. “It’s been better than I hoped. They’re wonderful kids.”
“They’re all middle-aged and miserable like the rest of us.”
“I wouldn’t call Lucy Hart middle-aged.” Jack picked up a second clock, an old-fashioned alarm clock, and wound it back to life. “Glad to see her win the first game. She seemed a little out of her depth around the older kids.”
“It’s such an unbearably stupid game.”
“It’s just a silly old game we played at summer camp,” Jack said.
“Was your camp counselor named Lucifer by any chance?” Hugo sat on the hearth, his sketchbook on his lap.
“Can’t recall his name, but he had a nose a proboscis monkey would envy. When he breathed in, we had to cling to a sturdy tree to keep from being sucked up into his sinuses.” Jack looked at Hugo’s sketchbook on his lap. “I always envied people who could draw. Takes me fifty words and ten metaphors to say a character has a gigantic schnoz. You can do it with one pencil stroke.”
“I always envied writers who sold six hundred million books.”
“Ah, touché.” Jack chuckled softly.
Sometimes Jack was in the mood to talk at night. Sometimes Hugo could ask a thousand questions and get zero answers. What would it be tonight? Hugo decided to spin the wheel and take his chances.
“I’ve been attempting to work up a cover for this book of yours, but I’m not having much luck, as I have no clue what it’s about.” Hugo spun his pencil between his fingers, then pointed it at Jack. “Why is that?”
Jack waved a hand, dismissing Hugo’s concern. “You wouldn’t be the first cover artist to create a cover without reading the book.”
“True, but could I at least get a hint?”
“Do something like, oh…The Keeper of Clock Island. That was always my favorite of your covers.” Jack gave him a wink for seemingly no reason, though surely there was one.
“This new book does exist, yes? This isn’t like my fan art contest, where I was supposed to win five hundred dollars? I’m still waiting on that check.”
Jack was setting the time on an Alice in Wonderland clock that ran backward. “Would you rather have had the five hundred bucks or the job of illustrating my books?”
“Wouldn’t say no to both.”
Jack chuckled. “The book exists. And there is only one copy of it in the world. I typed it up and hid it away.”
“And you’re seriously going to entrust it to some stranger?”
“No, but I shall whimsically entrust it to some stranger.”
“The sharks are already circling. Rare books collectors, billionaires, social media influencers…” He shuddered dramatically in mock horror at the word influencer. But it was true. Collectors had even called him, told him to name his price if he could get his hands on Jack’s new book.
“So be it,” Jack said. “I trust the kids will make the right choice.”
“Don’t know about the others, but Lucy Hart seems decent enough,” Hugo said. “She’s the only one who apologized for jeopardizing your career by showing up at your front door.”
“Is that a new scarf?” Jack asked. “Doesn’t Lucy knit scarves like that? Do you always wear scarves indoors, or is this a new fashion statement?”
Hugo glared at him. “You are deliberately trying to change the subject.”
“What is the subject?”
“The book. This miraculous out-of-nowhere book. You aren’t dying, are you?” Hugo asked. “Just tell me you aren’t dying.”
“Hmm…The Nowhere Book might be a good title.”
“Jack.”
Smiling, Jack plucked a singing bird clock off the wall. With his sleeve, he dusted the face of it.
“I am not dying,” Jack said. “I’ve simply come to the realization that the amount of sand in the top of my hourglass is far less than the sand in the bottom. I want to keep my promises before it runs out entirely. Especially my promise to you.”
Jack glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, then returned to his clocks. “What promise to me?”
“The promise I made when I told you I would be all right if and when you finally left the island and moved on with your life.”
Hugo tensed. “You know?”
“I know. I know you’ve had one foot out the door for years. And I know,” he said as he placed the clock back on its nail, “the only reason you stayed.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“Because I’m like a father to you. You know how I know that?” He straightened the clock on its hook.
“Because I’ve said it?”
“Because you resent me. Just like a son would.”
Hugo felt his heart deflate like a popped balloon. “I don’t—”
The song sparrow began to sing. “That’s our cue,” Jack said. “You should get some sleep, son. I’ll see you at the crack of the Eastern bluebird for breakfast. The red-winged blackbird at the very latest.”
Jack started for the library door. He paused and turned back.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I know exactly what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.”
Hugo wanted to believe that. Like a clock with invisible gears, Hugo could see the work of Jack’s hands, but he never figured out quite what made the old man tick.
“At least one of us does,” Hugo muttered as Jack turned to go. “Jack?”
He looked back at Hugo, who stood up to face him.
“I don’t resent you. It’s the bloody world I resent. Look at you. You create stories children love and donate wads of cash to hospitals and children’s charities and commit no crimes but the crime of caring too much sometimes, trying too hard…and when I leave, you’ll end up alone in an empty house with only a bottle of wine and an elderly raven for company.”
Jack scowled at him. “Let’s hope Thurl didn’t hear you call him elderly. You know he’s very sensitive.” Then his face softened. “I don’t want to see you alone either. And I do like that new scarf,” Jack said, laughing quietly to himself as he walked away.