Free Chantress by Amy Butler Greenfield Page B

clocks: two dozen, at a guess, their ivory and gold faces tucked into every nook and cranny in the room.
    As I picked my way toward Nat, I pointed to the smoky vials. “What’s in there?”
    “Elements of various sorts,” Nat said. “And other things. Dr. Penebrygg collects curiosities.”
    “What does he do with them?”
    “We use them for our experiments.”
    “What kind of experiments?” I asked, with a dubious backward look at the vials.
    “Oh, we’re interested in almost everything: the nature of gravity, the properties of light, the motion of the planets, the music of the spheres, the circulation of blood.”
    I stared at him, surprised by the enthusiasm in his voice. For once, he sounded almost friendly. “You really do mean everything.”
    “Pretty much. New ways of thinking are in the air, and new discoveries are being made every day. It’s exciting to be part of it.” Enthusiasm dimming, he added, “Well, as much a part of itas our fight against Scargrave allows us to be.” He took up a pen and bent over his desk.
    I touched a fold of the scarlet fabric inside the coracle. “And this silk? What kind of experiments do you do on that?”
    He didn’t look up from his work this time. “Do you always ask this many questions?”
    “Wouldn’t you, in my shoes?”
    To my surprise, Nat considered the point fairly. “I suppose I would.” He set down his pen, evidently striving for more patience than he had shown me last night. “All right, then. Ask away.”
    “What do you use this silk for?” I asked.
    “Well, we dissolved some in acid when we were studying color. But mostly it’s there as a background for the engravings.”
    “The engravings?”
    “We’re engravers by trade. Engravers and clockmakers, to be exact. But clockmaking is frowned upon, so we keep that part quiet.”
    “Is that because of the Devastation?”
    “Yes.” Nat spun his pen. “After the Shadowgrims ferreted out the conspiracy, clockmakers were ordered to close their shops, for fear they might be nests of rebellion. Anyone believed to have been a close associate of the rogue clockmaker was hauled in for questioning. We escaped that, thankfully, since we’d never had dealings with him. But even if you had no connection with him, you had to apply to Scargrave himself for a permit to reopen your business. Dr. Penebrygg didn’t much care for that, so he shut up shop for good and moved here.”
    “But he kept his clocks,” I said, listening to the ticking of their mechanisms.
    “He did. And he’s taught me how to work with them. But it’s mostly engraving that earns our bread these days.” He jotted something down with his pen. “And now I really need to get back to work.”
    Was he working on an engraving? I stepped forward and peeked over the top of the tilted desk. But he was only writing on an ordinary sheet of paper, carefully aligned against the margin of a book. The book’s binding, just visible, was a deep moss green.
    “The book from the library,” I guessed.
    Nat’s pen stopped. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
    “What does it say?” I scrutinized the upside-down text. “I can’t read it.”
    “It’s in Latin.”
    “Why did you take it?” I asked.
    “It’s too complicated to explain right now.” Nat looked up from his work and pointed to the far side of the room. “Did I tell you there’s food on the table over there? I’ve had my share, and so has Dr. Penebrygg, so eat as much as you want.”
    It was a diversion, and I recognized it as such. But I was hungry enough to abandon my questioning, at least for the moment. On the table, alongside chisels, spikes, and sheets of metal, I found a basket of rolls and a wedge of waxy cheese. They made a fine meal, and by the time I had polished them off, I was reconciled to taking a more roundabout approach to getting answers from Nat.
    On my way back to his desk, I stopped by a complicated device made up of brass tubes and bits of glass.