Free The Time of the Clockmaker by Anna Caltabiano Page A

wiry purple and yellow flowers dotting the scenery.
    Leaves and stems scratched at my ankles and snapped where I walked. The footsteps I left behind me were sunken into the land, trailing back to the little house, which was now almost a speck on the hillside.
    Ahead, there was a tree by the bank of a small river. Its top and branches were flattened as if the sky weighed heavily on it, so having no other place to go, I began to walk toward it.
    I didn’t notice the tree getting closer, but all too soon I was there by the bank of the river and without a plan.
    What are you going to do now?
    I bit my lip and concentrated on Henley’s words. I couldn’t begin to tell him how nice it was to hear a familiar voice.
    â€œI—I don’t know.”
    Don’t cry.
    I didn’t realize I was tearing up till he said that. He had probably heard the waver in my voice. Hot tears dripped out of the corners of my eyes. I gasped for breath, but my lungs wouldn’t expand.
    I felt hands around my shoulders and I felt my body sink into pure warmth.
    â€œDon’t cry.”
    It was an unfamiliar voice and unfamiliar frame I sank into, but it felt safe. It was a fatherly gesture, one I couldn’t remember receiving for a long time.
    â€œPlease don’t cry.”
    The stranger held me close for a long time. Only when he setme down did I get my first look at him.
    He was old. His beard wasn’t graying—it was completely white. His hair flew in wisps around him, as fragile as his entire frame. His body hung limply, his skin seemingly tossed over his bones carelessly. I was surprised that such a feeble-looking man had held me up just a moment before.
    â€œNo need to be frightened,” the old man said, watching me look him over. “Just tell us where you’re off to and we can get you back.”
    â€œAre we taking in strays again?” The new voice sounded younger and harsher than the old man’s.
    I looked past the old man to see a younger, dark-haired man tying up a rowboat by the river.
    â€œThis girl’s obviously lost,” the older man said. “It’s our duty to take her home.”
    â€œLost?” The younger man jumped from the boat and began to walk toward us. “Are you sure about that? Sure that she hasn’t just run away from home? I mean, look at the way she’s dressed!”
    This made the older man look away, but I could see that his brows were furrowed.
    â€œFather, have you even thought to ask the girl yourself? Surely she can talk.” By now the younger man was standing next to me, and though he addressed his father, he was looking at me.
    The older man finally turned back. “My dear girl, are you lost or running?”
    I opened my mouth to answer, but I paused. Was I lost or was I running? Both, I supposed, but I could never explain that.
    â€œLost.”
    The old man nodded, satisfied with my answer, but the young man only scowled.
    â€œEven so,” the young man continued, as if I were not there, “it’s not our job to take her home. We have other things to do. Other things that actually pay.”
    The old man did not seem to hear him. “What’s your name, girl?”
    â€œRebecca,” I said. “Rebecca Hatfield.”
    â€œAnd how did you get here, Mistress Hatfield?” The young man squinted at me.
    369,000 pounds of flying metal called an airplane, I wanted to answer. And, oh yeah, time travel, but all that came out was, “I was traveling.”
    â€œTraveling?” The young man threw his arms up. “Through here? Why? There’s nothing here! Where on earth were you going?”
    â€œI—I . . .” I could tell he didn’t believe me and I panicked.
    â€œOh, do be gentle with the girl,” the older man said. “It’s obvious she’s been through a lot. She must have gotten out of a carriage to stretch her legs and accidentally been