Free The Time of the Clockmaker by Anna Caltabiano Page B

left.”
    â€œ Accidentally been left? And a carriage? Through this heath?”
    â€œWhat else could it be? I know she’s not dressed like much, but I think she’s one of those important people. Why else would she sound the way she does? Why don’t we bring the girl along?” the old man said. “We can bring her into town and inquire after passing carriages.”
    â€œShe isn’t ours to worry about,” the younger man hissed.
    â€œShe is now.”
    â€œI never asked you where your home is,” the old man said.
    It was the first time in hours that any of us had broken the silence.
    â€œFar from here,” I said. I hoped he wouldn’t continue asking me, but of course he did.
    â€œI supposed so,” he said. “Your accent . . . it’s certainly not from around here.”
    I had known it would only be a matter of time before they picked up on the way I talked. I realized I had an American accent in a time where there probably were no Americans yet.
    I glanced at the young man, sitting behind me. He hadn’t talked since we’d gotten on the boat, and he made no move to talk now, but I knew he was listening in on our conversation.
    â€œAre you from the North?”
    â€œNo,” I responded. “From the West.”
    â€œAh, near Liverpool?”
    â€œA bit farther west.” He didn’t have to know just how far west I came from.
    â€œAnd what’s it like there? Where you come from.”
    The first thought that came to mind was the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in New York. I didn’t know how to respond, so I said the first thing that came to mind. “Very green.”
    â€œAh . . . And that’s where home is? What’s that like?”
    â€œYes, I suppose so. A brown stone building whose steps I trip down every morning.”
    â€œSteps?”
    I wasn’t sure if I’d said something wrong. “Yes . . . steps.”
    â€œAnd what about windows?”
    â€œOh, we have windows.”
    â€œMany of them?”
    I thought back to Miss Hatfield’s brownstone. “I suppose you could say that.”
    â€œThere you go!” He suddenly turned to the young man. “Told you she was mighty important. I had a hunch.”
    The old man thoughtfully nodded and surprised me by not questioning me further.
    The next time he spoke was when the boat stopped at a reasonably sized village.
    â€œGive me your hand, Miss Hatfield,” the old man said. “And just hop across. Don’t fall in the Thames.”
    I looked down at the wide gap between the boat and solid land. All I could see was dark water. “Just hop across.” Easier said than done.
    â€œOh, come here.” As soon as I heard the young man say that, I felt strong hands lift me up and over the gap.
    Upon collecting myself, I muttered a quick thank-you.
    The young man shrugged. “We would have been waiting all day for you” was his response.
    The old man led me past crowds in what looked like a sort of marketplace, dotted with small lean-tos. I saw an entire wagon filled with live chickens and another just with turnips. He dragged me between people who looked over their shoulders at me and whispered among themselves. I knew I must have looked a sight, dragged through the streets in a smock I didn’t even know if I was wearing correctly.
    I don’t like him.
    Henley’s voice startled me, and I turned to see if either of themen had heard him.
    â€œKeep your voice down,” I hissed, but I hung back to make sure they couldn’t hear.
    I didn’t want anyone to hear Henley, much less the old man or his companion. I didn’t know what they would do if they heard me talking to a disembodied voice. Leave me here? Burn me at the stake for being a witch?
    The old man. And his lackey. I mean, what do they want with you?
    â€œProbably nothing. They’re the only shot I have to get