Page 130 of Fated

The clouds have parted and the moon throws its silver light across the garden, where a winter hare sprints across the snow, leaving only its tracks behind. Overhead the shadow of a hawk falls over its path. I watch, my breath held, until the rabbit dives beneath a snowy mound at the base of the chestnut tree.

“I do,” my mum says. “I’ll send it to you.”

“Now, please,” I say, my heart still beating fast at the rabbit’s flight.

In the background the drums pick up speed. “Sent. Done. I’m off then.”

“Thank you?—”

“Ta-ta,” my mum says, and then she’s gone.

So, before I can think about doubt or delay, or waiting for the morning, I ring Uncle Leopold.

Uncle Leopold, from what I can tell, is ninety-nine years old and the younger brother of my great-grandfather. That he still lives on his own and has a phone he answers at ten o’clock at night is quite incredible.

I’ve moved down to the study. I don’t want to wake Mila if I have to shout to be heard. I lean against the old walnut desk. I’m surrounded by bookshelves, full to the brim with old horology hardbacks, encyclopedias, handwritten Abry records from two centuries of meticulous bookkeeping, old adverts, proposals, and hand-drawn designs of our watches. It’s an archive of Abry history. It has the familiar, comforting smell of the beeswax used to polish the walnut desk, and of old parchment.

The walls are insulated with walnut paneling and the rug is thick. The brown leather chair is cracked and comfy. I perch on the edge of the armrest, my back straight.

“You used the watch? You dreamed?” Uncle Leopold asks. His voice is creaky and rough, like an old rocking chair squeaking under a heavy weight.

I woke him up from a dead sleep, but he didn’t seem too terribly upset once I told him who I was. For a man who left the family, he was surprisingly cheery to be phoned by an Abry.

“Yes. I’m sorry my mum took it?—”

“Sorry? Sorry? I practically had to dangle the thing in front of her. I nattered on and on about it. I nearly shouted ‘Take the darned thing, give it to your daughter!’ I thought I might have to brain her with the fire iron and drop it in her handbag. Lucky me, when I refilled the tea she slipped it in her pocket.”

“You wanted my mum to take it?” I ask, astonished.

“Itbelongsto the family. I don’t have a use for it anymore. I failed it. I hoped that you would do better.”

I shake my head and stand, walking to the bookshelf. The books line the wall from floor to ceiling and I run my hand over them. I imagine if Amy were here, she’d curl up in the leather chair by the window. In the afternoon the sun always falls through the glass and settles over the chair like a golden blanket on your lap.

She’d love it here.

Except.

“How could I do better? What is there to do better with?”

“By dreaming!”

I frown. “Yes. I know. I dreamed. It felt real. Just like you, I found love. But ... it’s a problem.”

He coughs, a phlegmy, chest-rattling noise. “What do you mean, it’s a problem?”

“I can’t forget him. The man I fell in love with. I learned my lesson. I found what I desired. I haven’t used the watch for four months so I could live and find love in the real world. I get that a love like his is my heart’s desire. But I can’t forget him.”

“What did you say?” Leopold asks, his creaky voice sharp.

I frown and pace across the study, dragging my hand over the edge of the walnut desk. The computer monitor glows a soft, ghostly blue.

“I said I can’t forget my dreams. I can’t forget or let go of the man I met there.”

“Why would you?”

I frown, a line creasing my brow. “Because he isn’t real.”

The stillness of the room presses down on me.

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