Page 46 of The Nook for Brooks
“We are now,” I said, and stepped inside.
The place was dark and smelled of all sorts of polished wood, but it wasn’t the sights and smells that hit me. It was the sound of ticking all around.
Clocks had taken over every surface—fat mantel clocks, tall standing clocks with pendulums swinging as slow as heartbeats, cuckoo clocks perched along the walls like a row of restless birds, carriage clocks crammed onto end tables, and an hourglass collection on the sideboard. Sundials sat on windowsills. A skeleton clock bared its brass gears in the corner, cogs turning like working organs. A ship’s chronometer rested in a velvet-lined case, rocking faintly as though it still belonged at sea, while an entire shelf was dedicated to alarm clocks of all shapes and sizes, wearing their bells and hammers like earmuffs.
“This is…” I breathed.
“Madness,” Brooks muttered, edging around a side table of metronomes ticking like timebombs.
“Magic,” I said.
The old man reappeared, balancing a tray of mismatched cups and a squat iron teapot that looked like it had survived a hundred winters. Steam curled into the dusty air as he shuffled past us. He set the tray down on a low table wedged between two chairs, pressed almost knee to knee by the towering clocks around them.
“Sit,” he said, lowering himself into a high-backed armchair on the far side as though winding himself down for the evening… even though it was still only mid-morning. It struck me that old mate lived by his own definition of time.
I perched on the edge of the chair nearest the door, the cushion sagging and springs groaning like they hadn’t met a guest in decades. Brooks lowered himself into the other chair, stiff-backed and gripping the arms to stop them from coming alive and wrapping themselves around him.
The old man poured, his hands surprisingly steady despite the keychains clinking against his waistcoat. The liquid was a pale amber, and the smell that rose from it was smoky and resinous.
“Today’s tea is lapsang souchong,” he said. “You missed yesterday’s tea. Oolong, my favorite. Tomorrow is elderflower infusion if you’d care to drop by again.”
He lifted the cups and saucers, and we took them carefully. God forbid we broke anything in this precious little museum.
The old man’s pale eyes flicked between us, sharp yet distracted, like they saw too much and not enough all at once. “Do you know what time is?” he asked.
I moved to look at my watch and he said, “No, young man. I didn’t ask what time it is. I asked, do you know what timeis?”
Brooks cleared his throat. “Time is a unit of measurement.”
The old man chuckled, low and scratchy. “Wrong. It’s a creature. It slinks. It feeds. It wanders. Sometimes it loses its way.” He tapped one long finger against his temple. “Sometimes so do I.”
Before I could respond, the front door opened again and someone said, “Uncle?”
A man our own age appeared, perhaps mid to late twenties. He wore a neat jacket despite the heat, and his dark hair was swept back from a sharp brow. In one hand he carried a leather satchel, bulging at the seams. His other hand hovered on the doorframe, knuckles white, as his eyes landed on us.
He froze. His whole posture tightened—not fearful, but protective.
“Who are you?” His voice was even but carried an edge, his gaze flicking distrustfully between me and Brooks. “What are you doing here?”
The old man barely glanced up from winding a clock. “Nephew… manners. These are my guests,” he said vaguely. “They’ve dropped in for a spot of tea.”
The younger man stepped further into the room, setting the satchel down on a table of clocks but never taking his eyes off us. “Uncle, you’re not supposed to let strangers in.”
“We’re not strangers,” I offered with a grin. “Just travelers. I’m Cody, this is Brooks. We were out camping last night and—”
“We heard something… someone… calling out in the night,” Brooks cut in tightly, clearly sensing the man’s suspicion. “We thought someone might need help.”
The younger man’s gaze stayed on us a moment longer before he gave the smallest nod. He moved to his uncle’s side, resting a hand lightly on the old man’s shoulder.
Brooks lowered his voice. “You must be Heathcliff.”
The man took a breath, then gave the faintest nod. “Yes. That’s me.”
Heathcliff’s hand lingered on his uncle’s shoulder, a tether as much as a comfort. “You heard him last night,” he said finally, his tone clipped but calm. “In the woods.”
“Yes,” I said. “He was calling your name.”
For the first time, Heathcliff’s eyes softened, though his jaw stayed tight. “He wanders,” he admitted. “Sometimes he gets confused. When he loses himself, he calls for me. That’s why I come up as often as I can. I live in Milwaukee, but things need to change. I’ll be packing up my things and moving here permanently in the next few weeks. Uncle Obadiah needs full-time care and I’m all the family he’s got.”
