Page 45 of The Nook for Brooks
I pulled the campsite down swiftly.
Brooks did his best to help, wrestling with tent poles that seemed determined to spring in every direction. He shot me bewildered looks as the canvas folded in on itself, but he never stopped trying. Every rope he coiled was wound a little too precisely, every buckle clipped with a kind of grim determination. And yet, we got the job done.
Soon we were headed higher up the mountain.
The trail climbed steadily. Roots and stones made the ground uneven, and the air grew cooler as we pushed higher.
Occasionally Brooks lagged behind, at which point I held his hand tightly and pulled him up beside me, helping him over every fallen log and split boulder.
It took the better part of an hour, but eventually the trees began to thin. Ahead, the ridge opened onto a dirt road cut into the slope, little more than a scar through the trees, narrow and rutted, the kind of place you only find if you’re not really looking for it. My boots sank in mud, my shirt stuck to my back, and the cicadas were buzzing like an orchestra of chainsaws.
Then, tucked into the slope ahead, I spotted it.
A cottage crouched back from the track, crooked and tired, as though it had been sitting there so long the years themselves had started leaning on it. Ivy crawled across the walls, the roofline sagged in the middle, and a letterbox stood at the roadside with its little door flopped open, revealing a network of spiderwebs inside as if it hadn’t seen any mail since last Christmas.
I slowed, grinning despite myself. “Well, well, well… what’s this little treasure?”
Brooks had gone quiet. He tugged at the collar of my borrowed hiking shirt and shifted in my oversized boots. “I think that’s the Timekeeper’s house,” he said, voice tight.
“The who?”
“The Timekeeper… Obadiah Crane.” He kept scanning the windows as though we were being watched. “The whole town knows of him. But hardly anyone has actually met him.”
“Recluse, then,” I said, delighted. “Excellent.” I was about to make some joke about knocking when I heard it—not birds, not the river, but a hush of ticking, faint at first, then everywhere, like rain tapping on a roof. Only it wasn’t raining.
“Timekeeper you say?”
Brooks nodded.
I realized the ticking was coming from the cottage. “That,” I whispered. “Is cool.”
“That,” Brooks muttered. “Is excessive.”
I headed straight for the cottage, boots thudding on the warped boards of the porch steps.
Behind me Brooks hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Knocking,” I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Before he could stop me, I reached for the brass knocker shaped like a clock face—its hands frozen at midnight—and gave it a firm rap.
From inside I heard the gong of a grandfather clock. Another clock chimed a second later. Then a flurry ofdongsandbingsandcuckoosjoined in, all slightly off-key.
Brooks quickly stepped up onto the porch and stood a little behind me, driven either by curiosity or a fear of being left on the dirt track alone. I couldn’t tell.
A moment later, the door creaked open.
An old man peered at us. He had a shock of white hair, spectacles clinging to the tip of his nose, and a waistcoat sagging with pocket watches. His pale eyes were sharp and busy, like they were staring straight at us… and yet taking in everything else as well.
“You’re late,” he rasped.
I blinked. “For what?”
“For tea.” He turned and padded away, leaving the door open.
I looked at Brooks.
“We weren’t invited,” he whispered harshly.
