Page 168 of Dukes of Peril

Sy watches them go, leaning back to wait with his phone in his hand.

I never really understood Lavinia’s obsession with the clock. I doubt she ever has, either. Now that we know what was lurking inside of it, it’s a bit eerie, as if somehow she could feel her father had something to do with it. It was broken long before he came along, but there was never a hope of fixing it when it was all jammed up with his device.

Now, there’s a chance, and Lavinia has been working ‘round-the-clock–pun intended–to get it into working shape again. I’m sweaty and sore and tired, and I’m also pretty sure when we go to crank that thing, nothing is going to happen.

Still, I turn to watch the clock face.

Apparently, there’s some mechanism up there that allows them to set the time.

I ask Sy, “You don’t really think–”

Only then, the transmission jolts to life, turning.

Turning the hands of theclock.

Dusty rust rains down to the loft as the hands spring to life, inching toward the top of the face. I’m frozen, a part of me feeling it deep down, like a wound. This clock has been sitting at 7:32 for as long as I’ve been alive. It’s a snapshot in time. It’s such a big part of West End’s identity that I have it tattooed on my temple, for fuck’s sake.

But a bigger part of me knows that some paralyzed, broken thing shouldn’t be our identity at all. I watch with a silent, complicated sort of respect as it moves forward, the hands pausing on 3:53.

When I look back to Sy, he appears just as stunned, even though he hides it better, tapping his phone screen.

The squeal from upstairs is audible, even through the stone and distance.

So we slink down the ladder and then trudge up the steps, finding our girl waiting impatiently by the crank lever. The clock room looks completely different now, all the pieces put back where they belong, clean and greased.

Lavinia presents this to us like a game show hostess, making sweeping gestures to the machine. “We’ve already cranked the striking mechanism and set the counterweights. It just needs to be wound now.” She looks at my brother, giving him a firm nod. “It should be you.”

Remy’s in the chair by the table he usually files serials at, hands laced lazily behind his head. “Fuck it up, Sy.”

My brother sends him a thumbs up, giving his palms a good rub before stepping up to the lever. I’m the one to tug Lavinia into the curve of my body, lifting her chin to lock eyes with me.

“Look, I know we got the hands connected, but keep in mind, this might not work,” I warn, already dreading her disappointment. “This clock has a million moving parts. The chances of them all coming together and working after a few tries… realistically, it’s slim.”

I should know better than that, though. She holds my eye and I don’t see someone who’s ready to be disappointed.

I see a woman who’s willing to fight until she wins.

The corner of her mouth tips up. “Wind her up, Sy.”

Glancing at her, my brother grasps the crank, smirking. “That’s usually my goal.” His muscles flex as he gives it a push, grunting. The lever gives, whirling around with each push and pull, and the cable above begins moving, winding around the barrel. Lavinia grasps my hand, watching anxiously, as her eyes keep flicking to the back of the room, where the counterweight is located, then up toward the belfry, then back down to the strike train, continuing the circuit.

It takes a while, Sy’s sweat-dampened hair flopping into his eyes as he turns and turns, tendons shifting beneath his dark skin.

Finally, it’s wound.

He pulls away, huffing with the exertion, and asks, “What now?” I can see it in his eyes, the seed of his own excitement, and it grows when she nods to the little dial beside him.

“Push that pin and it’ll engage the gears.”

Sy points to it, and at her encouraging nod, turns to regard it with a dubious stare. Never one for a suspenseful pause, Sy just reaches out and pushes it.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Our eyes dart around to meet one another’s, breaths caught in our chest.

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