In Which the Clock Is Mended

By December, the clock was repaired. I received the news as a man might receive notice of his execution.

Clara set the pendulum moving and an intolerable, steady tick filled the drawing room.

“There,” she said, pleased. “Good for years yet.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Entirely.”

“It has only just begun running. Surely some further observation would be prudent.”

“Severin.” She smiled, “The clock is mended.”

There seemed very little dignity in arguing with a woman who was plainly enjoying herself.

I paid her account. She packed her tools and at the door I assisted her into her coat, lingering disgracefully over the collar.

There must have been some acceptable form of words. I had been born among men who could wrap the simplest request in enough courtesy to exhaust a scribe. Surely it had provided me with the means to ask a woman to dine.

“Miss Bell.”

“Oh dear, we’ve gone backwards.”

“Clara.”

“Much better.”

I looked past her, towards the darkened drive, as though the proper words might be waiting somewhere beyond the door.

“Might I call upon you socially?”

Clara’s mouth curved.

“Not to inspect my clocks?”

“No.”

“Nor dispute my invoice?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then yes. Thursday, at seven.”

I stared at her.

“Dinner,” she clarified. “There is a little place by the bridge.”

She fastened her coat and stepped out into the falling snow.

“And Severin?”

“Yes?”

“There is a spider living above your front door. I have named him Edward.”

She was halfway down the steps before I recovered sufficiently to call after her.

“Would flowers be appropriate?”

Clara turned, snow catching in her hair.

“Very.”

I watched her go until she called back that I was letting the heat out.