“I am in possession of such, ah, a trifle,” said Pryce. He sounded angry. “It b-belongs to my father, Master Bodean the Clockmaker. I am in the process of returning it to him.”
Hethor’s ears burned; his face felt hot. Pryce had just told Librarian Childress that Hethor was a thief, the sort of apprentice who would steal from his master. He wanted to shout his innocence, leap from the alcove and defend his honor. But being seen to lurk in shadows in order to overhear conversations would only confirm whatever miserable opinion Pryce Bodean already had of him.
“In that case,” said Librarian Childress, “I shall be certain to return it to him, with a full explanation.”
“That won’t ble …” Pryce stopped. Hethor heard him take a deep breath. “Very well, madam. Since this is of service to Dean Holliday, I will raise no more objections.” There was a clink as something small and metallic hit the glass tabletop; then a chair slid back. “I trust it will come back to me—rather, my father—soon enough. If that is all, I will bid you good day.”
“Good day, Mister Bodean. Your services will not go unremarked.”
“I should hope not.”
A door clicked. Hethor held himself still in the alcove, listening to Librarian Childress hum quietly. A minute or so later, there was a discreet double rap on the door of the reading room, though no one entered.
“You may come down now,” said the librarian. “He has departed.”
Hethor stepped out onto the ladder, stopping to brush off his clothes before climbing down. Once on the floor, he went straight to the table.
The silver feather sat on the glass. It was still edged with his blood.
“Libra Malachi,” said Childress. “And do sit, please.”
“The Book of Malachi?” Hethor translated as he pulled his chair in with a scrape.
“Perhaps more accurately, the Book of Messengers. In the sense of angels. From the Hebrew malakh, the messenger angels.”
“Gabriel,” said Hethor.
“Correct” Librarian Childress looked grim, though a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers traced the pattern of the horofix across her chest. “The messenger angel who brought news of our Brass Christ to Mary.”
“And what about this book?”
“I would have to research the exact dates, but Libra Malachi tells us that the silver feather is a token that has been seen before. Presented to various generals, saints, and kings at critical junctures throughout history. Most recently, long after the writing of the book, to Lord Raglan in the Crimea just before he ordered the Light Brigade to charge the Chinese guns. By an angel claiming to be Michael.”
“Claiming?” Hethor wondered at her choice of words.
Librarian Childress smiled. “You should have been a student. But that does not matter. You have been given a mission. Or at least an opportunity. What you do with it … well, that is up to you.”
“So you believe me?”
“I believed you before,” she said. “Enough to confront your master’s son on your behalf. With this feather, others might believe you. Some few folk can see the patterns that underlie all of Creation. Someone like William of Ghent, who would know just by examining this feather that it is of angelic origin. Not all magic lives south of the Equatorial Wall.”
Hethor stared at the tabletop, willing the world to be sensible, simpler. No wish of his would change the deeds of God or His angels, however. “I came to you for knowledge,” he said slowly. “Seeking to understand from books what has really happened.” He looked up to meet the librarian’s gleaming dark eyes. “I shall do as you have advised, take this feather and go to Boston, to the viceroy’s court and seek William of Ghent. But first I must ask my master for permission to make the journey.” Hethor could only imagine what Master Bodean would have to say.
“And if your master forbids you?”
Hethor shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “I am an apprentice sworn and bound. If he forbids me, well … He owns not my corporeal person, but my time, labor, and the value of my training. To leave him unbidden, even to come here, is a form of theft. I could get the lash.”
“The Key Perilous may be legendary,” warned Librarian Childress, “but if it is real, its secrets lie close to the heart of the world.”
“And so I will risk the lash.”
She just stared at him for a moment. “We each are responsible for our own souls, my friend.”
“Before God,” said Hethor. He made the sign of the horofix, an old reflex he rarely recalled anymore.
“Exactly. And before our own consciences. Which judge is the harsher is something only you can know. But … I will pray for you. As will librarians across the Northern Earth.”
Hethor rose from his chair, took his feather from her hand, then bowed to Librarian Childress. “Thank you, ma’am. You have helped me understand some of what lies upon my thoughts.”
She stood in turn. “Listen. There are those who may help you. People who care about such things. I will pass word along. If you think you might be among them, ask after the albino toucan.” She touched one of his elbows, then pulled Hethor into a hug, her gray hair beneath his chin. It was the first time anyone had really touched him since he was eleven, just for the sake of contact rather than to drag or beat him. Tears clouded his eyes for the second time that day. They stung his cheeks and made his face hot all over again.
Gathering his pride, Hethor strode out past the library porter into the New Haven afternoon. Turning left onto Elm Street to head back to Master Bodean’s workshop, he thought he saw Faubus Bodean, Pryce’s tall middle brother. But Faubus wasn’t in the Divinity School. He studied architecture.
The silver feather felt hot in Hethor’s hand and the afternoon streets were crowded, but the spring sky remained clear with a lovely breeze. He headed home, briefly managing to forget about angels and keys and albino toucans and divine will.
HETHOR PASSED a pair of bobbies walking the other way on King George III Street. The sight of the policemen made him nervous, reminding him of how he had violated the terms of his apprenticeship. Walking toward Bodean’s Finer Clocks, he noticed a horse tied in front of the store, as well as a taximeter cabriolet—one of the new electrick horseless carriages that had recently begun driving about New Haven.
Customers?
Or trouble?
It didn’t matter. Hethor owed Master Bodean an explanation of today’s absence. He further hoped to beg Bodean’s goodwill for a journey to Boston. He tried not to think about how improbable his own story would sound were someone else to tell it to him.
Hethor almost went around back to the stableyard, but looking at the horse and the cabriolet out front, he stepped to the front door. The cabriolet’s driver nodded at Hethor and touched his cap. Heartened, Hethor set his hand to the latch and walked into Master Bodean’s showroom.
Faubus Bodean grabbed the collar of Hethor’s coat, the old corduroy tearing under his fingers as Bodean’s son swung Hethor against the inside of the shop door. Hethor slammed into the wood with a booming rattle of the frame. The impact knocked the wind right out of him. Faubus hitched up the collar, yanking the coat upward until Hethor was forced to stand on his toes, which were wedged painfully downward inside his boots.
“Thief,” Faubus hissed, so close his breath was hot on Hethor’s face, scented with a bloom of ale. Then, looking over his shoulder, “Father, the family’s traitor is here.”
Hethor looked over Faubus’ shoulder at Master Franklin Bodean and Mister Pryce Bodean, father and son, staring back at him. Master Bodean appeared sorrowful, while Pryce’s face danced somewhere between suppressed glee and an attempt at somber pity.
“Well,” said Master Bodean, “and how was school today, lad? You’re a mite late on returning.”
The question, so ordinary, was eerie in this situation. Hethor gulped, gasping over his tight collar where Faubus still held him high. “I never … went … sir …”
“So and you’re
not lying as well, I see,” Bodean said.
“Not yet,” muttered Faubus, once more glaring into Hethor’s eyes.
“No … sir … I don’t … lie … .”
“And you went over to Yale college, without my permission.”
“Yes …”
“To see my son.”
Hethor nodded, gasping hard for air now.
“Let’s have it, then.”
Faubus dropped Hethor hard onto his heels, then slapped him, hard. “You heard Father. Where is it?”
Hethor rubbed his throat for a moment. “What?”
“The silver feather you stole from my son,” said Master Bodean.
“What!?” Hethor’s face burned yet again, his head hot and full as if he would rupture or have a fit. “That’s my feather, and he knows it!”
“See?” said Pryce quietly to his father. “I told you he was cracked.”
“And where’d you come by the feather?” Master Bodean asked.
“I …” Words failed Hethor for a moment; then he summoned his courage. “The Archangel Gabriel gave it to me, last night. Before the clocks began to chime.”
Pryce and Faubus both laughed. Master Bodean just looked sad. “And you didn’t think to tell me this wondrous thing?”
Hethor stared at his boots. “No, I didn’t.”
“I’ll not be believing such a tale, Hethor. I can’t fathom what would move you to rob my son, you being such a good apprentice and all, but angels from the sky handing out jewelry ain’t in it.”
“It’s not like that!” The tears were on his cheeks now, hot fountains of pride, even as his head filled with peppery snot. “He took it from me, and the librarian made him—”
Another slap from Faubus silenced Hethor. “Give it up, thief, or I’ll slit your clothes, and you, finding it.”
“She can tell you,” Hethor protested.
“A woman,” said Pryce, laughing. “And a clerk? No sensible man would take the word of such a person in a matter of this importance. They must have been in league.”
Hethor tried once more, staring at Master Bodean. “I’m telling you—”
Faubus slapped him again, then twisted Hethor’s right arm behind his back. “Give it now, if you have it,” hissed his tormentor, “or you’ll be very sorry indeed.”
Shaking, Hethor pulled the feather from his pocket with his free hand.
Faubus snatched it away. “Here it is, Father, proof of his thievery.” He showed the feather to Master Bodean. “Shall I call back the bobbies and have this scoundrel thrown in the stockade?”
“No …” said Master Bodean slowly. He was looking at Pryce, and the gleam in his oldest son’s eye. “I’ll just be turning the lad out. ’S punishment enough. You two go on, now.”
“Father … ,” said Pryce, touching the old man’s arm. “Are you sure?”
“The boy’s desperate.” Faubus shot another glare at Hethor. “He could try anything.”
“He’ll be gone within the hour,” said Master Bodean. “And with no fight. Right, boy?”
Hethor nodded, miserable, shaking now in the wake of his anger and his shame.
“Go, sons,” snapped Master Bodean.
They filed out, Pryce smirking, Faubus with a sideways shove that sent Hethor staggering. Outside the taximeter cabriolet ground into gear and wheezed off, followed a moment later by the clopping of the horse’s hooves.
Hethor stared at Master Bodean, who stared back. They stood in silence, surrounded by the ticking of the clocks, an endless mechanical wave brushing against a brass shore.
“’T’would have saved much trouble if you’d shown me the feather last night,” said Master Bodean quietly. “I’m too old to raise up another ’prentice.”
“It wasn’t his—,” Hethor began hotly, but Master Bodean put his hand up, palm forward.
“I know it wasn’t what Pryce said. I don’t know the exact truth, but you see, boy, it don’t matter. My son’s a man of learning, soon to take the cloth, and he’s family before that. I have to take his word over yours on both counts. Not even with some female librarian testifying against him, neither. If he’d come to me private, without dragging Faubus into it, I might have talked around the thing to the truth. But I can’t be branding my eldest son a liar in front of his brother. Even if I know he is lying.”
“What about me?” Hethor cried. “I’m no liar. The angel did come to me, with a message, and left me that feather as token. The message will not be trusted without the token.”
Master Bodean looked sadder. “You speak to me of trust? You, who didn’t trust me enough to tell me about this wonderful message, and the token besides?”
“I … I didn’t comprehend it.” Hethor stared at his boots again. “I still don’t. But once I understood more, I came home to beg your leave to go to Boston and see the viceroy.”
“You got your wish, boy,” said Master Bodean. “You’ve all the leave in the world now. I won’t have you whipped or nothing. Your father’s money was good enough.”
“I need to go upstairs and—,” Hethor said, but Bodean interrupted him.
“I won’t have you in my house. There’s nothing up there that don’t belong to me anyway. As I’m a generous man, you can keep the clothes you’re wearing, though Pryce will shout me down for that, too.”
“Oh.” Feeling stupid, Hethor set down the books.
“Listen, boy,” said Bodean, even quieter. He shuffled across the room, looking older than ever before. “If you’d come into your journeyman rank, and done well, as we both know you would’ve, you could have taken over the shop as master when I laid down my tools. Now my sons will have the shop free and clear, to lease or sell. My money will be theirs instead of yours, you see. There’s lots of reasons things happen in this world. You never thought why I didn’t ever send you down to Yale on an errand, did you? Keeping yer away from their greed was a big part of that.”
He hugged Hethor, who stood stiff, resisting the affection.
Bodean whispered in his ear. “Take your message to Boston, and Godspeed to you. What I’ve put in your coat pocket, it’s what’s left of your father’s money. But you must leave now. I’ll warrant the boys have set someone to watch the shop.”
Without a word, Hethor turned and walked out the door. Hugging his coat tight, he trudged along King George III Street, heading for the north side of New Haven and the turnpike to Boston. With a little money in his pocket, if it was enough, he might afford a train, or at least a seat on a wagon.
Two blocks down, Faubus stepped out of an alley with a pair of toughs who tripped Hethor to the stones of the sidewalk. Rifling through Hethor’s pockets, Faubus found a roll of paper money, tied with a string. “Pryce was right; you are a thief, even robbing an old man on the way out the door,” he hissed. “If I ever see you again, I will kill you.” He kicked Hethor twice in the ribs before walking away.
Hethor just lay against the wall a while, counting cobbles. Eventually a young woman in a Salvation Army uniform knelt beside him and asked if he needed help.
“No, ma’am,” he said, pulling himself up. “I must go to Boston.”
“’Tis a slow step you walk, lying on the curb,” she answered with a small, pretty smile.
“And a long trip, by the grace of God.” Pondering the miracles of the heavens, Hethor limped into the evening shadows, even as the rising thread of Earth’s brass track gleamed high in the darkening sky.
TWO
HETHOR HAD made it just outside the New Haven city line the first night before dropping to sleep in a damp bed of reeds beneath a rickety bridge. The second day had brought him to Cheshire, following the turnpike. This morning, after sleeping in a chestnut tree, he’d been offered a ride by an old man with a wagon full of May’s first turnips.
“Hundred and thirty-some miles from New Haven to Boston, as the boots walk,” said the farmer, who had not offered Hethor his name. He clucked to his team and twitched the reins. The pair of horses nickered
, but they kept moving at their deliberate pace. The wagon rolled along an old country road, eternal New England stone walls following the right-of-way before shooting off at angles into the trees as the road rose and fell over ridge-lines and little rocky valleys to ford muddy, sighing streams.
“As the tired boots walk, sir.” On this wagon Hethor wasn’t moving much faster than he had been afoot. At least now he was seated, resting his aching soles. A hamper between the driver’s feet held some promise as well, after two days of gnawing on grass and the three robin’s eggs he had been able to scavenge.
He would be damned before he would steal food, even to stave off the sour stitch in his gut. Not after the way Master Bodean’s sons had run him out of New Haven for a thief. Thanks to them, he’d lost everything he had ever thought to have. Livelihood, a roof over his head, such family as Master Bodean had been to him.
The injustice of it gnawed at him.
“I’ll be a-selling this crop to a man in Hartford,” said the farmer. “Reach there tonight, I reckon. Price is worth the distance. Gum darned if I know why they can’t grow they own turnips up in Hartford.”
“Can’t say as I have an idea either,” Hethor said politely, attempting not to let his irritation at circumstance into his voice. He flexed his feet within his boots, trying to decide if he could pull the blasted things off without too much effort. He’d need them again all too soon, he was certain.
The wagon rolled along with a quiet leisurely progress. After some while, the farmer stirred himself to speak again. “Feller could take a railway train, these days.”
“Yes, a fellow could.” Hethor realized the boots weren’t coming off. Even if he got them free, Hethor was afraid his feet would swell so much he’d never get the boots back on.
Another little while, another flick of the reins. “Trains cost money.”
Hethor sighed. He couldn’t very well pretend to be something he was not. “I’m broke, sir. Had some money, got robbed. I must get to Boston, though I expect the hurry’s mostly in my head.”
“Heh.” The farmer gave Hethor a wide smile. “Well said. Any man’s hurry is mostly in his head. But hurry or no, I can see that you’re no tramp. Not with them boots and that coat. Too little wear on ’em. Yet the coat collar’s stretched out and tore at the seams. Someone took a hard hand to you.”