The Clockmaker – Part 2: Winding Down

The lessons were slow and severe. She set him tasks and watched. Hold this. Wait. Do not breathe. She made him sit still while she explained a movement in a low murmur, and then recite it back, correcting him with a tap of tweezers on the bench. She stood behind him and adjusted his wrist, his shoulder, his breathing, in tiny exact increments. She never raised her voice. Time seemed to thicken round them. The clocks ticked on, and his own heartbeat joined them.

Every half hour: "Do you wish to continue, apprentice?" "Yes, Master." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

At midnight, every clock in the shop struck, a great overlapping chorus, and she let it ring.

"Stop-work," said Greta, softly.

She put down the gloves and took off the apron. She was just Greta now, rubbing her eyes, smiling, lifting the loupe from her forehead. She sat on the stool beside him and pulled a shawl over them both.

"How are you?"

"Regulated," said Mikhail, with a slow, grateful smile. "Wound up and let go."

"Good." She kissed his forehead. "You are a fine apprentice."

"Will there be another lesson?"

"The spring movement is difficult. It will take months."

"I have time," said Mikhail.

"I know you do," said Greta, and stopped the long case pendulum with one finger, and the quiet was complete.

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