The Clockwork Oracle

The door burst open.

Clara Whitlock stood on the threshold. Black fabric swallowed her frame from throat to floor. Her widow's weeds fluttered like storm clouds.

Elias dropped his calipers. They clattered against the workbench.

"I require answers."

Her chin lifted. Perfect posture. A silver locket gleamed between white-knuckled fingers.

Elias's hand found his left pocket. The brass gear bit into his palm. He pulled his spectacles off. Cleaned them on his sleeve. Put them back on.

The workshop held its breath. Three hundred clocks ticked in discordant chorus.

"Miss Whitlock. This is not. I mean. Master Blackwood is not present."

"He need not be present. You will suffice."

She stepped forward. The scent of lily funeral flowers cut through the oil and paper smell of the workshop.

She thrust a folded sheet at him. Black-edged stationery. Heavy cream paper. Elegant script.

"Read it."

Elias's fingers trembled. The paper crackled in his grip.

"I cannot. This is private correspondence. I should not."

"You knew."

Her voice did not waver. Complete sentences. Precise enunciation. Each word a blade.

"My father. Lord Ashworth. The machine foretold his death three days prior."

The gear in Elias's pocket spun. His shoulder hunched. He could not meet her eyes.

Behind them, the Chronos Companion watched. Porcelain face. Golden eyes. Its half-assembled torso gleamed in the lamplight.

"I do not know what you mean. There has been some mistake."

"There was no mistake." Clara's hand tightened around the locket. "The prediction was exact. Date. Time. Manner. The automaton knew a murderer would come. It said nothing."

The clocks ticked louder. Impatient judges. Time itself pressing in.

"I am an apprentice. I clean. I calibrate. I do not ask questions."

"You ask nothing. You speak nothing. My father is dead because of your silence."

She leaned closer. Her eyes searched his face. Desperate. Fierce. Broken.

"Who else knows? How many others has your master forecast to die?"

Elias's throat closed. The spectacles slid down his nose. He caught them. Fumbled. Dropped them.

They hit the floor. One lens cracked.

From the shadows behind the automaton, footsteps approached.

Slow. Deliberate. The rhythm of a pocket watch being opened. Closed. Open again.

"My dear Miss Whitlock."

The voice rolled like distant thunder. Polished. Measured. Ancient.

Elias froze. His fingers stopped inches from his fallen spectacles.

Blackwood emerged from the darkness. Gold watch caught the lamplight. Cloth scraped against metal. Rhythmic. Hypnotic.

"I believe you are distressing my apprentice."

He clasped his hands behind his back. His gaze found Clara. Found Elias.

Found the fear between them.

"Perhaps we should discuss what you think you know. What you think you have found."