Legacy of the Clockwork Key: Volume 1 - Rilegato

Bailey, Kristin

Rilegato

ISBN 10: 1442440260 ISBN 13: 9781442440265

Casa editrice: Margaret K McElderry, 2013

Riassunto

A teen girl unravels the mysteries of a secret society and their most dangerous invention in this adventure-swept romance set in Victorian London.

When a fire consumes Meg’s home, killing her parents and destroying both her fortune and her future, all she has left is the tarnished pocket watch she rescued from the ashes. But this is no ordinary timepiece. The clock turns out to be a mechanical key—a key that only Meg can use—that unlocks a series of deadly secrets and intricate clues that Meg is compelled to follow.

Meg has uncovered evidence of an elite secret society and a dangerous invention that some will stop at nothing to protect—and that Meg alone can destroy. Together with the handsome stable hand she barely knows but hopes she can trust, Meg is swept into a hidden world of deception, betrayal, and revenge. The clockwork key has unlocked her destiny in this captivating start to a trilogy.

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L'autore:

Kristin Bailey grew up in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley in California. In the course of her adventures, she has worked as a zookeeper, a balloon artist, and a substitute teacher. Now, in addition to an author, she is a military wife and the mother of two children and several very spoiled pets. Find out more at KristinBailey.com.

Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:

CHAPTER ONE

SIX MONTHS. IT HAD ONLY BEEN SIX MONTHS.

Heavy flakes of snow drifted past the black iron bars of the front gate. I watched one flutter and land on the muzzle of one of the enormous bronze lions standing guard. His glassy eyes caught the first light of dawn breaking over the eastern garden wall.

In that moment he seemed alive somehow, watching me with a grimace that displayed his awful teeth. I didn’t recall noticing the statues the first time I’d walked through the gate, but now I stared, transfixed by the guards holding me within my beautiful prison.

On the quiet London street beyond the gate, time brushed past like the flakes of falling snow. I could no longer feel the cold breeze making the snowflakes dance. My whole body felt frozen, frozen in place, frozen in time.

Before I arrived here, I thought I had known frustration.

As it happens, I knew nothing.

A distant conversation rumbled through my memory. “I have an offer of employment for you, Miss Whitlock.” Fateful words from the mouth of my late father’s solicitor. At the time they had brought me hope. I hadn’t imagined they would lead to this.

The solicitor had leaned back in his chair, stretching his too-tight waistcoat until his buttons nearly popped off. “Lord Rathford sent me a letter after hearing of the tragedy. He claims to have been a good friend of your family and has offered you a respectable position under the supervision of his housekeeper, Mrs. Pratt.”

“A housemaid?” My voice had cracked as I’d said it. I had hardly spoken in the weeks after the fire that had claimed the clock shop on Oxford Street. The flames had taken my home and the lives of my parents, leaving my life in ruins.

“You’ll be paid, fed, and clothed, and you’ll have a roof over your head. Seeking respectable employment is your best option, child.” He had tried to pat my hand as if he were placating a little girl who had dropped her favorite poppet in the mud.

Pompous old boar. I was not a child, and he had had no inkling of what he was sentencing me to. Lord Rathford was a stranger to me.

“It’s your only option. I suggest you take it.” His final words to me had felt as immovable as the brass lions at the gate.

That was six months ago. Only six months. It seemed like six lifetimes.

I shook the snow from my starched white apron, then gently lifted out the blackened pocket watch I kept on a chain around my neck. It was all I had left, a broken timepiece I had found next to my father’s charred hand.

It twisted on the chain, tarnished and black against the snow. I knew I should polish it, but every attempt I made felt wrong, as if I were trying to undo the past. I looked back at Lord Rathford’s house.

I had moved into a place where time had stopped altogether.

It was my job to make it certain it never moved again.

As was my habit, I touched the watch to my cheek, feeling the kiss of cold metal, before slipping it back into place behind my bib. Gathering my skirts, I shook off the snow then hurried back to my master’s house. My thin boots and stockings did little to save my feet from the sting of the cold as I stepped lightly down the snow-filled stairwell that led to the servants’ entrance to the kitchens and cellar.

If I didn’t have the fires lit before Agnes, the cook, woke, she’d have my hide. Every day was exactly the same, and I had worked the routine into my bones.

With an effort that would have appalled my delicate mother, I cleaned the kitchen grate, thankful I didn’t have to blacken it with the foul-smelling polish I had to use on all the other grates in the fireplaces throughout the house. I started the fire, set the tea, and prepared the kitchen for breakfast.

As soon as the tea steeped, I carried a pot of it into the sitting room. On the table near the window, a cup rested on its side, the spilled contents drying on the marble top. I cleaned the mess, carefully polishing the cup before setting it on the saucer and filling it only one third with the piping hot tea.

Then I reached over and tipped the cup, carefully spilling the tea on the table, making sure the handle rested to the left as always. Only then could I dust the room no one would ever sit in.

In the upstairs bedroom, I tugged at the freshly laundered linens, pulling them over the soft feather mattress, so much like the one I used to have. How I wished to fall into the bed, let my eyes close, and sleep. Perhaps I could wake from this nightmare.

I smoothed the rich red fabric of the bed cover until the bed was perfect. Every morning I ached and strained to make it neat, then I yanked the cover down, creasing the blankets. With my fists I pounded a deep indent into the pillow and tugged it askew.

Everything in each room of the enormous house had to remain exactly as I had found it the day before. Nothing in the house ever changed. It was my job to make sure of it, and I did my job well.

It was infuriating. At times all I wanted to do was walk along the tables and sideboards with my hand out, knocking everything over until I created such a mess no one could possibly put it right.

But I couldn’t. I didn’t dare. If I lost this job, I would have no home, no food. I’d be out on the streets. So every night, in an intricate exchange, I rotated each candle in the house to ensure that in the morning they’d all seem as if they had never burned.

For all the polishing and dusting, the baron’s house remained quiet, cold. It had been frozen as deeply and surely as the ice-covered garden still gripped by the cruel hand of the lingering winter.

I descended the stairs feeling the slow burn of my frustration. Soon enough, Mrs. Pratt would order me to polish five dozen sets of silver spoons no one would ever use.

As I reached the bottom of the steps, I nearly tread on a piece of the broken vase that remained shattered at the foot of the stairs.

I let my boot hover over the delicate shard. Oh, I was tempted, so tempted to kick it straight into the sitting room. Or stomp on all the pieces until there was nothing left but dust. Then perhaps I could finally stop dancing around them every time I had to go up or down the stairs.

In the end, disturbing the shards would only cause me grief, and I knew it. I placed my foot to the side and turned away from the vase. The soft chink of the porcelain on the polished wood floor broke the oppressive silence of the house. A curved piece of the broken vase spun slowly, like a ballerina caught in a dream.

“Bloody hell.”

Hands shaking, I scrambled to rearrange the pieces as they should be. I was always too careless when flustered, but never had it hindered my efforts as much as this. The edge of a triangular shard sliced into my middle finger and I let the piece fall to the floor. I cringed as it clattered against the wood, but thankfully it didn’t shatter.

My eyes stung as I brought my finger to my mouth.

“Heaven’s mercy, Meg. What happened?” Mrs. Pratt’s voice sounded like a tree limb breaking under a heavy burden of ice.

The housekeeper fell to her knees by the shards, her full skirts billowing around her.

“They moved.” I took a step back to give her a better look. “My skirt brushed them.”

“How could you be so careless?”

I felt the flush of anger heat my face. “It was an accident. Why can’t we just leave them? It’s not as if anyone would notice.”

“He’s watching,” the housekeeper warned, glancing over her shoulder, her pinched expression growing tighter. “You must take care at all times, Meg. He is always watching.”

I’d never met the baron, or even seen him, but the thought of him watching every moment crept through my mind like a rat in the dark.

I struggled to my feet, clenching my bleeding hand in my skirts, then ran down the back stairs into the kitchens. Once inside, I took a deep breath and pulled my mop cap from my head. This was insanity, sheer insanity. I’d had enough of it.

I concentrated on stanching my bleeding finger, but a shifting shadow caught my eye in the flickering light of the cold, empty kitchen. I hoped it wasn’t a rat.

The house was modest in comparison to some of the city palaces in St. James, but with its high-walled garden, courtyard, and carriage house, it used to be a stately gem. Now it was dour and faded.

The enormous labyrinth of kitchens, pantries, cellars, and laundry had once provided every conceivable comfort for the elegant family living above. Now the servants’ world beneath the stairs remained dark and empty except for the main hearth and a single pantry. How humble the kitchen seemed with rosemary hung by the frosted window, racks of unused pots and pans, a dented teakettle, and the itchy tick filled with straw that served as my bed.

Eerie shadows swayed, cast from the hanging pots clinging to the exposed girders. The kitchen was the only room that was allowed to age, clinging to the last vestiges of vibrancy while the rest of the house remained as lifeless as a tomb.

I reached for the broom, keeping a wary eye on the corner. Two luminous green eyes stared back at me, reflecting the fire in the hearth.

I sighed. It was only Old Tom. The distinguished silver tabby emerged from the shadows with the grace of a duke. He lifted his chin in a haughty feline acknowledgment of my existence.

Putting down the broom, I turned my attention back to my sliced finger, grabbing a rag to clean the dried blood.

“Meg!” Agnes the cook flopped a meaty hand onto the door frame and pulled her ample body into the kitchen from the passage that led to the pantry beyond. “Meg, could you be a dear and fetch me one of those icicles hanging near the steps?” she asked.

She moved toward the table with her eyes closed, like a great ox stumbling forward while half asleep.

Gracious, she was hungover again. Yet another thing that never seemed to change in this household. With a heavy groan, she fell onto a stool, then let her head fall back and heaved a dramatic sigh.

I snapped the rag away from my cut as I opened the door to the stairs that led up to the small kitchen garden and the courtyard beyond. A new dusting of snow already softened the trail of footprints leading to the garden pot. I stepped in one to save my foot from the cold. It didn’t take much effort to knock down one of the brittle daggers of ice and gather it in the rag.

“Thank you, dear.” Agnes took the rag then smashed it against the cooking board with all the delicacy of an axe-wielding executioner.

“Should I track down a hairy dog?” The one that had bitten her had gotten her good. Its name was stale rum, and it wasn’t the first time the beast had unleashed its fury on poor Agnes.

Agnes laughed as she placed the ice-filled rag on her head. “Nay, I’m afraid I ran the poor mongrel off last night.”

“You drank it all?” Heavens, no wonder she was in a state.

“Don’t you fret. A bit of tea will straighten me up.”

I crossed the kitchen and carefully closed the heavy oak door that led to the servants’ stairs. Mrs. Pratt would be in a fearful mood after having to rearrange the shards. I didn’t want Agnes to suffer for it.

“Last night, Pratt had the gall to remind me that I should cook beef stew for this evening’s meal,” Agnes lamented, placing the lump of icy rag on a new part of her forehead. “As if I haven’t made bloody beef stew every Wednesday for nearly eighteen years.”

Eighteen years? Had this started so long ago?

What could have driven the baron to wish this on himself for a good third of a man’s life? Curiosity gnawed at my thoughts.

No one was supposed to talk about it, so I kept silent. Instead I poured the tea, trying not to think about why these strange souls had decided to remain in this madhouse for longer than I’d been alive. No wonder Agnes stewed herself in swill every night. And poor Mr. Tibbs. The butler wandered around the house as if he were a resident spook of the Tower of London. What had happened so long ago?

Agnes shook her head. “Never you mind.”

“I didn’t ask,” I protested.

“You didn’t have to. You had that look about you. This is how the baron wants things, and our purpose in life is to make sure this house is exactly as the baron wants it.” Agnes offered me a withered smile. “Best keep curiosity in your pocket. It killed the cat, you know.”

I stoked the fire, flinching when a log rolled forward, sending out a spray of embers onto the hearth.

“What’s the harm in curiosity?” I asked, though it was more of a thought for myself than a true question. I turned away from the fire and looked up at the cook. “Other than an overabundance of dead cats?”

“Meg.” Agnes flopped the ice over her eyes.

“When was the last time you actually saw the baron?” I persisted.

“Oh, I daresay it’s been close to seven years now.” Agnes leaned back in the chair.

“Seven years? And you never once questioned—”

She sat up, crooking her brow into a deep scowl. “I said, never you mind!”

“This is madness.” I turned my attention back to the fire.

“Aye, the madness of our betters, so we must abide it. Get to your chores. I’ll save you some tea.”

Resigned to the inevitable, I broke off a chunk of stale bread from the remainder of yesterday’s loaf and set to my day. Clean the grates, tend the fires, trim the candles, pull the drapes, dust, dust, dust, polish, polish, polish. On and on it went.

Late in the morning, I found myself in the study. I threw open the shutters and pulled back the heavy velvet drapes, letting cold light into the lifeless room. Large flakes of the early spring storm continued to drift past the swirls of frost on the windows. The remnants of the bleak and mournful winter had laid the world under a blanket of white.

I watched the quiet snowfall, wondering if light and happiness had simply abandoned England. Queen Victoria remained in mourning after the death of Prince Albert. She was no longer the queen I remembered from my childhood. She had been solid, regal. So long as she reigned, all in the world was right and steady. Now she was gone too, hidden away. I didn’t know if she’d ever return. Somehow I felt that even if she did, it wouldn’t be the same.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but what was one to do when time stopped? My life had ground to a halt before it had a chance to begin.

There simply was no way out. Only one month shy of sixteen, I could marry, but whom? I had neither the means nor opportunity to leave the house. Even if I did, I was now a housemaid. Whom should I marry? A servant?

I was raised better. Before the fire, I’d been preparing for my introduction into polite society. Now no man of my true class would ever look at me.

All my education, my talents, had fallen to waste. I could read and write German and French thanks to my Swiss mother. I had a talent for the pianoforte and a good mind for numbers, thanks to my father, who seemed to enjoy teaching me the intricate nature of computation. Now my options were few. I couldn’t even find better work. I had no one to recommend me. Since my employer hadn’t shown his face in seven years, I doubted anyone ever would.

Escape was impossible. Where would I go? One day I’d end up silent and dour like Mr. Tibbs, drunk and frustrated like Agnes, or just plain barking mad.

I was of half a mind that Mrs. Pratt maintained her rigid schedule only to keep herself from admitting she was no longer needed. Perhaps the baron had withered and died in one of the uppe...

Su questa edizione

• Editore: Margaret K McElderry
• Data di pubblicazione: 2013
• ISBN 10: 1442440260
• ISBN 13: 9781442440265
• Rilegatura: Copertina rigida
• Numero di pagine: 403