Chapter Six

LOST IN HIS thoughts, Felix returned to the Star alone. Before unlocking the double doors, he checked the road for any sign of his family. He didn’t trust them not to rush in the second he opened up. He expected Mr Tassiter to be lingering nearby. He’d had to get Vince to intimidate Mr Tassiter out of the Star before they’d gone to Ms Hornby’s house.

He undid the bolts and stood in the empty bar, inhaling decades’ worth of the stale tobacco and spilt ale. He stepped into the horological lift and flicked the lever. Nothing. He tried again. He opened a casing and wound the mechanism. It crunched, and clicked, and stuttered. Somewhere deep inside, some unseen component sprang and popped.

“It hasn’t worked in years,” Dahlia said.

Felix jolted. He hadn’t noticed her sitting on one of the benches. “How did you get in?”

“The back door,” she said. “It’s easy enough to pick the lock.”

Felix closed the lift door behind him. He stood and leaned one arm on the bar. “So why doesn’t the rest of the family do it? Why wait for me to unlock the front doors?”

“You’d have to ask them,” she said.

“I’m asking you.”

She drew on her long, thin pipe. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because they’re all useless layabouts who are terrified of both Gregory and Alma. Gregory doesn’t want them here, and Alma has drilled into them how Gregory’s word is law.”

“But she wants this place,” Felix said.

“But Auntie Alma is no lock picker,” Dahlia said.

Felix drew up a chair and sat facing her. “I don’t know what to make of this new you,” he said. “When we were growing up, you were always so…obedient.”

“I didn’t know who I was back then,” she said. “I was just a little goody two shoes who didn’t want to cause waves. Thankfully I grew out of it.” She blew a pillow of smoke directly at Felix.

He knew she did it to make him flinch, or cough, but he did neither. “What are you doing here, Dahlia?”

“I need someplace to stay,” she said. “Just for a couple of days.”

Felix shook his head. “Gregory wouldn’t—”

She shot forward and snapped at him. “How on earth would you know what Gregory would do? You still think of yourself as the favourite, don’t you? Just because you never got caught up in the family business. Just because you went to sea and made something of your life, whatever that means.” She settled back onto the bench, satisfied with her outburst.

Felix had spent years cooped up with sailors spoiling for a fight. He’d long ago learned how to avoid rising to the bait. “Fine,” he said. “Stay here if you want to. But just you. And no family gatherings.”

“It’s not given to you to decide these things.”

He took the letter from this pocket and held it up. “I think you’ll find it is. Until Uncle Gregory returns, at least. Did no one think to have the lift repaired?”

“It wasn’t really a priority,” she said with a shrug.

“How fortunate for you all.”

He stood and toured the bar, noting the occasional squeaking floorboard and cracked looking glass. The stage was in the worst condition of all. Unwaxed, poorly lit, and generally unloved.

“I remember when the stage took up this whole part of the room,” he said, holding his arms out. “Now look at it.”

“People stopped coming to the performances,” Dahlia said. “They wanted ale. Then they wanted gin. Then they really wanted gin. You can’t blame Gregory for giving the people what they want. We all do what we have to do to keep the candles lit.”

The light in the bar was different to the rest of the building. Despite the two large bay windows at the front of the room, the air itself had a yellowish tinge to it.

He made for the door.

“Where are you going now?” Dahlia asked.

“If I’m going to stay here,” Felix said, “there’s going to have to be some changes.”

Felix found the nearest horologist on the next road. Above the door hung a sign—an elaborate clock face with exaggerated hands which moved about in an unpredictable pattern. Behind the hands, on the face itself, lively copper animals darted amid bushes while tall trees waved in an absent wind. The sign read:

WILLIAMS CLOCKWORKINGS

A bell above the door tinkled as Felix entered. He stood and shook the rain from his cap. The shop held a number of clockwork devices—including the ubiquitous striker-lanterns—most of which ticked incessantly and out of time with one another. In the centre of the room, a table held the five-sided head of one of the new street lamps. From the road, it had been difficult to make out the delicate patterns embossed onto the rainshield. Sculpted rabbits—alert for trouble—kept watch from the canopy. Felix leaned in for a closer look.

A man approached him with his hand extended. Felix hesitated before shaking it. Not for any reason other than a momentary fluttering of both his heart and his nether regions. The sturdy man before him was close to his own age, had dark skin, an easy smile, and wore a stiletto beard and pointed moustache. He had at some point, Felix felt certain, discarded his ruff and velvet jerkin, and escaped from a painting by one of the great masters.

“Hullo, yes, I’m sorry,” Felix said, regaining his composure. “Those lamp heads appear far larger up close than they do at the top of…of a pole. Mr Williams? I wish to solicit your skills in some repairs.” It took a herculean act of will for Felix to prize his gaze from the finest pair of thighs he had ever seen.

“I’m sure I can help you,” the bearded man said. He blinked excessively when he spoke, as though the words tickled his eyelashes. “But I’m not Mr Williams. He is the Master Cogsmith. My name is Iron Huxham. I’m his apprentice.”

“Do I need to speak with Mr Williams, or can you help me?”

“Let’s find out,” Mr Huxham said. “What do you need?”

“It’s a lift,” Felix said. “I’m afraid it’s quite stuck in place.”

An old man with a tired carnation in his lapel appeared in the doorway leading to the back of the shop. “A lift that cannot lift is nought but a cupboard, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mr Williams, I take it?” Felix asked.

Mr Williams nodded. He was an unshaven, white-haired man with a long beard, small eyes, and well into his seventies, if he were a day. “Where is this non-lifting lift to be found?” He spoke more loudly than necessary, likely due to his ears not being quite what they used to be.

“At the Star We Sail By,” Felix said. “On Bibbler’s Brook. I have just taken over the place from my uncle. My name is Felix Diamond.”

“Ah, I see.” Mr Williams took a step back. “I believe we are quite busy at the moment.” He flicked through a book on his counter. “We are engaged with the task of providing street lamps for the town, you see.” His voice cracked like ice.

“Yes, I couldn’t help but admire your handiwork,” Felix said. “When might you be free?”

“It could be months, I’m afraid,” Mr Williams said.

“Months?” The S whistled out of his mouth.

“Or longer.” He never once looked at Felix; he just kept running a wonky finger down the pages of his book.

”A pity,” Felix said. “I suppose I shall have to look elsewhere.”

“Yes,” old Mr Williams said. “Yes, I believe it’s for the best.”

Mr Huxham hovered by the lamp head, his fingers stuffed into the pockets of his forest-green waistcoat. He frowned and tapped his thumbs against his belly. “Wait one moment, please.” He darted to the counter. “Might I have a quick word in private, Mr Williams?” He flashed an unconvincing smile to Felix.

He and Mr Williams removed themselves to a room at the back of the shop but neglected to close the door tightly.

“I can work on the lift.” Mr Huxham kept his voice quiet but not quiet enough. “I can nip out now; it shouldn’t take long.”

“We don’t have time,” Mr Williams said in his raspy voice. “And you have enough on your plate with these street lamps you insist on working on. Do not take on more work than you are capable of completing, Mr Huxham. If you promise the whole entire sun and deliver but a candle, the customer will not return. And I will not tolerate you producing work that is any less than your absolute best. This business will be yours soon enough, but it is my reputation upon which you trade. Besides, the man out there is a Diamond, and the Diamonds are not known for paying their bills on time. Or at all. Let him find someone else to take advantage of.”

Felix moved his damp cap about in his hands, his ears burning and cheeks reddening. He didn’t wait for them to emerge. With a tinkling of the bell, he flung open the shop door and hurried out onto the slippery cobbled road. He tugged his woollen cap onto his head and hastily paced away from Williams Clockworkings and wondered how far he would have to go to find another horologist. Surely there must be more than one in the town. As it would happen, he hadn’t gone very far at all before he heard his name being shouted.

Mr Huxham cantered along the road to him. “Please, Mr Diamond, do wait a moment.”

Felix tapped his own pockets. “I didn’t steal anything, if you’re—”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Mr Huxham said, gasping for breath. “No, I wanted to say I am available, after all.”

Felix’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you are? Come, step in out of the rain, you seem to have forgotten your coat and hat.” He led them both under an awning dripping with rain. They stood quite close together.

“Yes…um…yes,” Mr Huxham said. “I had forgotten we had a…um…a cancellation earlier today. I quite forgot to write it in our book, so I can come to the, ah, to the Star this afternoon if that’s suitable?” His kind, brown eyes held within them a world of comfort.

Felix couldn’t help but be a tad transfixed. “Perfectly suitable, Mr Huxham. I shall see you then.” He nodded politely and set off towards the Star, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder.