Chapter 18: The Second Hand

The cuckoo clock's chirp faded, but the warmth in the workshop lingered. Ella set the pocket watch down, its steady tick joining the symphony of gears and chatter. Her father was now arguing with Ethan about the best way to fix a 1950s alarm clock, their voices rising in good-natured debate, while Mrs. Higgins—her cat apparently appeased—patted the bluebird clock like it was a newborn.

Sebastian pressed a kiss to her temple. "Need a breather?"

She nodded, sliding off her stool. "Just for five minutes. My eyes are crossing from staring at springs."

They slipped out the back door, into the narrow alley where Sebastian kept his motorcycle (a vintage beast he'd "rescued" from a junkyard, much to Ella's amusement). The sun was high now, casting dappled light through the fire escape above.

"Ever think we'd be here?" Ella asked, leaning against the brick wall. "You, in jeans, selling watch batteries. Me, with a shop full of people who care about cuckoo clocks."

He laughed, propping a foot against the wall beside her. "I thought I'd spend my life in boardrooms, signing papers that meant nothing. Then I met a girl who carried a pocket watch in her pocket like it was a secret." He took her hand, tracing the calluses on her palm—from years of turning screws, of mending time. "Best mistake I ever made."

A soft clink came from the alley's end. Ella glanced over, smiling when she saw a stray tabby cat nosing at a discarded can. "Mrs. Higgins' escape artist, I bet. She's been sneaking out to beg scraps from the bakery."

The cat froze, golden eyes locking onto hers, then darted away. Ella shrugged, turning back to Sebastian—only to find him frowning at his phone.

"Trouble?" she asked.

He pocketed it, forcing a smile. "Just work. The estate lawyer wants to 'clarify some details' about the castle. I'll handle it later."

Ella knew that tone—tight, like he was swallowing words. But before she could press, the back door creaked open. Her father stood there, crutch in one hand, a paper bag in the other.

"Brought reinforcements," he said, holding up the bag. "Mrs. Peabody from next door dropped off lemon bars. Said they're 'for the clock lady and her handsome partner.'"

Sebastian's smile softened. "Tell her thank you. And that I'll save her a piece before Ethan eats them all."

Her father winked. "Already hid two. Now—Ella, there's a man here. Says he's got a clock 'no one else can fix.' Insists on talking to the 'boss.'"

Ella perked up. A challenge. "Send him in. I'll be right there."

Her father left, and Sebastian squeezed her hand. "Go. I'll join you in a minute. Gotta make a quick call."

She kissed his cheek, heading back inside. The workshop had thinned a little—most of the crowd had drifted out, promising to return with more broken timepieces—but a new face stood by the counter: a tall man in a tailored coat, holding a wooden box.

"Miss White?" he asked, turning. His voice was smooth, almost too polite.

"Ella," she said, extending a hand. "And you are?"

"Arthur Voss. A colleague of your… associate, Mr. Black." He set the box on the counter, sliding it toward her. "I heard you're skilled with unusual clocks."

Ella opened the box. Inside was a mantel clock, its case carved with intricate vines, but the face was blank—no numbers, no hands. Just a small keyhole, and a faint engraving on the base: For when the past won't stay buried.

Her fingers stilled. It looked old, older than anything she'd worked on. The wood smelled of cedar and something sharper—ink, maybe. Or smoke.

"It stopped," Voss said, watching her. "Years ago. Mr. Black's grandfather was the last one who could wind it. But… well. He's gone now."

Ella glanced up, curious. "Sebastian never mentioned it."

"Mr. Black prefers to leave the past where it lies." Voss's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But some clocks demand to be heard. Don't you think?"

She ran a finger over the engraving. "I think clocks tell the truth, whether we want them to or not. What's it worth to you to have it fixed?"

Voss leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Name your price. I'll even throw in a story—about the night it stopped. About the secret it keeps."

The back door opened again. Sebastian stepped in, his expression hardening when he saw Voss. "What are you doing here?"

Voss stood, straightening his coat. "Just admiring your… establishment, Mr. Black. And offering Miss White a challenge." He nodded at the clock. "Surely she's up to it."

Sebastian's jaw tightened. "That clock isn't hers to fix. Take it and leave."

Ella frowned. "Sebastian, it's just a—"

"It's not just anything," he snapped, then softened, catching her eye. "Please. Trust me."

Voss's lips curved into a smirk. "Pity. I thought she might be brave enough. But I'll be back. Clocks have a way of outwaiting us, don't they?"

He picked up the box, leaving without another word. The bell above the door jangled as he exited, a sharp, discordant note.

Ella turned to Sebastian. "What was that about? Who is he? And what's so special about that clock?"

He ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "He works for my uncle. The one who's been trying to take the castle from me since I was a kid." He sighed, pulling her close. "That clock… it's from the castle. From the west wing. It stopped the night my grandmother died. And whatever's inside it—whatever Voss wants—it's not something you need to get tangled up in."

Ella thought of the engraving: For when the past won't stay buried.

"Sebastian," she said gently, "I already am tangled up. With you. With all of it." She nodded at the door. "He's not wrong. Clocks don't stay silent forever. Maybe it's time to listen."

He held her gaze, then nodded slowly. "Tomorrow. We'll go to the castle. I'll show you."

The workshop fell quiet. Outside, a clock tower chimed two o'clock.

Ella picked up the cuckoo clock she'd been working on, winding it gently. It chirped, loud and clear, as if in agreement.

"Tomorrow," she said.

Tomorrow, the past would start ticking again.