The first whisper of dawn in Twilight's Ember was a symphony of tick-tocks. From the ancient grandfather clock in the town square to the smallest, most secret pocket watch tucked away in a velvet pouch, Alice knew them all. She knew their rhythms, their quirks, their hidden little hums.
Her satchel, worn supple from countless rounds, clinked softly as she stepped onto the dew-kissed cobblestones. Inside, her winding keys nestled beside rolls of twine for parcels, a stack of crisp envelopes, and a small, well-oiled magnifying glass. The air, crisp and tasting of salt and distant peat fires, wrapped around her like a familiar shawl.
Her first stop, as always, was Mrs. Gable's cottage, its rose-trellised porch a riot of colour.
"Morning, Alice, dear!" Mrs. Gable's voice, a kettle-whistle of warmth, greeted her from behind a lace curtain. "Another fine day for it, eh?"
Alice smiled, stepping inside to wind the mantelpiece clock, its delicate chime a happy ding-dong-ding. "Just splendid, Mrs. Gable. And a letter for you from your sister in Oakhaven."
Mrs. Gable snatched it with a theatrical flourish, already unfolding it as Alice stepped back out, smiling at the thought of the morning's gossip brewing.
From there, it was a dance across the town. The bustling baker's shop, smelling of yeast and cinnamon, where the big wall clock needed a robust winding, its hands rarely stopping for fear of missing a fresh batch of bread. The gentle whirr of the tailor's antique standing clock, a precise, steady beat mirroring the rhythmic snip of his shears. Old Man Fitzwilliam's cuckoo clock, which, with a polite thwack, Alice had to nudge back into time after it had decided 7 AM was actually 3 PM.
She moved with an easy grace, her steps light, her ears perpetually tuned. Most ticks were regular, comfortable, like a sleeping cat's purr. But Alice was always listening for the other sounds. The almost imperceptible drag in the old lighthouse keeper's clock, like a tired breath. The faint, metallic sigh from the dusty clock in the antique shop, as if it remembered a different time.
Today, however, a new sound surfaced. As she approached The Mariner's Arms, a stout, welcoming pub with a perpetually smoking chimney, she heard it. Not the usual boisterous laughter or the clink of tankards, but a faint, ethereal melody drifting from within. It was coming from the grand grandfather clock in the corner, a hulking oak behemoth carved with sailing ships and sea monsters.
Alice pushed open the heavy oak door, the scent of stale ale and polished wood enveloping her. "Morning, Bartholomew!" she chirped to the proprietor, a barrel-chested man with a booming laugh. She went straight to the clock. Its pendulum swung with its usual dependable tick-tock, but underneath, humming like a distant lullaby, was the tune. It was a mournful, beautiful air, barely audible, like sea spray whispering a forgotten song.
She pressed her ear to its heavy wooden case, then to the face, then the gears. No loose springs, no grinding cogs. She wound it carefully, the sound of the winding key briefly overpowering the melody, but it returned the moment her hand left the winder.
"Anything amiss with Old Bartholomew?" Bartholomew called, polishing a pint glass.
Alice straightened, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "It… it seems to be humming a tune, Bartholomew. A faint, sad one."
Bartholomew chuckled, a deep rumble. "Bless your imaginative notions, Alice. That old thing's been ticking for two hundred years and never sung a note. Probably just the sea breeze in the chimney." He winked. "Don't go getting fanciful on me now."
Alice smiled, a little ruefully, and then pulled out a small, flat parcel. "This came for you from the sail-maker across the bay." She delivered it, but the melody from The Mariner's Arms stayed with her, a gentle echo beneath the steady tick-tock of the town.
As she continued her rounds, delivering a new fishing net to the docks, a love letter to the baker's daughter, and a small, delicate gear to her eccentric master's workshop (he was likely already tinkering away, humming off-key), she listened more closely than ever. The town's clockwork heart was strong, true, predictable. But what if the "irregular ticks" she was meant to report weren't just mechanical failures? What if they were whispers?
Her last stop was always the weather-beaten clock tower that presided over Twilight's Ember, its face overlooking the misty cliffs and the restless sea. As she climbed the winding stone steps, the melody she'd heard at The Mariner's Arms seemed to grow, not louder, but clearer, as if the air itself was beginning to hum.
When she reached the top, the vast mechanism of the tower clock awaited her, its mighty gears a beautiful, intricate dance of brass and steel. As she applied the final, strong turns of her largest key, a profound resonance filled the small belfry. It wasn't just the gears turning, not just the ka-chunk of the weights settling. It was the melody again, full and clear, swelling with the sound of the hourly chimes that reverberated through the very stones beneath her feet. It was undeniably the same tune, but amplified, as if the town itself was now singing it. And it seemed to drift, not from the clock, but from the direction of the lonely old church on the hill, which rarely saw visitors.
Alice stood there, wind whipping her hair, the mighty clock ticking its familiar rhythm, but her ears filled with the ethereal song. She knew what her master would say: "Just the resonance, Alice. Old gears hum." But she knew it wasn't.
With a final, lingering look at the distant, silent church, she descended, her heart humming a tune that had nothing to do with springs or pendulums. She was the clock courier, keeper of time, but she was also listening. Listening for the heart of Twilight's Ember, which didn't just beat with gears and springs; it hummed with something far older, far deeper, a whisper just beyond the tick-tock of her world. And she, Alice, was determined to hear every note.
To be continued…