After the delayed release of Cursed Cogs, I had a feeling Gear Hearts would require a bit more time to reach the finish line, too. But not too much time. The new release date is April 27th. Here is a little peek at what's in store for book 2 of the World Clock Journals. Enjoy!
“My yesterdays walk with
me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.”
— Sir William Golding
Prologue
September 13th,
1944 – 7:27 a.m.
There was nothing wrong with the Huxleys’ Beacon
Hill townhouse. The red brick and black shutters were perfectly charming, the hedges
tidy, and the walkways swept clean. There was always plenty of coal for the
furnace and wood for the fireplaces.
Framed portraits graced floral-papered walls, and Persian
rugs stretched beneath matching furniture sets in every room on every floor. Classic
literature and traditional bric-a-brac decorated the shelves and tabletops—the
same books and bobbles that had been there when they’d moved in over three
decades ago.
Elizabeth supposed that was what bothered her the
most. The commonness of it all. The lack of anything even remotely new or exciting.
She scraped a thin pat of butter over her toast and
stared across the breakfast table, scowling at her husband as he shook open the
newspaper. His reading glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, magnifying the
circles under his eyes, and age spots peeked through the whisps of gray hair
above the lined landscape of his forehead.
Elizabeth decided he must have visited the barber
recently. He shared so little of his comings and goings these days. She
couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a real conversation—beyond the
minimal expected pleasantries that carried them down the tightrope of their fading
years.
But what else was there to say? She hardly knew him
anymore.
Things hadn’t been like this back when they’d lived
at the workshop in North End. Ezra had always had some fascinating new gadget
or idea percolating, and Elizabeth had had the privilege of being his test
subject and assistant, his colleague and friend. That all ended once he’d gone
back to work for her brother.
Abraham demanded secrecy and separation of business
and home life. It might not have been a problem if he hadn’t also claimed so
much of Ezra’s time at the lab—then sent him home with enough paperwork to keep
him holed up in his office after dinner until Elizabeth grew weary and retired
for the evening.
Fifty years of marriage, and all they had to show
for it was half a lifetime of silent meals and a big empty townhouse. There
were no grandchildren playing in their garden. They didn’t share any frivolous
hobbies like pinochle or birdwatching.
Elizabeth suspected that was at least half to blame
for why she’d found herself behind Ezra’s desk in the middle of the night,
picking the locks on the drawers and cabinets with a letter opener as if she
were a double agent, unsure where her loyalties lie. She couldn’t decide if she’d
wanted to find something damning to justify the resentment that had slowly
rotted away her heart, or something virtuous that might liberate her husband
from her scorn.
Or maybe she was just bored. Tired of the miserable
routine her life had become. Tired of being asked after her poor health at
every god-awful dinner her brother forced them to attend.
She knew the wives of the other scientists and
engineers weren’t referring to the limp she’d walked with since the accident. Their
insincerity was aimed at her broken spirit, prodding an old wound that would
never heal, under the pretense of kindness and friendly concern. But there was
nothing friendly about what had happened to her daughter. There was no kindness
in reminding her of it, either.
More than anything, Elizabeth had needed a
distraction. Abraham’s security clearance be damned.
Her snooping paid off sooner than she’d expected.
Ezra’s desk harbored numerous files stamped Classified in bold red ink,
though the documents offered more questions than answers. She’d known of her
brother’s dealings with Japan after the First World War. That liaison had been
severed leading up to the second—or so Abraham had claimed. Yet the
correspondence she’d found were only a few weeks old.
The attached notes suggested that a transaction of
some sort had taken place the previous year, between Orwell Electric
Laboratories and a lab in Noborito. The sale was for a blueprint of an item
called a Raijin balloon and the electrical components the weapon would
require.
Weapon. Elizabeth read the word again and again, trying to
find some other meaning for it. There had to be some mistake, a detail lost in
translation or an error in her limited understanding of her husband’s notes.
Another letter revealed a proposal for a second transaction—or
rather a counterproposal—with heated language regarding price. A deadline was
offered, and a subtle threat of exposure if the deal was not closed soon.
It was the damning evidence Elizabeth had half
expected to find. What she hadn’t expected was the swell of fear for Ezra’s
safety. The throb of pity as she imagined how miserable these secrets must have
been for him to keep. How harrowing to be a part of such treasonous business. And
now she was a part of it, too.
There was finally something worth talking about, and
she couldn’t. Not without incriminating herself or shattering the counterfeit
peace that just barely held them together as it was.
“Your brother is sending me to California next week.”
Ezra’s gaze flicked away from the newspaper. He offered Elizabeth a weak smile
and reached for his coffee. “I’ll be back Saturday, in time for the Institute
of Electrical Engineers dinner.”
When she said nothing, he glanced up again, taking
note of the piece of toast and butter knife still clutched in her hands. “The
new ration book hasn’t come in yet, but I think there’s a bit of jam left.
Would you like some?” he asked.
“No.” Elizabeth laid the knife across the rim of
her plate. Jam wouldn’t quell the sourness churning her insides.
“Some eggs, perhaps?” he tried again.
“Why are you going to California?” she demanded.
Ezra frowned and folded the paper over his knee.
“The same reason I go anywhere. To do your brother’s bidding.”
“That’s a poor excuse.” She tossed the piece of toast
onto her plate and brushed the crumbs from her fingers.
Ezra sighed. “What would you have me do,
Elizabeth?”
“Retire. You should have long before now. We don’t
need this big house. We could move out of the city. Buy a cottage in the
countryside.”
“You want to be all alone with me in the middle of
nowhere?” He scoffed. “You can hardly stand to look at me now.”
He was right, she realized. Her eyes had frozen on
one of the metal slides of his suspenders, a few inches below his left
shoulder. It took more effort than it should have, but she managed to meet his
gaze.
“I think I’d like to know you again while we still
have the chance,” she said, her voice shrinking under his wrathful scrutiny.
But she didn’t look away.
Silence crept between them again, and then Ezra’s
dark eyes glistened, filling with tenderness and regret. The lines in his face
were deeper today, but he wore melancholy like a boy. Like the beautiful,
clever boy she’d fallen in love with. He was still in there.
He finally swallowed and cleared his throat. “I
think I’d like that, too. Let me speak with Orwell once I return from
California—”
A deafening siren bled through the walls, cutting
him off. Its wail sent a stab of panic through Elizabeth’s chest. Then the chandelier
over the table flickered and died.
Ezra stood and found his way to the dining room
window, his silhouette cutting across the backdrop of the gray morning shining
through the curtain. He parted the fabric and craned his neck to squint up at
the sky as the first drops of rain pelted the glass.
“The hurricane?” Elizabeth said, pushing her chair
back.
Ezra shook his head. “The weatherman said it was
near Florida—that it shouldn’t reach us for days.”
“Another air raid test, then?”
“Maybe.”
“How long do you think the power will be out?” she
asked, noting the quiver in Ezra’s chin.
“Hard to tell, but there’s an old generator at the
workshop,” he said. “I’ll go fetch it just in case.”
“Wait.” Elizabeth removed the napkin from her lap
and laid it over the table. “I’ll come with you.”
“You’ll be safer here,” he insisted as she hobbled
across the room.
“Oh, please. I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Ezra pressed his lips together and frowned as if
debating whether he wanted to engage in an argument after the moment they’d just
shared. “All right,” he finally relented. “But you’ll have to stay in the car.”
He didn’t say the reason out loud, but Elizabeth
knew it well enough. She hadn’t been back to the workshop since the accident.
As far as she knew, Ezra hadn’t visited the place often either.
Of course, he had kept the building and all the
creations he’d abandoned before returning to Orwell. For some years after, he’d
spoken of returning to his own work. Right up until Isla had abandoned
finishing school to volunteer at a hospital in France. The same hospital
Winifred had been assigned to during the First World War.
Elizabeth understood loss better than most. And now
Ezra was all she had left. She wasn’t about to let him out of her sight with
sirens lighting up the darkest corners of her mind and her conscious hissing what
if, what if, what if.
“There we are,” Ezra said, helping her into a light jacket before pulling on his own. He donned a gray fedora and dug an umbrella out of the closet as Elizabeth positioned a pillbox hat over her curls. Then he held out his arm to her as if they were leaving on a date rather than a nerve-wracking errand for supplies they hopefully wouldn’t need. If not for the sirens, she might have smiled.
Elizabeth looped her hand over the crook of his elbow and tried to steady her uneven gait as they left the safety of their home.
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