The police were still investigating when he’d left, though. They wouldn’t stop until a suspect was found.
The Lead chewed his mustache. “The only way the numeral could have detached so cleanly is if a mechanic committed the theft. I suppose the numeral could have dropped from the tower and someone picked it up, but all the same, we should be careful. We don’t want clock parts popping up on the black market, if they haven’t already.” He sighed and drummed his fingers against the desktop. “First Maldon, then your accident, and now this.”
A beat of his heart. An intake of breath. Danny scooted forward. “Sir? Has there been any news about Maldon? About the new clock tower?”
The Lead rolled his shoulders back and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Daniel, not yet. It’s a bit tricky, you know. This is the first tower we’ve attempted to build in hundreds of years. And what with the protesters, it’s making it even harder. You must be patient.”
“But what about the mechanics working on the tower? What I mean is … Because of what I did today …”
He clasped his hands between his knees as the Lead gave him that familiar look of sympathy.
“I know you want to go, Daniel. It’s a big job, and there are several things I need to take into account. You did well in Enfield, and I’m happy to see you haven’t lost your spark, but this is something altogether different. We’ll see.”
He was stalling. The decision should have been simple. What wasn’t said was plastered all over the walls: Danny had to overcome his fear before the Lead would let him near such an important assignment.
Based on his behavior today, Danny’s hope dwindled even further. He grabbed his bag to leave when the Lead stopped him.
“I just wanted to remind you,” he said slowly, each word like a step toward a cliff, “not to give up hope. About Maldon, or your father.”
Danny couldn’t look him in the eye, so he turned to the door and swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Daniel?”
He turned back.
“I know you have your heart set on this. Just give it some time. I’m still considering you for the job, don’t worry.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Danny took his time on the stairs and hesitated at the doors. Holding his breath, he rushed outside, but at this late hour the protesters had thinned. Even so, he hurried down the street to where he’d parked his auto.
The rain had stopped long enough for the clouds to part. Sunset made the sky blush and set low-hanging clouds on fire. Danny took a moment to breathe in the autumn air and spotted a dirigible airship passing overhead, leaving a contrail of steam in its wake. He watched the ship until it passed above the massive clock tower across the square.
At one end of Parliament stood the tower some called St. Stephen’s, others called Big Ben. The feud about the tower’s real name was well known, especially among the mechanics who worked there on a regular basis. Ben, of course, was the name of the enormous bell within, but Danny preferred it over the stuffy-sounding St. Stephen’s.
Much of his training had taken place within that very tower, where the smell of oil and the whir of automation had become as natural as drawing breath. He had once noticed a man standing at the back of the class, taller than the others, with a dark blond beard. The man had caught Danny staring and winked.
While the others debated, fourteen-year-old Danny had quietly stepped aside and asked him which name he preferred. The mechanic had thought about it, listened to the clockwork for a while, and smiled down at him.
“Big Ben. It has more presence.”
Seventeen-year-old Danny now slid into the driver’s seat, willing the auto to start. It did, although an ominous ribbon of dark smoke coiled through the engine’s white steam. He pulled out and drove by the Gothic cathedral of Westminster Abbey, past each scowling gargoyle. A couple of mechanical gargoyles prowled the upper lip of the roof, guardians made of gears and springs rather than stone.
He passed the clock tower to cross Westminster Bridge, congested with autos that released a heavy fog of steam. Whenever he was close enough, he could sense Big Ben’s natural energy, the fibers of time ingrained in every living thing around it. It felt bright, powerful. It felt like life. One moment of time could be enjoyed before it drifted into another, and another, until it became the future, present, and finally the past. It was the sole reason London thrived.
If anything irreversible were to happen to the tower—or to any clock tower, for that matter—time in that city and its surroundings would simply stop, its inhabitants trapped until the clock was fixed. It was no wonder the protesters hated them.
Sometimes, Danny hated the clock towers, too.