Page 92 of Bitter Burn
Stay safe. Love Isolde.
I don’t believe in fate, but if ever fate meant for two people to love each other, it was the two of you.
- mark
PS: Cara Sims is in the apartment downstairs. I’ve left the code at the bottom of this letter. I think she’d be glad to see you.
I take Petitcrieu for a quick walk, return her to the penthouse where she promptly whines to be helped back up between the two warm and sleeping bodies in bed, and then I leave before I can talk myself into delaying any longer.
No one smart keeps a clockmaker waiting for long.
The Manhattan clockmaker is located in the East Village, tucked between a laundromat and a vape shop. There’s graffiti and some litter outside, but signs of post-hipster gentrification are everywhere. I wonder if they’ll need to move soon—there’s only so long that a barely trafficked clock shop will escape notice in a hot property market.
Jago drops me off and then idles double-parked outside as I go in. It’s early, only just after eight, and the feeble sunlight hasn’t yet filtered down to the street. The shop is all shadows and ticking hands when I step inside.
The clockmaker, a young man with sienna-brown skin and twists tied up in a bun, comes to the counter after I ring the bell.
“May I help you?” he asks in a British accent.
“I have a mantel clock that’s waiting for me. Mark Trevena.”
“I’ll see if I can find the slip for it.”
My phone buzzes as he goes into the back, and I glance down. Lox. I silence the call, planning to call her back once I’m finished here.
“Here’s the slip, sir,” the clockmaker says and extends a piece of paper to me. “I know we quoted you the full repair, but unfortunately, we couldn’t find the parts. We’ll of course extend a discount for this.”
I open the folded paper.
Brittany Hill
- no birth certificate
- no taxpayer identification number
- no known address
- no employment history or travel records
And then below that, I see the name and address for a dentist’s office in Nemi, Italy, along with a date from ten years ago.
I look up from the paper to find the clockmaker watching me. I know the shop is empty, but the clockmaker rules are so inviolate that I find myself nearly speechless when the clockmaker adds, “I am sorry we weren’t able to find more,” in plain English rather than timepiece metaphors.
“It’s quite all right,” I say. “I’ve been struggling with this one myself.”
“We’ve been working on it for six months and still can’t find anything more than what you’ve got in your hand.” There’s a distinct note of professional irritation in his voice. “A dental appointment ten years ago. It’s a disgrace, actually.”
“Nothing like that at all. It’s more than I’ve found so far.” I hand the paper back to him; I have the address memorized already.
“Still, you have my apologies for this. We pride ourselves on being able to offer more.”
At the prices they charge, I appreciate the regret, but I am polite enough not to say so.
“Is there anything else I can help you with before you go?” he asks, and he does sound like he wants me to say yes, to smooth over the lack of Brittany Hill in the world.
“There is, as it happens,” I say. I pull a postcard from my suit pocket and set it on the counter. A Victorian illustration of foxgloves with an address written on the back but nothing else. “Do you think you could get this to its destination in the next day or two?”
The clockmaker bends over the card, studying the address, and then nods.
