Page 47 of A Scot in the Storm
The movement lay spread across the scrubbed wood in careful ordered rows atop folded linen. Brass gears. Springs. Tiny screws lined neatly beside her elbow. The backplate rested near the candle, green with verdigris and darkened by old oil. A shallow bowl of vinegar sat near her hand alongside a sewing needle she’d apparently commandeered from Mrs. Gable’s workbasket.
She hadn’t noticed him yet. The blue ribbon tied around her hair caught the candlelight as she bent over the pieces, her brow furrowed in concentration. Outside the windows, the gale battered the castle walls. Inside, the kitchen glowed gold with peatfire and candlelight while Abigail sat in the middle of it all repairing time itself.
Rory remained where he was in the doorway and watched her lift the escape wheel delicately between finger and thumb.
She held it toward the flame, turning it slowly, studying the teeth one by one.
Her hands were steady as she worked. He had known master shipwrights, naval engineers, watchmakers in Edinburgh and Aberdeen, and an old Dutch clockmaker in Leith who could rebuild a chronometer while carrying on a conversation about herring prices. Abigail handled the movement with the same quiet confidence all of them possessed.
It unsettled him more than he cared to admit. She muttered softly beneath her breath as she lifted the mainspring barrel free, pressed her thumb against it and made a dissatisfied little sound.
Then she said quite clearly, to the clock itself, “Work with me here. No reality TV drama. Just fit, would you?”
Rory blinked.
Abigail nudged the winding again. This time the spring gave slightly beneath her touch.
“There we go,” she murmured. “Okay. We’re getting somewhere.”
“What are ye about?”
She jumped hard enough that one of the screws rolled across the table.
For one brief heartbeat her face was entirely open. Alive with concentration and triumph and sharp delight. Then her expression vanished behind caution so quickly it was like watching a candle snuffed between fingers.
“The escapement’s fouled,” she said at once. “There’s verdigris on the pallets, so they’re not catching the escape wheel properly. And somebody overwound the mainspring.”
Rory crossed the room and dragged out the stool opposite her.
“Show me.”
She hesitated only a moment before nodding, and picking up the escape wheel again as she angled it toward the candle.
“See this?” Her finger hovered near one edge. “Uneven wear pattern. One side’s catching harder than the other. That’s drag.” She turned it carefully. “And here. The arbor’s slightly corroded. Not enough to ruin it entirely, but enough to slow the train.”
Rory leaned closer. She still smelled faintly of lavender, though Mrs. Gable’s soap and the smoke from the peatfire had softened it.
“The pallets are worse,” Abigail continued. “There’s buildup along both faces.” She reached for the vinegar. “This should clean most of it away.”
“And the mainspring?”
She tapped the barrel lightly.
“It’s wound too tightly for the movement to compensate. The whole mechanism’s fighting itself every tick.”
The words came quickly when she talked about machinery. The caution faded, uncertainty disappeared. Here, at least, she knew exactly who she was.
Rory found himself watching her mouth as much as the gears.
“Where did ye learn this?”
She shrugged one shoulder while cleaning the pallet fork with the careful point of the needle.
“It was something I did when I needed a break from my studies.”
“I didna meet many women in America repairing clocks.”
“Did you meet every woman in America?”
