The Castaway - Chapter 2

The next morning we awoke with the ticking of the clock, which had become an important meaning of life to me, for it meant the day starting. We had slept with the bedchamber door ajar, as we often did, and now I was hearing two different clocks; one from the mantle in the foyer and one from the bedchamber dresser. They both told different times, which was rather amusing, but for now the one in the bedchamber was correct, because it was morning and the one in the bedchamber was always right in the morning. It all did get rather confusing, indeed, none of the clocks in the apartment told the same time at any given time that I had discovered in the years we had lived there.

Myles’ leg was across me as I lay there in the sharpness of the early morning light. He was deep asleep, despite the clocks’ ticking, but I had to awaken him in order to rise from bed.

“Myles,” I whispered, trying to lift his leg. “Myles, I need to get up.”

“Why?” he smiled, obviously still drunk, holding me closer.

“I have to work.” I laughed.

“Don’t.” he said.

“I have to, now move.” I said, pushing him off. “And I want to sell that pocketwatch you won.”

“Probably worth something.” he nodded, turning over as I stood up, wrapping a gown around my shoulders.

“Well it would be good to find out, particularly if whoever you won it from comes looking for it.”

“I don’t think he will.” Myles said.

“What makes you say that, they often do and I have to send them on their way?”

“Well he did not seem bothered.” he said into the pillow.

“Maybe it's not worth anything then.” I shrugged, “I’m passing Russell Square anyway, so I will try and see what I can get for it.”

Myles stirred a little at this, turning over, half looking like he was about to rise, but then he slumped back down, clearly thinking better of it. I watched him for a second and smiled as the sheets fell around him in the early morning light which bellowed in from the window beside the bed. The light refracted in through the glass and over him, fracturing a little as it hit a crystal glass which was on the side which then in turn cast the light into the mirror in the bed chamber. He lay there, oblivious to the kind of miracle in light which was happening around him and there was something decidedly pretty about him as he did it.

I left the apartment and started off down the staircase towards the street. Even at this early hour, I could hear the clattering of carriage wheels against the cobbles, which were still glistening from the rain the previous night. The pocketwatch was heavy and clunked against me as I stepped out onto the road, dodging an oncoming cart.

“Good Morning, Anastasia!” called a rather loud old lady who lived down the street.

“Morning, Mrs Goldson, did Frankie lose at cards last night by any chance?” I replied.

“Frankie isn’t home yet.” she said.

“Ah, well, give him my regards when he does show up.” Frankie was Myles’ favourite game outside of Mayfair; he always lost, without exception. He was an industrialist, but he didn’t have a mind for business; he could not even tell when Myles was cheating. I imagined that Frankie had been the owner of the pocketwatch. I continued on my way.

I turned the corner into the alley behind Lincoln’s Inn. A cacophony of voices filled the narrow space — people buying and selling, some of it legal, some less so. Mr. Gildenstern stood in his usual spot beneath the flickering streetlamp, dealing in gold as always. He wouldn’t be interested in this little trinket; it was far too plain for his taste.

That corner was usually claimed by Kitty the Mermaid come evening — an older courtesan whose flaming red hair and sparkling green eyes caught the light like embers. But she wasn’t here now; daylight chased shadows away.

The sun broke through the morning clouds, flooding the alley with a soft, golden glow that danced and fizzed at the edges, like bubbles rising from a glass of champagne. They say the streets here are paved with gold, and in a way, they’re right — but it’s the kind of gold that’s illegal, hidden, and fleeting. And the kind that slips through your fingers on pretty mornings when your only worry is selling whatever Myles lost or won the night before, before heading off to work.

As I passed the corner where Kitty should have been, I spotted a small group of plainly dressed figures with clasped hands. They came here sometimes — religious folk praying for our salvation. Little did they understand that the salvation I sought was from them.

One of them — a young man in a patchwork coat — caught my eye.

He wasn’t like the others. For one thing, he wasn’t praying. He was watching. Not with the glassy-eyed piety the rest of them wore like a mask, but with a sort of amused intensity, like he knew the punchline to a joke no one else had heard. His face was narrow, sharp in that way men’s faces can be when they’ve known hunger and enjoyed it. His hair curled in loose brown tangles beneath a battered stovepipe hat, which was decorated with a scattering of playing cards — not arranged in any order, just pinned or tucked here and there like a gambler’s lucky charms. The Joker was slipped conspicuously into the brim, flashing a crooked smile like a secret invitation.

He grinned as I passed — not a lecherous grin, not quite — more like a dare or a challenge.

“Don’t suppose you’re looking to sell something that doesn’t belong to you?” he asked, too loudly.

I froze for a heartbeat. My fingers tightened around the pocketwatch. The air shifted; a little colder, a little thinner.

“And if I were?” I replied, keeping my tone flat, unimpressed.

“Then I’d say you’ve come to the right corner.” He stepped forward, sweeping a bow so theatrical it might have belonged on a stage. “Name’s Benedict, but most people just call me the Fool.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“No, but it is accurate.” He straightened, looking me over with eyes far too clever for comfort. “You’re not one of the praying ones. You’ve got dirt under your nails and good shoes. You’re a woman who knows the weight of gold and the price of time. That pocketwatch—” he tapped his own pocket “—wasn’t bought in a shop, and it wasn’t won clean.”

“I never said it was won at all.”

“No, but your face did.” He winked. “Come on, then. Show me.”

There was something in his voice, a lilt that danced on the edge of a tune I didn’t know. Against my better judgement, I pulled the watch from my pocket and held it out, palm open.

He didn’t touch it — just leaned close, inspecting it like a jeweller might inspect a ruby, or a drunk might inspect a bottle to see how much was left. Then he whistled, low and slow.

“Where’d your husband get this?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“He’s a professional gambler, he played a man he often plays, the man lost it in a game,” I said smoothly. “You know how it is.”

“No one gave this away willingly, if they knew what it was. Unless they knew what it was.” The Fool’s eyes were still on the watch, but his smile had faded.

I stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said brightly, grin returning like it had never left. “But I see a great many things, and I’ve learned to listen when something ticks louder than it should. You should be careful, Anastasia.”

I blinked. “How do you know my name?”

“You told me.” He tapped the side of his hat. “Not with your mouth, but with your shoes, your coat, the way you speak. Everything is information. And the Fool—” he touched his hat again, the cards jostling softly “—is the only one mad enough to read it.”

“Are you going to buy it, or not?” I asked.

He tilted his head.

“No. But I will tell you something for free: keep hold of that. Someone wanted it found. And you—” he grinned, wide and terrible “—you’re the soul carrying the tune before the curtain rises.”

“What on earth do you mean?” I asked alarmed.

He grinned, reaching into a worn leather pouch at his side. “At least let me show you a trick.”

“I don’t have a coin.” I said, trying to move on past him.

"I don’t need a coin," he said, flashing a roguish smile. "All I ask is time.”

With a sudden flick of his wrist, he sent a single card spinning through the air. It landed lightly on my palm—the Queen of Hearts.

He gave me a quick, sly smile. "Keep it," he said, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the morning crowd, leaving me holding the card and wondering what kind of game that had been.

Then, without another word, he turned and melted into the alleyway, vanishing like he’d never been there.

I looked down at the watch which was still in my hand.

It was still ticking.

Louder now.

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