Flights and Chimes and Mysterious Times Read Online Free PDF
Author: Emma Trevayne
the funny people were leaving and a steamboat, belching lungfuls of gray, had just blown its horn, ready to chug away to lands unknown.
He looked back. Evidently she had seen a friend, and it was odd to think of Mrs. Pond having friends beyond the bright kitchen from which she bossed the maid about. They were talking, laughing, a toddling child clinging to the other lady’s skirts.
The compass weighted his pocket. Jack took it out, touching the fine wood with his thumb, releasing the catch so thelid sprang open. This way and that, he turned, the needle wobbling, always coming to rest with its point to the north.
But something else caught his eye.
Mr. Lorcan Havelock, spiritualist—or magician, as Jack preferred to think—was hurrying along one of the paths through the park. Jack recognized the suit, the hat, the dark glasses most of all.
Mrs. Pond chatted away. Jack hesitated for the space of a breath.
He wanted to know. Know what Mr. Havelock wanted to show him, to teach him. The noise from the river hammered in his ears. Calling out was useless; Mr. Havelock might hear him, but Mrs. Pond would, too.
If Jack could just stop him a little farther away.
He followed.
Twenty paces behind, Jack dodged around the flower beds and prams, the picnickers, and fountains spraying fine clouds of rain.
Mr. Havelock quickened his steps. The Houses of Parliament loomed ahead, pointed roofs like treetops of a stone forest.
“Gracious!”
“Sorry, miss!” Jack said, but he didn’t stop.
Ahead, Mr. Havelock passed through the garden gates, into the clamor of carriages and motorcars snarled at thebrink of the bridge. Sentinel at the corner of the grand government buildings stood the enormous clock tower everyone called Big Ben.
Which was completely, uselessly wrong, irritatingly so. Big Ben was the enormous bell inside, not the clock. The clock was just a clock.
On the other side of a hansom cab pulled by four tall horses, Mr. Havelock’s hat—and presumably the rest of him—began to run.
Jack’s feet slid in the mud. Someone shouted at him. At some point between spotting Mr. Havelock and the garden gates, Jack had stopped following just because he wanted to speak to the man.
No. A far more interesting question, just at the moment, was where he was going in such a hurry. A meeting?
It could be with anyone. Another magician, perhaps.
But Mr. Havelock stopped, so sharply a nearby horse startled, outside the wrought-iron fence of the Palace of Westminster, where lords in frock coats made their important decisions about running the country.
The clock began to chime. So close, the peal was shockingly loud.
A small gate sliced into the fence, its squeak, if it made one, lost in the cacophony of the bell. Jack felt the gongs in his teeth.
Two.
Three.
The base of the tower was smooth stone, cold as an enemy’s smile. Mr. Havelock pressed one velvet-gloved hand to it.
The stone cracked. Cracked neatly, lines growing to meet one another.
A door.
Magician , Jack thought, as Mr. Havelock pushed it open, slipped through. It started to swing shut behind him.
Seven. Eight. And Jack knew in his bones that the door would close, the lines would fade, and it would be gone by the twelfth ring of the bell, because it was magic.
He reached it just as the hinges—if indeed there were any—flattened, the cracks closing.
Perhaps it would not even work for him. Jack wasn’t a magician, never would be, because his mother was horrible and never let him do anything.
Ten.
Jack touched the stone. The cracks stuttered, spluttered, regrew. He was special, he thought as it opened for him.
Inside was the pitch-black of trapped nighttime, and loud, so loud. Jack clapped his hands to his ears. Overhead, the grand, great bell with its silly name rang twelve o’clock, echoing for an age through the tower and over the rooftops, and then all was still.
CHAPTER FOUR
Londinium, or the Empire of Clouds
I T REALLY WAS very dark in the
He looked back. Evidently she had seen a friend, and it was odd to think of Mrs. Pond having friends beyond the bright kitchen from which she bossed the maid about. They were talking, laughing, a toddling child clinging to the other lady’s skirts.
The compass weighted his pocket. Jack took it out, touching the fine wood with his thumb, releasing the catch so thelid sprang open. This way and that, he turned, the needle wobbling, always coming to rest with its point to the north.
But something else caught his eye.
Mr. Lorcan Havelock, spiritualist—or magician, as Jack preferred to think—was hurrying along one of the paths through the park. Jack recognized the suit, the hat, the dark glasses most of all.
Mrs. Pond chatted away. Jack hesitated for the space of a breath.
He wanted to know. Know what Mr. Havelock wanted to show him, to teach him. The noise from the river hammered in his ears. Calling out was useless; Mr. Havelock might hear him, but Mrs. Pond would, too.
If Jack could just stop him a little farther away.
He followed.
Twenty paces behind, Jack dodged around the flower beds and prams, the picnickers, and fountains spraying fine clouds of rain.
Mr. Havelock quickened his steps. The Houses of Parliament loomed ahead, pointed roofs like treetops of a stone forest.
“Gracious!”
“Sorry, miss!” Jack said, but he didn’t stop.
Ahead, Mr. Havelock passed through the garden gates, into the clamor of carriages and motorcars snarled at thebrink of the bridge. Sentinel at the corner of the grand government buildings stood the enormous clock tower everyone called Big Ben.
Which was completely, uselessly wrong, irritatingly so. Big Ben was the enormous bell inside, not the clock. The clock was just a clock.
On the other side of a hansom cab pulled by four tall horses, Mr. Havelock’s hat—and presumably the rest of him—began to run.
Jack’s feet slid in the mud. Someone shouted at him. At some point between spotting Mr. Havelock and the garden gates, Jack had stopped following just because he wanted to speak to the man.
No. A far more interesting question, just at the moment, was where he was going in such a hurry. A meeting?
It could be with anyone. Another magician, perhaps.
But Mr. Havelock stopped, so sharply a nearby horse startled, outside the wrought-iron fence of the Palace of Westminster, where lords in frock coats made their important decisions about running the country.
The clock began to chime. So close, the peal was shockingly loud.
A small gate sliced into the fence, its squeak, if it made one, lost in the cacophony of the bell. Jack felt the gongs in his teeth.
Two.
Three.
The base of the tower was smooth stone, cold as an enemy’s smile. Mr. Havelock pressed one velvet-gloved hand to it.
The stone cracked. Cracked neatly, lines growing to meet one another.
A door.
Magician , Jack thought, as Mr. Havelock pushed it open, slipped through. It started to swing shut behind him.
Seven. Eight. And Jack knew in his bones that the door would close, the lines would fade, and it would be gone by the twelfth ring of the bell, because it was magic.
He reached it just as the hinges—if indeed there were any—flattened, the cracks closing.
Perhaps it would not even work for him. Jack wasn’t a magician, never would be, because his mother was horrible and never let him do anything.
Ten.
Jack touched the stone. The cracks stuttered, spluttered, regrew. He was special, he thought as it opened for him.
Inside was the pitch-black of trapped nighttime, and loud, so loud. Jack clapped his hands to his ears. Overhead, the grand, great bell with its silly name rang twelve o’clock, echoing for an age through the tower and over the rooftops, and then all was still.
CHAPTER FOUR
Londinium, or the Empire of Clouds
I T REALLY WAS very dark in the