[Closed] Tick, tick...
Posted: Mon Dec 27, 2021 3:37 pm
50th of Yaris | Rouncewell & Fogg
Nicholas breathed out.
Breathed in.
He turned over the gently ticking timepiece cradled in his spidering hands, running sensitive fingertips along brass and iron, feeling the vibrations, listening for any catches, any anomalies.
It was perfect.
He stilled its motion, set it with the rest of its brethren, and looked at the twelve little mechanical timers ranked on the pitted surface of his workbench. So much potential, so much destruction, all contained within squat, welded cylinders. Each one had a lip at the base, like the brim of a hat, and three holes drilled around its circumference. On the base, the dial for the timer was inset, so that when it was bolted in place, no part of the mechanism could be seen. Each was the size of a pocket watch, with barely the strength of a firecracker contained within- not even that, if the horologist’s calculations were correct. He had undertaken a couple of control explosions, to ensure the theory was sound, but the risk of discovery was too great to attempt more.
He breathed out.
Breathed in.
Gentle fingers settled each little cylinder in its own cradled nest of lambswool, in the base of a sturdy leather satchel, and buckled the bag securely. Nicholas climbed the worn stairs up from his shop to the apartment above, stepping at the edge of each tread to avoid the squeaking of the old stairs. He stopped at the bedroom door, brow pressed against the wood, one hand flat against it, and listened for a moment, only a moment, to the laboured breathing within.
He did not speak.
…Francis…
He did not need to.
…Father…
That one in particular, he would never speak aloud.
…I don’t think I am doing the right thing. But I have to do something…
…and Sir Tick locked the shop, and went to meet Artful.
Breathed in.
He turned over the gently ticking timepiece cradled in his spidering hands, running sensitive fingertips along brass and iron, feeling the vibrations, listening for any catches, any anomalies.
It was perfect.
He stilled its motion, set it with the rest of its brethren, and looked at the twelve little mechanical timers ranked on the pitted surface of his workbench. So much potential, so much destruction, all contained within squat, welded cylinders. Each one had a lip at the base, like the brim of a hat, and three holes drilled around its circumference. On the base, the dial for the timer was inset, so that when it was bolted in place, no part of the mechanism could be seen. Each was the size of a pocket watch, with barely the strength of a firecracker contained within- not even that, if the horologist’s calculations were correct. He had undertaken a couple of control explosions, to ensure the theory was sound, but the risk of discovery was too great to attempt more.
He breathed out.
Breathed in.
Gentle fingers settled each little cylinder in its own cradled nest of lambswool, in the base of a sturdy leather satchel, and buckled the bag securely. Nicholas climbed the worn stairs up from his shop to the apartment above, stepping at the edge of each tread to avoid the squeaking of the old stairs. He stopped at the bedroom door, brow pressed against the wood, one hand flat against it, and listened for a moment, only a moment, to the laboured breathing within.
He did not speak.
…Francis…
He did not need to.
…Father…
That one in particular, he would never speak aloud.
…I don’t think I am doing the right thing. But I have to do something…
…and Sir Tick locked the shop, and went to meet Artful.