She asked Leonardo about the watchmaking tools on a Saturday evening in May.
They'd been in the flat for two months and she'd left them where they were — on the high shelf in the bedroom, the leather roll beside the Eduardo photograph — because they were his and they were clearly significant and she didn't want to ask about them the way you asked about things you were cataloguing. She wanted to ask about them when it was the right moment.
May, on the kitchen sofa, with Daniel at Helena's for the night and the city outside warm for the first time that year, with the windows open and the smell of something blooming in the street below — May was the right moment.
"My father taught me," he said.
She hadn't expected that. "I didn't know Eduardo worked on watches."
"Not watches. Clocks, mos
