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Someone knew the location of the buried clock, and cared enough about it to return every few months to wind it. Such an action required a reason. Sentimentality was one, but that took the most effort, something likely to wane over time. Who could possibly want the clock to continue running, and why? As Slim turned it over, his mind was blank. Ornate, yes, but it was just a clock. Sure, the cuckoo mechanism made an appreciable noise, but nothing that could be heard from underground. Slim had thought it broken until the little wooden bird had burst out of its box to surprise him.
Slim replaced the clock under his bed, slipped on his jacket and headed out into the night. It was time to step into the closest thing Penleven had to a bear pit in search of further information—the Crown. Drin
