Clockwork Kiss

The Curator’s Crisis

I closed the pocket watch and held it close to my chest. The silver was cool to the touch and there was a deep ache that rooted itself in me that had nothing to do with the battle that had taken place or the Temporal Key.

My phone was still on the workbench with my clipboard and analysis forms. I checked the time, it was 6:37, my whole night was gone. The museum would be opening in less than one and a half hours. I barely had time to go home and change before I had to be back.

I took a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to ground myself. Taking the clipboard back to my office, I traded it for my purse and keys, then left the museum.

The rising sun was blinding as I made it back to my apartment. A couple of neighbors were out walking their dog, giving me strange looks through the steam of their coffee. I ignored them.

As much as I needed a hot shower, I had no time. I stripped the gown off, letting it fall in a puddle on the floor. My polyester dress pants and green blouse suddenly felt so thin and itchy in comparison to the velvet I’d worn in Aethelgard. As I pulled my pea coat on, I realized too that I hadn’t needed a jacket when I left the museum. Even with so much of my shoulders and chest exposed, it was as if the elven fabric was designed to radiate warmth. A frown pulled at my lips.

I left my apartment just as quickly as I’d come, locking up behind me and returned to the museum. The watch was heavy in my pocket.

Back at work, I managed to pour myself a cup of coffee in the employee break room. I returned to my office and sat at my desk, blowing a cool thin line over the surface of my drink.

The first staff member arrived, followed by the director who immediately launched into a complaint regarding the security report from the night before.

“Anya, I need you to double check the inventory log for the recent deliveries. Apparently there was supposed to be some kind of wooden doll, but the guys in the warehouse are saying nothing’s there.”

My blood froze. The nutcracker.

“I will check,” I reassured him.

He left my office and I pulled out my analysis papers from the night before. I hadn’t put anything into the computer yet, and I wasn’t sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing.

I pulled up the inventory program and typed in the number associated with the nutcracker. My fingers felt like lead as they dragged across the keys.

The item description came up: ‘Wooden figure, approximately 18 inches, elven design, mechanical jaw and lever action. Attached: pocket watch, silver, mid-19th century, non-functioning.

The location field that should have read ‘pending delivery,’ now read ‘Permanent Display - Main European Gallery.’ I scrolled through the accompanying files. There was a small, crudely drawn diagram, an intricate clockwork mechanism that that looked identical to the internal illustrations I’d seen in the Royal Archives. At the bottom, a note had been added, “Origin Point.”

I hadn’t just escaped. I’d done exactly what the Guardian commanded. I had returned to the origin point. Somehow though, the fragile wooden shell had been integrated into an exhibit, and I now housed the key. The only things shattered were the pocket watch and my sense of reality.