Clockwork Kiss

The Guardian’s Legacy

I stared at the computer screen, tracing the outline of the crude drawing. I couldn’t help wondering where it had come from. Who had drawn it? ‘Origin Point’ read harsh and bold against the white background of the file. The neat, professional font of the inventory software seemed stark in comparison to the smudged lines of the drawing. The nutcracker wasn’t missing. It was now one of the most viewed items in the building.

I closed the program, my heart hammering against the Temporal Key now housed in my chest. The key was safe, but the nutcracker was a beacon trapped in a glass case. I had to find a way to get without causing suspicion.

I spent the next hour working purely on instinct. I avoided all contact with colleagues, immersing myself in my normal tasks. My mind kept going back to the nutcracker though. I had to see it. I had to know that it was actually there.

During my lunch break, I pulled the hood of my coat up over my head and walked down to the European Gallery. It felt so far away. I walked through the museum’s hushed, cavernous halls, careful not to make eye contact with anyone I passed.

When I reached the gallery, the air suddenly felt cooler and drier. Charged. As if I could reach out and touch electricity. There was a strange scent in the air too, like rosemary and parchment. I glanced around, gauging if anyone else noticed it too.

I seemed to be the only one.

I approached the case, trying to keep my breathing even. I felt a heavy weight on my chest as my heart pounded. There it was. The nutcracker stood proudly on a velvet pedestal. The elven king with his carved aristocratic features, and those familiar lavender eyes. He looked exactly as he had when I pulled him out of his crate last night. The only thing missing was the pocket watch that rested heavy in my coat pocket.

I leaned close to the glass, ignoring the baffled glance of the nearby security guard. As I met the nutcracker’s steady, lavender gaze, I heard that hum again. There was that strangely familiar, dizzying shift, stronger this time.

It wasn’t a vision. It was a pure, searing surge of memory.

There was the me that wasn’t me…the Guardian with her determined lavender eyes set in my face. She wore rough leathers as she meticulously carved a wooden figure in a cramped workshop. She was whispering, her voice strained, mixing elvish and a harsh, guttural form of chopped English.

Then her voice echoed in my head, talking directly to me, “Guard it, child. You must hide the heart of our world in a shell of theirs. If the veil thins again, you must be ready.”

The scene changed. We were no longer in Aethelgard, but in this world. She was dressed in early twentieth century fashion, standing in front of a bathroom mirror. A straight razor rested on the edge of a sink. Her eyes were filled with an unspeakable sorrow. She picked up the razor, and slowly, deliberately, sliced off the tips of her elongated ears. The Guardian winced, the pain evident on her face as she sucked in a hissed breath. Blood trickled down her neck. Small, strange, crescent shaped marks appeared on the edge of her earlobes. This was a sacrifice to blend in, to hide her Aethelgardian heritage.

The memory dissolved and I stumbled back gasping. I hit the museum’s marble column behind me, and raised a shaky hand to my own ear lobe. Right along the top edge, was a thin, raised line of tissue, shaped like a crescent. It wasn’t a piercing scar, but an actual mark.

I stumbled back to my office and tore off my jacket. I pulled out a small mirror that I kept in my desk, angling it to see the top of my earlobe. Sure enough, the mark was unmistakable. I looked at my other ear. The same mark.

Morwyn’s words came back to me: It will only work for the Guardian’s bloodline. It will open for you.

My hands shook too badly to type. So I reached for my phone, and called the one person that might have the answers I so desperately needed: my mom.

“I need you to send me every photograph you have of Grandma Rose,” I demanded, ignoring her cheerful greeting. “Every single one. And tell me about the scars on her ears.”

There was a brief silence as she tried to process my sudden requests. “Rose?” she finally asked, still sounding surprised by my intensity. “You mean your great-grandmother, honey? The one who owned the antique clock shop?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, anxious for her to cut the chatter and actually tell me something.

“That little crescent mark on her ear? We always assumed it was a childhood accident. Running with scissors or something. She never talked about it. All she’d ever say was that it was ‘The price of being too curious.’”

Too curious. A mortal anomaly.

The Guardian wasn’t just a figure of ancient elven lore. She was a woman who had owned a clock shop in Chicago. A woman who sacrificed her elven identity to protect a world she loved and hid the key inside a wooden doll.

I realized the horror of my destiny. Valerius - or someone like him - could potentially track the bloodline of the Guardian. The veil could thin again, and someone could cross over into my realm. The key was safe within me for now. I had at least a year to prepare.