Neville Hatch's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

They stopped to rest at midday. Casey knelt behind Neville to wind him. The key turned, caught, and groaned. Casey went still. "Hold on." Fingers traced the brass. "This key is worn thin. Look at the notch." Neville could not look. But he heard the fear under the words. Casey, who feared nothing, who argued with clockwork makers for sport, sounded afraid. "How thin?" Neville asked. "Thin enough to snap. Next hard turn, maybe. Maybe the one after." Casey stepped around to face him. The copper hound rose from the grass, smoke curling from its joints as if it sensed the mood. "If the key breaks while it's in your spring housing, I can't wind you at all. You'd seize up. And I couldn't get the broken piece out on the road." Neville understood. A worn key was a slow death counting down with every turn. "Then we need another key." "We need a blank I can file to fit." Casey pulled a battered trunk from under the hound's pack straps and dropped it in the grass. Brass corners, cracked leather, a lid worn smooth. "Three makers trained me. I took something from each when they threw me out." Casey popped the latches and dug through loose gears and wire. The top held junk. Casey cursed, lifted the tray, and pressed a hidden panel along the base. It clicked. A false bottom swung up. Underneath lay a row of brass key blanks, wrapped in oiled cloth. "There. Knew I kept them." Casey held one against Neville's worn key, measuring. "Close. The teeth are wrong. Angled, like his gears. I have to cut them by hand." They set to work with a small file, bent close, tongue between teeth. The hound lay down beside them and watched. Neville felt his spring loosen as the minutes passed. His ticking slowed. "Casey. I am running down." "I know. I hear it." The file scraped faster. "If I rush this, the teeth won't catch, and I waste the blank." Casey held the new key to the light, checked it, filed one more tooth. "Done. Maybe. Don't move." Casey circled behind him. The old key came out with a scrape. For one breath Neville felt nothing in the housing at all, no key, no winding, his spring sliding toward stillness. Then the new key slid in. It stuck. Casey jiggled it. The teeth bit. The key turned. Neville's chest tightened. The ticking climbed, steadied, grew strong and even. He straightened. His legs held. Casey sat back in the grass, breathing hard, the worn old key in one open hand. "That's your only spare. I used the last good blank." They looked up at Neville. "So we don't lose it. And we don't break it. If this one goes, there's nothing left to cut." Neville looked at the single new key between his shoulders. One key now stood between him and the house with the green door.