The Memory Keeper

Chapter 25

Natalie and Piper marched up a set of stairs, dress hems rustling, held up in their fists so as not to trip. A maid stood at the top, and bowed as the mind weaver and witch passed, following her gesture toward a door left ajar at the end of the hall.

After Natalie's tantrum at the train station, her assistant brought her to her apartment, shoving a blue vervain tea in her hands. "Drink this. It will help settle your nerves."

Natalie had taken a sip and crinkled her nose. When Piper settled cross-legged on the floor and asked what had happened, she received no answer. It was not because the mind weaver was embarrassed of who she had seen, but of who she was becoming. So she simply shook her head. "I was just anxious to be off the platform and back home."

Brow dipped in skepticism, Piper said no more.

Peter's parents had mailed Natalie a key to his home, seeing as they could not argue with the queen of Cape Colette, who implored they accept as well as respect Natalie's work, promising she would be out of their hair in three days, no less.

A promise Natalie had no choice but to oblige. Unless she wanted her license revoked.

Was that really a punishment? Did she truly even like this job? She had to like this job. Her parents were proud of her, had always urged her to accept her mind weaving gift, which was rarer than both witches and middles. But why? If not for them, or herself, then for Piper, she decided.

Piper stood back and waited for Natalie to edge open the door. The house was almost as quiet as a tomb, but the sound of ticking clocks spilled from the room Peter was supposed to be in.

The room was quite large, and perhaps on its better day, it was quite remarkable. Other than crumpled balls of paper, shredded upholstery, and a broken chair, clocks of all styles and materials dominated the walls in no particular pattern, simply placed where they fit. The ticking noises were constant, all off rhythm, and of different keys. Some were low-pitched like a clicking tongue, others lighter than snow hitting the glass.

Most were cuckoo clocks shaped like little houses, the weights depicting pine cones or skeleton keys. From the little doors that open on the hour emerged all kinds of little characters other than birds. Natalie squinted. Little people draped in white sheets fluttered out of a black house topped with spiky points, the pendulum a crystal swinging behind candle-shaped weights. Another was constructed of wood painted a forest green, designs of leaves and sprigs carved around the clock face. The character that popped out wore a wide-brim hat and carried a broom.

A wild grin took over Natalie's face as she looked around, never having seen so many beautiful things in one room. Pendulum clocks, grandfather clocks, others embedded in the middle of paintings, the canvases cut into perfect circles.

A large, wrap-around desk took up the center of the room, and spread out on it were gears and cogs, paint bottles and blue prints. On the far end of the room, most of the wall was taken up by a window, the curtains swept open. Standing with his back to them, made almost into a silhouette in the late morning sun, which turned the tips of his hair fiery gold, stood Mr. Sheinfeld.

Piper nodded when Natalie looked for reassurance.

"Peter?" She took a step forward, feeling like the slightest noise would send all the clocks crumbling to the hard wood floor. She thought she heard him answer, until she realized he was not speaking to her at all. He was speaking to someone who was not there. Someone Natalie had swept from his mind, and had come here to finish off.

"Remember that day in Winter Wells?" Without warning, he gripped at his hair, then buried his face in his hands. The next words were strangled. "What did you say to me... You told me something important... I can't remember."