So this was why her father had been so preoccupied with lightning and magic before leaving for Prague. As Petra listened to her father, she felt worse and worse. One of the things she had always loved about him—the way he would mutter to himself as if no one were around, or dip a quill into a glass of milk and not notice because of some idea in his head—was starting to seem like not such a good thing at all. He often worked on projects so much that he didn’t see the world around him. But never before had this resulted in something dangerous.
“I wasn’t even sure I could do it when I took on the project,” Mikal Kronos continued. “I promised I would try, nothing more. I promised I would provide him with a clock able to stun all of Europe with its beauty, but as for producing something that could control the weather … well, that’s a tall order, to say the least. As far as most people are concerned, the new clock in Staro Square will just tell the time.”
“So it can’t control the weather, then?” Petra asked with relief.
“In fact, it can. Or, rather, it could.”
“But, Father …” She hated to say this, but forced herself: “Don’t you think that maybe the prince won’t use the clock to make sure the harvest is perfect every year? What if he does the exact opposite?”
“That thought did occur to me”—his fingers strayed across his face and touched his bandage—“afterward. But, Petra, the prince has nothing to gain from failed crops. The wealth of his country relies on brassica production”.
“And the prince relies too heavily on his own cleverness. The clock’s ability to control the weather lies in one final part, which still needs to be assembled and installed. This part is like a puzzle. But no ordinary person could solve it. Assembling the part requires more than intelligence—it demands intuition, and the power to see the metal pieces as I do. Does Prince Rodolfo wish to prove that he possesses all of these things? Does this eighteen-year-old want to outshine his older brothers and be chosen as the next emperor? Of course he does. Blind as I am now, I can’t believe how blind I was to these facts before. ‘I will finish the clock myself,’ the prince told me. ‘I respect your talent. I admire the way you see the world. You have an eye for beauty. But you are no longer necessary.’
“I have to believe that what he said isn’t true. Prince Rodolfo stole my sight, but he is not me. The clock could work to control the weather, Petra, but the prince will not understand how to make it work.”
5
What the Spider Said
PETRA BEGAN to have trouble sleeping at night. If she wasn’t thinking about what the prince could do with the clock, she was wondering why her father was so sure it couldn’t be used to control the weather. If she wasn’t eagerly anticipating Master Stakan’s next visit to the shop at the Sign of the Compass, she was worrying that her idea wouldn’t work. Every night she got snarled up in her warm sheets and was sure that the morning would never come.
“Life is much more interesting without sleep, anyway,” Astrophil promised.
She groaned. “You just don’t know what you’re missing, you cold-hearted insomniac. I do.”
But Petra had to admit that they did have fun in the evenings. She would sit on her windowsill with her long legs dangling in the night breeze and Astrophil would teach her the constellations, pointing out Cassiopeia in her chair, the belt of Orion the Hunter, and how to find the North Star. She taught him how to play cards. Since Astrophil could not hold his cards very well (there is a reason why the cards you are dealt are called a “hand”), Petra passed them to the spider with her eyes screwed shut and the cards faceup on the floor. But she always ended up seeing them anyway, even if she didn’t want to. So their games were not really games as such, but lessons where Petra taught the spider the finer points of betting and bluffing.
Dita, who usually complained about Petra’s love of sleeping in, began to look with concern at her young cousin’s sunken eyes. Then one day when Petra was helping Dita pit and boil cherries for jam, Petra passed Dita salt instead of sugar. The batch of jam was ruined. They jarred it to eat later anyway, since Dita did not like waste. Petra did not like the thought of salty cherry jam, but everybody has his or her own priorities.
This is why, when Dita found a small army of candle stubs hidden under Petra’s bed, she scolded the girl for her extravagance. She ordered Petra to make more candles, which is very boring work. Petra sat by the kitchen fire, where a small pot of melted beeswax simmered. She dipped a long string into the wax, lifted it up, let the wax dry, and then dipped it back in again. And over and over. The string got thicker and thicker with the creamy wax. The smell of melted beeswax was not that bad—it had a honey perfume—but Petra grew sick of it. Her arm got tired, her back got stiff, and she sweated from the combination of the late-summer heat and the fire.
When there was just an inch-deep smear of wax at the bottom of the pot, Dita set it aside for sealing jars. That night she made Petra drink a cup of warm milk with marigolds. The next night it was cool violet water. Petra thought Dita’s concoctions tasted nice, but they did not help her sleep any better. So she refused the night Dita handed her a boiled willow branch to chew.
One evening, Petra managed to doze off for a few minutes. She woke to find that Astrophil was gone. She walked across the hall to her father’s library with its uneven walls, crooked corners, and stuffed shelves, but she did not find the spider. So she slipped down to the ground floor, feeling her way along the dark staircase until she reached the constant hum and clank of the shop. The pets squealed delightedly, but she ignored them and cracked open her father’s door. His room was pitch-black.
“Astrophil?” she whispered, wishing she knew how to communicate with him silently, like her father could. She had tried this many times over the years. Astrophil always just laughed at the way her face twisted into an expression of fierce concentration. “Are you there, Astrophil? Father?”
“Yes?” said the spider.
“Yes?” said the man.
“Is the noise from the shop keeping you up, Father?”
“No,” he replied. She wished she could see his face. “I enjoy the sound.”
Then something occurred to her. She could have kicked herself for not thinking of it earlier. “Why don’t I buy one of Master Stakan’s Worry Vials?”