The Keeper of Lost Threads

On the edge of a town that ticked and sighed like a giant clock, Tamsin lived above a row of small, oily workshops. The harbor below smelled of salt and lemon peel from the bakery and of metal warmed by sun. At dawn shutters clattered and bell ropes sighed; the town's clocks answered each other, a slow chorus of clicks. Tamsin woke to that song. She was nine, a child who moved like someone who knew how to follow a rhythm. Her waistcoat had more pockets than need, and each pocket cradled a rescued thing: a blue button caught from the ankle of a sailor, a crooked marble, a faded ribbon that still smelled faintly of lavender. Her hair stuck up in two directions as if it were always startled by new ideas. Pip, a tiny clockwork mouse with brass whiskers and round glass eyes, rested in a leather loop at her belt. Pip's tick was small and steady; when Tamsin walked, his steps stitched soft clicks into her footsteps. The shops on Tinker's Row were waking. Hammers began to sing as they nudged nails, a leather apron creaked where old Mrs. Marren rolled up her sleeves to mend a torn globe, and Mr. Bramble's workshop let out a puff of warm air scented with dust and oil. Mr. Bramble was a watchmaker who kept a garden of oddities: boxes of lost watch hands, drawers of tiny screws, and a wall covered with clocks that never showed the same hour twice. Tamsin liked visiting him because he always smelled of cinnamon and stories. She climbed the crooked stairs and paused on a step that had been smoothed by many small feet. A bell over the shop door jingled in a tinkling sort of hello and Mr. Bramble looked up from a brass face he was polishing. He had a beard that curled in the wrong directions and spectacles layered like tiny windows on his nose. 'Ah,' he said in a voice that creaked like an old hinge, 'my Tamsin. Come to feed the clocks or to borrow a bolt?' Tamsin set Pip on the workbench and presented a small, dented tin soldier that had been found wedged under a market stall. 'I found this near the sugar stall,' she said. 'He could use a new saddle.' Mr. Bramble turned the soldier as if listening to its silence. Outside, beyond the smell of oil and the chatter of the market, the harbor water lay as if it were a mirror with a small fog at its edge. At night, when the moon drew a thin silver path across the water, something else woke above the quay: a narrow arch that people called the Moonbridge. The bridge appeared from nowhere and shimmered only when children believed in it. Tamsin had seen its glimmer once and kept the memory folded carefully in her pocket like a secret map.