Bound by Fate
A clock does not decide the hour. It only keeps it, honestly, tick by tick, whether you are ready or not. My father taught me that on the tower stair in Lorne Crossing, winding the movement that has counted this fog-drowned town through a hundred years, and it is the truest thing I know. Fate is the same. It does not bend and it does not hurry. It only keeps coming. And all you ever get to choose is whether you meet the hour true, or run.
When my father died he left me a debt I never agreed to. A sealed bond, generations old, that comes due at the noon strike of the fortieth day, at flood tide, and takes everything with it: the chandlery, the harbor headland, the ground the clock tower stands on. And it left me bound, by an archaic clause no one thought would ever be called, to the family that holds the note. To Rhys Kirkbridge, the hard, quiet man who came down the causeway out of the fog to collect what my family owes his.
I was raised to fear the Kirkbridge name. Rhys is exactly what I was warned of, controlled and dangerous and impossible to read. But he never once uses the debt to reach for me, and when I finally take the old bond apart the way I take apart a movement, listening for the beat that limps, I start to hear the flaw in the whole story. The debt is not what I was told. Someone forged the reinstatement. Someone buried the forgiveness my father was actually owed. And that someone is still here, moving to let the clock run out so he can take the town, and he needs me and Rhys to keep hating each other right up until the hour strikes.
Forty days. That is what the tower is counting down, fog thickening, tide climbing, the whole town's fate winding toward one noon strike. And the only way any of us come through it is if the clockmaker and the man she was bound to stop running from the seam between them and meet the hour together, true.
Lire plus
Lire moins
When my father died he left me a debt I never agreed to. A sealed bond, generations old, that comes due at the noon strike of the fortieth day, at flood tide, and takes everything with it: the chandlery, the harbor headland, the ground the clock tower stands on. And it left me bound, by an archaic clause no one thought would ever be called, to the family that holds the note. To Rhys Kirkbridge, the hard, quiet man who came down the causeway out of the fog to collect what my family owes his.
I was raised to fear the Kirkbridge name. Rhys is exactly what I was warned of, controlled and dangerous and impossible to read. But he never once uses the debt to reach for me, and when I finally take the old bond apart the way I take apart a movement, listening for the beat that limps, I start to hear the flaw in the whole story. The debt is not what I was told. Someone forged the reinstatement. Someone buried the forgiveness my father was actually owed. And that someone is still here, moving to let the clock run out so he can take the town, and he needs me and Rhys to keep hating each other right up until the hour strikes.
Forty days. That is what the tower is counting down, fog thickening, tide climbing, the whole town's fate winding toward one noon strike. And the only way any of us come through it is if the clockmaker and the man she was bound to stop running from the seam between them and meet the hour together, true.
Comment lire cet ebook au format epub ?
Sur les applis MySmartBook
(sans discussion)
(sans discussion)
Sur mon ordinateur
(sans discussion)
(sans discussion)
Avis des lecteurs
Connexion
Soyez le premier à donner votre avis !
