The shop was cold when I got in. I hadn't turned the sign yet.
I slid the ring off my finger. Six months, and the skin under it was pale.
Isla: There. Done.
I dropped it in the top drawer, with the spare springs and dead receipts.
The key turned. It sounded like a lock on a door I wasn't going back through.
Isla: Stay there.
The bell over the door went. Cleve Dorsey came in with rain on his jacket and a bundle in his hands.
Cleve: You're open early.
Isla: I'm always open early.
He set it down and unwrapped the cloth like it was a sleeping animal.
A pocket watch. Gold case, worn smooth. Old, and heavy with it.
Cleve: Hargreaves. 1891. It stopped three weeks ago.
I put the loupe in and opened the back.
The movement was beautiful. Someone had loved this watch once.
Then I saw the balance. Bent. Dead.
Isla: The balance is broken. Someone dropped it, or wound it too hard.
Cleve: Can you fix it?
Isla: I can cut the part myself. It won't be quick.
Cleve: How long?
Isla: Three days. Maybe four.
Cleve: I took it to two other shops first.
Cleve: One said the part doesn't exist anymore. The other told me to buy a new watch.
Cleve: I told them both I'd rather have this one back.
Isla: Why me?
Cleve: Because a man at the club said your name like it meant something.
Cleve: The watchmaker on Gilt Row. He said if anyone can cut that part, it's her.
I didn't say anything for a second. Being named like that hit somewhere deep.
Not as somebody's wife. As the person who could do the work.
Isla: I'll do it right.
Cleve: I know you will. That's why I'm leaving it with you and not with them.
He said it plain, no flattery. Warm, like he'd already decided I was worth the trip.
My shoulders came down for the first time in weeks.
Cleve: You look better than the last time I saw you.
Isla: I got my shop back. That helps.
Cleve: Pryce House has a preview next week. Half the collectors in the city will be there.
My hand closed around the watch. Just for a second.
His name sat in the room without him. It always did.
Isla: I don't do previews.
Cleve: You should. People should see who fixed this.
I didn't answer. The pale strip on my finger felt cold.
Cleve: Three days, then. I'll bring the tea.
Isla: Bring the good kind.
The bell went. The shop was mine again.
I laid out my files and my tweezers. The ones I'd carried out of that house in one case.
My hands were steady this time. Not from anger. From work.
The balance was small enough to sit on my thumbnail. Twisted like a bad memory.
I could fix it. That was the thing nobody had been able to take.
Somewhere under the pride, I wanted him to see me do it. I hated that.
Isla: Three days.