Wordspell Industries & The Watchmaker (working titles)
an excerpt

WORDSPELL INDUSTRIES
Danny Sasaki was normal in every way except one: he didn’t like to read. Now, that isn’t so very strange – many boys of fourteen don’t like to read. However, Danny was a fourteen-year-old boy who didn’t like to read, and who worked in a bookshop.

That isn’t to say that Danny didn’t like books. He owned lots of picture books, and Mr. Wittenberg offered to let him borrow new one from the bookshop, so long as Danny returned them quickly and didn’t bend the pages. Danny never actually took the books.

Danny thought that Mr. Wittenberg felt sorry for him, which was why he’d given Danny the job, and why he was always trying to get Danny to take the books. Mr. Wittenberg was probably right to feel sorry for Danny, because Danny didn’t have any parents. He used to have parents, even though he couldn’t remember them very well. His parents had died in a plane crash when Danny was four, and he’d gone to live with his father’s sister, Aunt Yuki.
Aunt Yuki was boring. She spent half her time brushing her snotty white cat, Keiko, and the other half trying to teach Danny Japanese and insisting that he call her Obasan, which Danny though was stupid since nobody he knew except for Aunt Yuki actually spoke Japanese. Mother hadn’t even been Japanese.

Aunt Yuki also refused to give Danny a monthly allowance. Nobody had given her pocket money as a child, and if Danny wanted money to buy things, he had to earn it himself. So Danny worked in Mr. Wittenberg’s second-hand-book shop on the weekends. He shelved books, put up sales tags, and vacuumed the carpet after Story Hour.

Every Saturday, at one o’clock, Mr. Wittenberg would set out a fresh plate of cookies, pick out an exciting book, and read to all the children in the neighborhood. Sometimes it was a short story, but mostly Mr. Wittenberg read long books like Tom Sawyer and Treasure Island so that kids had to come back every Saturday to hear the rest of the story, and sometimes he’d even dress up like one of the characters. Even though he pretended not to, Danny listened to the stories just as intently as the children. Books were fun, so long as someone else was reading them. It was only when Danny read them that strange things happened.

Which was why Danny was terrified when Mr. Wittenberg came into the bookshop with a scratchy voice one Saturday and told Danny that he had to read today’s chapter of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

“I can’t.” Danny clasped his hands behind his back and stared suspiciously at the book Mr. Wittenberg held in his hands.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Wittenberg rasped. “You’re in eighth grade. Boys don’t make it to eighth grade if they can’t read."

“I mean, I can’t read aloud.”

“Nonsense again. If you can read, you can read aloud. You just read with your mouth and not with your head.”

“It’s not a good idea, sir,” Danny said. “Strange things happen when I read aloud.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Now, put on this coat – there, you look just like Peter – and sit down in the Story Corner. The kids will be along any minute, now, asking what’s going to happen to Edmund. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to boil some water for tea.” Mr. Wittenberg tucked the book inside one the large fur-lined pockets of Danny’s coat and disappeared through the back door that led to the kitchen.

Danny looked at the clock, then at the door to the bookshop, then at the Story Corner. It was twelve fifty-four, which meant he had six minutes to run out the door and as far away from the bookshop as he could get. He was just shrugging out of the coat when the front door opened and two little girls and their mother walked in.

“Where’s Mr. Wittenberg?” asked the mother.

“He’s got a cold or something,” Danny said. “He’s in the kitchen, making tea.”
“That’s too bad.” The mother removed the little girls’ coats and hung them on the multi-colored coat rack. “I see you’re wearing the coat. Are you doing Story Hour today?”

“Yes,” said Danny before he thought better of it, and just like that, he was stuck. He’d as good as promised that he was going to read the story today, and one thing Aunt Yuki had taught him was to never break a promise. He dropped into the storyteller’s chair with his mouth hanging open.

“Are you alright, dear?” asked the mother. “You look like you don’t feel so well.”

Before Danny had time to reply, the front door opened again, and three mothers – with approximately half-a-dozen children between them – entered. They chattered excitedly about what they thought was going to happen next, and the oldest of the children (a boy) pointed at Danny and said, “But he won’t read it the same” which was followed by a pout. His mother gave him a cookie, told him to sit on one of the empty beanbags, and apologized to Danny. Danny tried to tell her it was all right, he probably wasn’t going to read as well as Mr. Wittenberg, but what he said came out sounding like, “Nyrg.”

Finally, all the children were settled on various pillows and cushions, and the brightly-colored cuckoo clock above Danny’s head had cuckooed at everybody and disappeared again, but Danny still sat silently in the Story Teller’s chair, the book open in his lap.

The mothers all looked at Danny with a mixture of annoyance and pity – they could tell that he had terrible stage fright, but they were also afraid that they had wasted their time by coming to Story Hour, because Danny obviously wasn’t going to say anything. It wasn’t until Mr. Wittenberg shuffled back in from the kitchen that Danny forced himself to look down at the book.

The chapter was called “Turkish Delight” and Danny knew it was the one in which Edmund succumbs to the White Witch’s spells. It was a very important chapter, and Danny was afraid that it would be ruined if he read it, but Mr. Wittenberg was looking at him with such a frown that Danny was afraid he’d be fired if he didn’t read.

So Danny began, slowly at first (it was strange to hear only his own voice), but after reading a few paragraphs, he relaxed and remembered how much he enjoyed the story. He read about how the Witch invited Edmund to sit with her in her sleigh, and how she gave him hot chocolate and Turkish delight while she asked about Edmund’s family.

Judging by their giggles and exclamations, Danny thought that the children were having a good time too, so he was quite surprised when Mr. Wittenberg rasped out, “Stop!” and waded through all the children to snatch the book away from Danny. Danny looked up at him in surprise, and was about to ask why Mr. Wittenberg had stopped him from reading when he saw the room.
All of the bookshelves surrounding the Story Corner were covered in a white powder that looked very much like snow, and there was a big silver tea set full of hot chocolate and a fancy box of Turkish delight sitting in the very center of the floor. The children were giggling and rifling through the box, but the mothers looked very alarmed – one was tugging at the hand of her little girl, trying to get her to leave the Corner.

“What have you done?” said Mr. Wittenberg under his breath.

“I – I don’t know,” Danny said. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“You shouldn’t have done it at all,” he said, then turned to the mothers. “Story Hour is over for today.”

“But it’s only been fifteen minutes,” said a little girl.

“Sarah, don’t be rude,” the girl’s mother said. She grabbed Sarah’s hand and the hand of another girl and pulled them to their feet. “I’m not sure that we’ll be back next week, Mr. Wittenberg,” she said brusquely. “It isn’t normal for hot chocolate to appear out of thin air, and I’m not sure I want my girls around it.”

“It won’t happen again, I assure you,” said Mr. Wittenberg.

The mother didn’t reply, but just guided her girls out the door. It wasn’t long before the rest of the mothers had done the same thing with their children, and Danny was left alone with Mr. Wittenberg.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wittenberg,” Danny said. He stood and shrugged out of the oversized fur jacket. “I’ll just go.” He draped the jacket across the Story Teller’s chair and began to walk across the bookstore.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Mr. Wittenberg said a bit impatiently.
“I’m fired, aren’t I?” said Danny.

“Fired?” Mr. Wittenberg repeated. “Whatever for?”

“But I just – ” he pointed at the snow on the bookshelves, “and they – ” he pointed at the door where the children had disappeared, “and so you have to fire me,” he finished.

“Daniel Sasaki, I own this bookshop, and I will decide whether or not you’re fired.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I would have to be three kinds of crazy to fire a wordsmith.”

~*~

THE WATCHMAKER
I ran as if the daemons were chasing me, as well they probably would if I stayed outside for too much longer. Everybody, from the smallest child to the oldest grandparent, knows not to be about in the city after the curfew bell rings. To do so is to invite death—or worse.

I tripped over my long skirt and fell. In putting out my hands to catch myself, I dropped my watch and cursed my clumsiness as it skittered across the cobblestones. If I wasn’t more careful, the back compartment was going to pop open and expose the watch face that counted down the days of my life, the way Mama’s popped open just before she died of the consumption. Scooping up the time piece, I wasted precious seconds in checking to be sure it wasn’t harmed. A few new dents in the cover, but that was to be expected. I looped the chain it hung from around my neck and got to my feet, lifting my skirts well above my calves so I could run faster—modesty be damned.

I thought I saw glowing eyes at the end of an alleyway and forced myself to run faster. It might only be a stray cat and in that case I felt sorry for the creature—likely it wouldn’t last the night—but it wasn’t worth the risk of waiting around to see.

There! Ahead I could see the lights of the Renquists’ townhouse and I made for the back kitchen door as quickly as I could. “Cook, let me in!” I begged, banging on the door with my fists. “It’s only me, and I’m only a couple of minutes late. Please!”

I heard footsteps on the other side of the door and it opened just a crack, spilling light down over the back steps. I tried to push through but the door was held fast by a bolt and chain. “Cook, please!”

“It ain’t Cook, missy,” said a familiar voice, and a dark brown eye peered through the crack.

“Sally, hurry! The daemons aren’t on the streets yet, but if you wait too much longer they will be.”

“And how does I know you ain’t one of ‘em?” Sally demanded. “They mighta had time to take you for themselves and make you one of ‘em, then send you back here after the rest of us. And that ain’t a chance I’m willin’ to take. Not even for you.”

With that, the door slammed shut, cutting of all the light—and my only chance of safety. My legs gave out and I sank to the steps, hooking my arms around my legs. Now what was I going to do? There was no way I’d last the night out on the streets; the daemons would find me for sure, and even if I did survive, I’d likely be out of a job. Mrs. Renquist was very strict, and staying out after curfew wasn’t allowed, under any circumstances.

More footsteps from the other side of the door, then I heard Cook’s strong voice. “Get back to work, Sally. The mister and missus is upstairs waiting for you to serve their supper, and you’s down here lollygagging. Whatchu think you’re doing?”

“Begging pardon, Cook, but there’s something out side. It claims to be Missy Bella, but it’s after curfew, and I ain’t lettin’ nothin’ in this kitchen after curfew, familiar face or no.”

“Lands, child, if Missy Bella’s out there, let her in. Those sweet little angels are all along up there in the nursery, probably wondering where their governess is.”

At this, I stood and began to pound on the door again. “Cook, hurry!” A soft, cold wind began to blow, tugging my black curls free of their pins and pulling at my shawl. “The daemons are coming, Cook, I can feel them!” I looked over my shoulder, and even though I couldn’t yet see the glowing eyes that were the telltale mark of a daemon, I knew they were out there. I started to hear their whispery voices in the wind and, panicking, banged on the door again.

“That you, Missy Bella?” Cook opened the door as far as the chain would allow, and I could see half of her plump face, usually so friendly, drawn in concern.

“It’s me, Cook, I swear it’s me.”

“Well, it probably is you, since you ain’t repelled by the iron horseshoe over the door, but if you can hang on for just another minute we can be sure. It’s for our own safety, you understand.”

“Of course.” I did understand, but that didn’t stop me from being terrified to stay out on the stairs for even another minute. I put my eye to the partially-open door and watched as Cook bustled across the kitchen and pulled a small cast-iron skillet from its hook on the wall. Then, hitching up her skirts, she came back across the room and passed it through the door.

“Take hold of this, Missy. If your hand don’t start to burn, then we’ll know it’s you.”

I grabbed the handle of the pan, then shoved it through the door. “See? No burning. Now can I please come in?” I looked over my shoulder again. Still no daemons—I was lucky.

“Shore you can. Now move your hand so’s I can shut the door and undo this chain.”

I pulled my hand—and the little skillet—back through. I wasn’t about to give up the only bit of protection I was carrying. The wind tugged harder at my shawl, and I shivered. Despite my terror, I felt a pull—a curiousity about what was out there, and in the face of everything that I knew, I took a step down the stairs.

There was a clatter from the other side of the door as Cook unchained and threw it wide open. Light flooded the stairs and I winced; my eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and I threw up my free hand to shield them.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Missy Bella. Git in here!” Cook grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside, took one last glance out the door, then locked it firmly behind me.