Its elegance was in its simplicity, for the wood had been worked by artisans born centuries before power tools were invented. Hand-carved and hand-planed, the walnut case was inlaid with burl veneer and floral decoration, an unusually fine detail for the period in which it was produced, and while most that entered the study paid the boxy clock no mind, Bennett was not like most. She could still remember the day Max purchased the Tompion longcase, the glee on his face, the excitement dancing in his eyes, and how his chest puffed when he was shown the plate on the back of the clock punch-stamped 329. The first of his kind to do so, the renowned English clockmaker Thomas Tompion numbered many of his creations, proving their authenticity as well as their age. And the one belonging to Max was one of the oldest remaining longcases in the world, and with good reason. It was purchased in the year it was created—1694.

There wasn't a sound in the office other than the click of the chains lowering the weights that controlled the clock. Max sat behind his desk, the rage that had colored his cheeks long since fading, and looking off into space, he seemed to Bennett absorbed, yet conflicted.

Bennett dared not speak. They had so many conversations over the years, but the events that led to their existence, to their ilk, had never been discussed. It wasn’t as if Bennett hadn’t attempted to learn the truth, to discover the circumstances that created them all, but her inquiries fell on deaf ears. Max would snap a venomous glare in her direction before storming from the room, and when next they spoke, it was like the conversation had never happened. The scene was repeated many times, Bennett’s curiosity as dogged as her morals, until one night, Max forbade her to ever ask again. Enraged, it was the only time Max had held a dagger to her throat, the only time his eyes burned like lasers as he rebuked her for her insolence and swore he’d kill her if she ever asked again, and Bennett heeded his warning. Not that she believed he’d ever kill her, but the fact he made the threat spoke volumes.

The squeak of Max’s chair brought Bennett out of her thoughts. Max was at the credenza again, refilling his glass and pouring a splash of scotch into another. He returned to his seat, his eyes meeting Bennett’s for a moment, and sliding a tumbler in her direction, he began to speak.