Goblins and Snowflakes

Chapter 4: Hagstones

The clock chimed seven as I fixed the final button on the final gnome. Archie and I completed our little collection in unison. I set my gnome alongside the others. Then, pulling out my windup key, I rewound the clockwork gnome and stood him in front of the others. Though I knew the design was really intended to replicate the playing of a piano, on the gnome, it looked like he was conducting the others.

“A natural born leader,” Archie said with a grin.

I tapped my finger on my chin as I thought.

“What is it?” Archibald asked.

“Verisimilitude. They have the semblance of life but…”

“But no life. That, Miss Rossetti, is a problem I cannot solve.”

“Nor I. But they are adorable all the same,” I replied, grinning at the little gnomes.

“That they are. But now we have a problem.”

“Which is?”

“We are tied. We finished our wager in tandem.”

“Well, we shall have to think of a new wager.”

At the entrance to the library, a footman coughed politely. “Miss Rossetti, Master Boatswain, they’ve rung for dinner.”

“Heavens,” I said. “We’re late.”

“Then shall we?” Archibald said, offering me his arm.

I took it. Gladly.

When Archie and I arrived in the parlor, I was surprised to find the room full of people. Everyone was milling about, drinks in their hands, and looking as though they were in no rush for dinner. Artisans, tinkers, and philosophers were an easily sidetracked bunch, much to Mister Edwards’ consternation. The butler was waiting at the door for everyone to go through. I could easily imagine him considering how quickly hot food would chill and cold food would warm. The furrowing of his brow suggested my guess wasn’t far from the truth.

“Come, meet my grandfather,” Archie said, leading me to an elderly gentleman sitting by the fire.

“Archibald, my boy. I was wondering where you went,” the old man said, smiling at his grandson.

Master Boatswain, Senior was a sweet looking man, his face deeply lined, his hair a mass of white, wispy strands. He moved to rise, but his grandson motioned for him to stay seated.

“Grandfather, may I present Miss Scarlette Rossetti?”

“Ah, Miss Rossetti. Pleased to meet you. I was just looking for your father.”

“He should arrive by Christmas Eve, sir. He’s just returning from the continent.”

“Very good, very good. Well, Archibald, where were you off to?”

“Miss Rossetti is quite the tinker, Grandfather. She’s constructed the torso of a working automaton.”

The old man gazed at me. “Has she?”

I chuckled. “Master Boatswain makes too much of it, sir. I’m simply helping the local doll maker with a project.”

“Is that so?” Master Boatswain said.

“She underestimates herself, Grandfather,” Archie said then handed his notebook to him.

Master Boatswain pulled his spectacles from his pocket and slipped them on. He studied the notebook pages carefully.

I felt my cheeks grow redder and redder. I felt like a toddler at the knee of a giant. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s really nothing. Just a simple design.”

“Miss Rossetti, where did you get the idea for this model?” Master Boatswain asked.

“Oh,” I said, feeling more than a little intimidated. Surely, I hadn’t done anything all that clever. “From this,” I said. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a copy of the advertisement of the piano playing doll. I handed the paper to the master tinker.

Master Boatswain, Senior nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve seen this design. Eckhart?” he asked his grandson.

“Adamson, I think. The American. His work is rudimentary; it’s all up and down,” the younger Boatswain said, imitating a simple movement. “Miss Rossetti has sophisticated his work. Joints, fluid moves, elevated clockwork. On another level,” Archie said, pointing to sections of the design where I’d formed the shoulders and wrists on the gnome’s clockwork skeleton.

Grinning happily, the old man handed the advertisement back to me. “Well done, Miss Rossetti. You’ve improved upon clockwork design thirty years in the making.”

“Surely you jest, Master Boatswain.”

“Not at all.”

Mister Edwards, who had disappeared into the dining room for a few moments, reappeared at the door once more. He rang his bell—again—calling us for dinner.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Uncle Horace called. “I hate to disrupt such lively conversation, but I’m afraid my butler will go into a full rebellion if we delay much longer.”

Archibald offered his arm to his grandfather, helping him up. The old man balanced himself with his cane and moved slowly toward the dining room. We adjourned within, the footmen guiding us to our seats. To my great disappointment, Archie and his grandfather were seated at the opposite end of the table from myself. Archie gave me a soft smile.

“See you later, partner,” he said.

I grinned at him then went to my seat beside Uncle Horace.

“And where have you been?” Uncle Horace asked as I settled in beside him.

“The library. Master Boatswain III and I were working on a project.”

“Is that right?” Uncle Horace asked, his eyes glancing over my face. I saw a mischievous twinkle in his gaze.

My cheeks flushed red. “I wanted to show him a bit of clockwork I’d been playing with.”

“Hmm,” Uncle Horace mused. “Well, that’s very good. Very good indeed. Fine family, the Boatswains. Can’t see your father having any objection to that.”

“Really, Uncle Horace, we were just talking,” I said, but my stomach was unsettled by nervous butterflies.

Uncle Horace laughed. “That’s how it always begins, my dear. With lots and lots of talking.”

I glanced toward Archie. He and his grandfather were looking at Archibald’s notes on my creation.

Had I really invented something…unique?

The dinner passed quickly. Conversations on art, music, philosophy, clockwork, airships, and tinkering swirled around me, a delight for the mind. Uncle Horace was deep in a conversation on Gothic architecture with the man seated on his other side when the dessert trifle was served. I ate quickly then looked for a reason to excuse myself. At ordinary homes, ladies and gentlemen would separate after dinner, but this was not such a house. Even after dinner was over, everyone lingered, the ladies and gentlemen mixing together to talk as they pleased.

Uncle Horace soon left me to join another pair further down the table.

Sensing my escape, I slipped out a side door and headed back to the library where my gnomes waited. I needed to return to the doll shop first thing in the morning to work on the porcelain piano-playing doll. It was far too busy at Strawberry Hill for me to be gallivanting about Twickenham. Not to mention, my father would arrive soon.

I repacked the box of clockwork parts, the basket of extra sewing bits and bobs, and was about to set the gnomes back in the basket when I heard voices coming down the hallway.

I turned to find Archie and his grandfather.

“I told you we would find her here,” Archie said.

His grandfather smiled. “I’ve come to see your automaton, Miss Rossetti.”

I motioned to the gnome. “Here he is.”

The elder Boatswain chuckled. “Gnomes indeed. I almost didn’t believe you, Archie.”

Taking the windup key, I wound the little gnome who began moving at once.

Master Boatswain, Senior nodded as he watched it move. “As you said. Very fluid. Still need movement in the legs, but she has the balance right. Remarkable.”

“Master Boatswain, are you jesting?” I asked the renowned tinker. “It’s just a doll. And sadly, quite lifeless.”

“Oh, well, that’s an easy problem to remedy. Your gnomes have no hearts, you see.”

“Hearts?”

Master Boatswain dipped into his pocket and produced…a stone.

His grandson watched him carefully.

Master Boatswain handed me the stone. It was triangular in shape and had a hole in the middle.

“A hagstone,” I said.

Master Boatswain nodded. “Do you know of them?”

I’d heard of hagstones before. Hagstones, or holed stones, were thought to have supernatural powers. If one looked through a hagstone, one could see the preternatural. Of course, such stories were just fairy tales, but the expression on Master Boatswain’s face was quite earnest.

“I do. Uncle Horace has a book on them. But Master Boatswain, I’m afraid I don’t make the connection.”

Master Boatswain tapped the stone. “Let in a little love, a little life force, a little magic. You’ll find it there,” he said, pointing to the hole. “This is where magic lives. You need to add a little magic to your design, Miss Rossetti. Alas, I’ve only one stone, but this will do for now,” he said, patting my little clockwork gnome on the head. “Now, Archie, I’m for bed,” he said. “Walk me upstairs. I don’t mind the steps, but Horace’s castle is a maze. It will take me a month to find my room.”

Archie chuckled. “Of course, Grandfather,” he said then turned to me. “Good night, Miss Rossetti. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“If you can catch her,” Master Boatswain said.

Archie chuckled.

“Good night, Archie. Goodnight, Master Boatswain. And thank you for the hagstone.”

Master Boatswain patted my gnome once more. “Just give it a try. You never know.” He winked at me then turned and left.

I slipped the hagstone into my pocket, packed up the gnomes, then headed to my room. Once I was safely inside, I changed into my dressing gown and slid into the window seat that sat looking out at the garden. I took out the hagstone. Lifting it, I glanced through the stone out the window. The lawn surrounding Strawberry Hill was covered in powdery white snow. It glistened in the moonlight, shimmering like diamonds.

Magic.

Hardly a surprising proposal from one of Uncle Horace’s friends. But it seemed too fantastical an idea to come from Master Boatswain whom I’d always guessed to be a man of science.

Looking through the hagstone, I glanced down the lane. There, at the entrance to Strawberry Hill, I spotted robed figures just outside the gate. They stared at the castle, their eyes glimmering in the moonlight.

Hooligans? No. I recognized the robes. It was the traveling merchants.

I swallowed hard and lowered the hagstone.

Looking out the window with my naked eye, I espied the gate once more.

There was no one there. No one.

Had it just been shadows? A trick of the trees and the snow.

Willing my hand to be steady, I lifted the hagstone again.

I clenched my jaw when I saw the figures there once more…through the eye of the hagstone. And only through the eye of the hagstone.

Like a whisper on the wind, they called: Come buy. Come buy.

Jumping up, I flung the curtains closed then crossed the room to blow out my candle. I slipped into bed and pulled up the coverlet. Master Boatswain’s words had my imagination running away with itself. There was no such thing as magic. And it was nearly Christmas. Nothing bad could lurk at this time of year. I was just imagining things. I clenched the stone hard in my hand and willed myself to sleep, dreaming—not of imaginary monsters—but of twinkling, mistletoe-green eyes.