Clockwork Angels: The Novel by Kevin J. & Peart Anderson Page A

thing. And Crown City was filled with wondrous things.
    As he munched the sweet pastry, he came upon a commotion on the street, where ten members of the Red Watch had gathered near a tall stone building. The guards set up barricades to prevent people from seeing the defaced wall, but their very presence served only to incite curiosity.
    Owen was shocked when he read the scrawled letters. WHO MADE THE WATCHMAKER? And, DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT REALLY IS? Again, he saw the painted letter “A” circumscribed with a rough circle.
    A wagon rolled up carrying a steel barrel connected to a coldfire-powered compressor. City workers tugged out a hose, activated the compressor, and sprayed a smothering blanket of gray paint on top of the offending words.
    “But what does it mean?” Owen asked a balding man, mainly because he was standing nearby, not because the man was likely to possess any intimate knowledge.
    “Damned Anarchist,” the man grumbled. “Wants to mess up everything.”
    “Scribbling graffiti is better than blowing up bridges, you can say that much,” commented another bystander. “At least this can be fixed with a fresh coat of paint.”
    Unsettled, Owen made his way back toward Chronos Square, hoping for better luck today. He inquired of several people how he might obtain a ticket, hoping that the restrictions applied primarily on Tuesdays, as the Red Watch captain had explained. People kept telling him that he should have been issued a ticket, and when he persisted in his questions, they responded with skeptical looks. He decided not to point out that he didn’t belong here.
    By now, Barrel Arbor must have been abuzz with news of his disappearance. He wondered what Lavinia thought about it; did she even remember that she had promised to meet him on the orchard hill at midnight? Would his neighbors fear something had happened to him? Owen missed his father, too, but remembered the older man’s admonishment that he would have to give up his “foolishness” when he became an adult—so Owen decided that he had best make the most of his foolishness while possible. Though he was not yet ready to go home, he had already experienced enough amazing things to keep his mind busy for a lifetime. Anything could happen.
    And then he saw the carnival.
    The traveling show had set up in an open city park; an arched sign blazed in swirling phosphorescent letters, César Magnusson’s Carnival Extravaganza . A Ferris wheel lifted passengers to a dizzy ing height, from which they could look out upon the city. The spokes of the Ferris wheel were adorned with a façade of painted metal sheets to make it look like a gigantic gear. On other rides, passengers shrieked as boxy cars whirled and spun on the ends of pneumatic arms, or steam engines chugged to lift padded seats high up a scaffolding and then let the riders rattle at high speed down an abrupt incline.
    As if in a trance, Owen was drawn toward the carnival like an iron filing pulled to a magnet. People were passing through the ticket gate, handing over coins, and Owen did not try to resist as he was swept along. He didn’t count his coins, didn’t care how long they might last; he couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than this (except maybe the Clockwork Angels).
    The plump, middle-aged woman selling carnival tickets had strawberry blond hair, a lavender dress, and a full beard that covered her cheeks and chin. Her facial locks were so long that she used lavender ribbons to tie ponytails along her jawline.
    Owen couldn’t help staring. He had never seen a bearded lady before, but she took no offense, merely chuckled. “I am the least of what you’ll see inside there, young man! Gypsy queens, acrobats, fire-eaters, sword play, games of chance. The Magnusson Carnival Extravaganza has it all.”
    “Do you . . . do you know where I’d get a ticket to see the Angels?” he asked. “You seem to have some knowledge of tickets.”
    “Not those tickets,” she