Time's Mistress by Steven Savile Page A

tutting like a mechanic about to tell me he could fix my car, but it was going to cost a lot because the gear box was shot, the manifold was blown, the gaskets were knackered, and a whole bunch of other technical terms that made no sense whatsoever to me was wrong with it. “I see what the problem is,” he said. I was glad he could, because I couldn’t.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “It’s broken.” He grinned at me. “But don’t worry, I can fix it. I assume you want me to fix it?”
    “That’s why I’m here,” I said. “How much will it cost?”
    “For you? Nothing, Steve,” he said, taking the monocle out.
    “You know my name? How?”
    “I know all my customers’ names, Steve. It’s just good business.”
    “Yeah, right, sure, but how do you know my name?”
    “I make it my business to. We’re all cogs, my friend; we’re all gears in the guts of the world. We tick, we tock, our orbits occasionally draw us close to one and other, though more often than not they take us away.”
    “Have we met before?”
    He inclined his head. “Maybe. You have one of those faces. Now, let’s see about fixing this, shall we? Been losing a lot of time, has it? The spring’s loose. I should probably replace it, but I’m not sure you want me to do that.”
    “Why not? I’m sorry, I don’t really understand, if you need to replace the spring to make the watch work again, why wouldn’t I want you to do that?”
    “Because of the time that’s stored up inside it. Change the spring and it’s gone forever.”
    I shook my head.
    “Gone?”
    “Yep, gone, vanished, spent, left behind, lived through, no more, a memory.”
    “But that’s what happens. Time passes.”
    “Oh you know so much do you? So how come you didn’t notice your watch was saving time?”
    “It wasn’t, it was losing time.”
    “Losing, saving, you speak like you don’t understand the difference,” the watchmaker said, sniffing. He popped the lid back on and pushed the watch into the middle of the counter between us. “It’s all in there, all of that saved time.”
    I looked at it.
    It wasn’t ticking.
    “You didn’t fix it?”
    “Did you see me fix it?”
    “No.”
    “Then I didn’t fix it. I don’t think you want me to fix it. After all, there are two whole days stored in there. That’s a lot of time to throw away. It’s up to you, but I’d think long and hard about it. Two days. What’s happened to you over the last couple of days, and more importantly, are you ready to give it up?”
    What had happened to me? I’d met an old couple who’d reminded me of just how incredible it felt when Isla said yes, and I’d met a painter who had captured the single most important moment of my life. In less than forty-eight hours they’d given me back two of the most precious memories of Isla. There was no way in a million years I’d give that up; but it wasn’t as though I’d just forget them either. They were etched on my soul.
    “Forty-eight hours,” he said again. He picked up the watch, and reset the time, rolling the hands back. “Think about it.”
    I took the old moon landing watch off him. I could feel the gentle tick of the hands moving. I put it on. “Thank you,” I said, and stepped out of the cramped little shop onto the Parisian street. I felt the padlock in my pocket. I wanted to go to be Les Pont des Arts because of Julio Cortázar’s book Rayuela. Isla and I had joked about fastening a padlock to the bridge like lovers do. I knew what was going to happen. I’d throw the key into the river then walk down to the subway and meet an old couple looking at a photograph of Isla and me, and I’d be as happy and sad as I could remember ever being, both at the same time. Then I’d move on to Prague to scatter another one of her ashes, her St. Christopher.
    I looked at the watch Isla’d given me for my birthday. It was losing time. No. It was saving time. There was a difference. It was saving a little bit every hour