The Winding Key

A heavy iron winding crank rested dormant against the fluted base of the grandfather clock, its hollow square socket staring up like an empty throne. I drove the golden butt of my serpent staff firmly into the polished parquetry to secure my stance. Extending my clawed hand, I seized the cold metal arm and dragged it across the timber until the socket aligned directly with a loose brass upholstery tack. With slow, calculating force, I wedged the sharp pin into the square cavity until it jammed tight, upright like a gleaming stiletto. Let the pendulum swing—its heartbeat now ticks under my sovereign grip.