Behind the Dial

I dragged the fireside stool right against the hearth and hauled myself onto the mantel shelf. Perched between two tarnished candlesticks sat the heavy mahogany clock, silent for who knows how long. Around back, a tiny brass teardrop latch held the inspection door shut. I flicked the latch open with the butt of my twig and squinted into the gear housing. Sure enough, nestled among the brass cogs was the recessed eight-point star hub from the blueprint. I shoved my spindle crank straight into the socket until the teeth meshed with an oily snap. I gripped the notched thimble with both hands and gave it a firm twist—the escapement shuddered with a deep, grinding ratchet.