Mara listened to the clock for the fourth time that morning. Its hands moved evenly across the face, but inside the case a small toothed wheel was split almost to its centre. Twice the mechanism had caught at the crack. Twice she had nudged it forward before Mr Lorne returned to the workroom.

Mr Lorne lowered the polished case over the mechanism.

“It is finished,” he said. “Mr Vale will see an excellent clock.”

When Mara looked at the cracked wheel, he closed the case with his palm. On Saturdays, he paid her wages from the narrow drawer beneath the counter.

“If you contradict me before a customer,” he said, “I shall employ someone else next week. Someone who understands where her wages come from.”

Mr Vale arrived at noon to inspect the clock for one of his clients. He owned the larger repair workshop across the river. Beneath the blotting paper on Mara's bench lay an unsigned letter asking whether he had a place for another assistant.

“Whose repair is this?” Mr Vale asked.

“My assistant's,” said Mr Lorne. “Her best work.”

Mr Vale placed the payment on the counter. Mara drew the wrapping paper nearer, then stopped. She opened the clock and pointed to the wheel.

“The split remains,” she said. “It has held for an hour, but I cannot promise that it will hold tomorrow.”

Mr Vale returned the payment to his purse. Mr Lorne's hand tightened around the clock.

“Is that your judgement,” Mr Vale asked Mara, “or your master's?”

“The crack is there whoever names it,” she replied.

At the door, Mr Vale asked for her family name. After he had gone, Mr Lorne counted out the wages already due to her and placed them on the bench. He did not dismiss her, but he did not tell her to return on Monday.

Mara put the wages in her pocket. Her letter to Mr Vale remained beneath the blotting paper. The clock continued to tick, missing one beat in every minute.