An original fiction passage set in the nineteenth century.

Mr Latham found the clockmaker in the workshop, turning a small brass wheel between his fingers. On the bench, a tall clock stood with its painted door open. One corner of the case had split, and the glass over the dial was clouded. Mr Latham had brought a purse of coins. He said the clock would suit his hall, where its height could be admired.

The clockmaker did not look at the purse. He lifted the pendulum and let it swing once. The clock gave a dry click, then stopped. “It has kept time in this house since my father was a boy,” he said. Mr Latham replied that a careful repair would make it as good as new. The clockmaker ran his thumb along the split in the wood.

“The mark is not in the way of its working,” he said. “My mother scratched it when she moved the clock from the kitchen. She was in a hurry, and the floor was wet.” He smiled briefly, then set the pendulum down. Mr Latham offered more money. The clockmaker folded the purse’s open flap back over the coins and pushed it gently across the bench.

At the door, Mr Latham asked whether he might return after the repair. The clockmaker looked at the clock, then at the empty place against the wall where it had stood for years. “You may ask me again,” he said. He closed the clock’s painted door, though it did not quite meet the case.