On the stone terrace high above the eastern switchbacks, forty feet below the locked gates of Orchard Ward, Len Vey stood beside the three timed together chronometers.
It was forty-five minutes past noon on Day 7 of the nine-day timeline.
The three timepieces rested on an overturned wooden dynamite crate, sheltered from the freezing drizzle beneath a lean-to of tarred canvas. In the center stood the Survey Office brass swinging weight control valve, its heavy lead bob swinging with an unrushed, rhythmic tick... Tock that had not deviated by a single second in seven days. To its left sat Doma Reel’s cast-iron kitchen timer. Its turned brass bell was silent, its wind-up dial notched with greasy knife-marks. To the right lay Len’s own nickel-plated postal pocket watch, its crystal scratched by granite grit. Its seconds hand swept across the enameled face with quiet, indifferent care.
In the valley three miles below, the bronze bell of the central Survey Office remained frozen at the stroke of midnight, as it had stayed for four thousand three hundred and eighty days. But on this terrace, the three clockwork clocks told the undeniable sky-high truth. Twelve hours had passed since the seventh midnight and the ninth milestone transfer, and eleven hours and fifteen minutes remained before the eighth day began.
