Lady Ruperta stared what would have been daggers were she not so refined, and that therefore were the salad knife equivalent of angry marital looks. Sir Nigel merely went on eating his soup. The atmosphere grew so tense, it needed no magic to make it feel perilous. Swallowing dryly, Amelia looked across the table to Caleb, but he was smiling with steady reassurance at Vanity, whose eyes had widened anxiously. Even Throckmorton appeared uncomfortable, although that could have been due to the empty wine carafe in front of him.
“Grimshaw!” Lady Ruperta snapped, making everyone jolt. “Carve the swans!”
Oh God,Amelia thought, and looked instinctively around for an emergency exit.
Suddenly, out of the blue (literally: an azure haze of visiblethaumaturgic energy), the clock began ticking so excessively it sounded like a room full of disapproving aunties clicking their tongues. Everyone stared at it nervously.
“Has that happened before?” Caleb asked.
“Never,” Nigel said, his face becoming animated with excitement.
“Will it destroy the fabric of time?” Vanity cried out.
Caleb smiled. “Not with us here to protect you.”
“Oh,” she breathed dreamily, her eyes shining as she gazed upon him. Caleb rose from his chair and, hands in trouser pockets, strolled over to the clock. He nudged it with the toe of his shoe, and when that did not cause an explosion devastating the house and surrounding region, he angled his head, inspecting the dial more closely.
“Looks seventeenth century.”
“I think it’s a Cabrier,” Amelia said.
“Yes, here’s his name engraved on the cartouche.” Pausing, he frowned slightly as he searched his thoughts. “Wasn’t it a Cabrier clock that malfunctioned at Windsor Castle, briefly turning Prince Albert into a Christmas tree?”
“Eep!” Vanity squeaked in alarm.
“Don’t worry,” Caleb told her. “This one is making a lot of noise, but I don’t think it has enough magic in it to do something like that.”
“How can you tell?” the girl asked.
“Well, partly because you don’t have any tinsel garlands and sparkly painted balls hanging off you,” he said, making her giggle, “but also due to several more subtle indicators, such as the particular blue shade of the thaumaturgic emissions. The sound of the tick.”
“Whether there’s a bitter smell in the air,” Amelia added. “And most of all—”
“Just afeelingone gets,” she and Caleb chorused.
“A feeling,” Lady Ruperta scoffed. “I certainly hope my plumber doesn’t fix the pipes because of afeeling.”
“Perhaps it’s better to call it an instinct developed after inspecting hundreds of enchanted antiques over the years,” Caleb said.
Lady Ruperta exhaled a sharp, sardonic little breath. “You don’t look old enough to have inspected hundreds of anything.”
He grinned. “I’m a boy wonder. As for this clock, my feeling is that there’s no concern.”
“I concur,” Amelia said. “It appears to be a non-incendiary, low-amplitude device.”
“Low amplitude?” Lady Ruperta asked.
“Only emitting a small amount of energy,” Caleb explained. “I’d say ten thaumaturgic conjures at most.”
“So not much tick for its tock,” Vanity said, and returned to her soup with an air of disappointment.
Sir Nigel, on the other hand, seemed surprisingly anxious for a man who possessed a house full of potentially dangerous antiques. “You’re sure it’s not going to explode, then?” he peeped.
“Quite sure,” Amelia reassured him.
Sir Nigel looked to Caleb.
“Professor Tarrant is correct,” Caleb said with just enough emphasis on Amelia’s title to thrill her, since he could hardly lecture their host on the evils of male chauvinism (although, she mused, that would be one way to get them back to Oxford quickly). “The clock is unstable but weak. Even if it did explode, the most that would happen would be us all feeling a vaguesense of déjà vu. And that’s not very scary—trust me, I’ve experienced it before. We’re quite safe.”
