Real silence. Not the absence of sound, but the kind of quiet that comes after a storm. She opened her eyes.
"What the hell, Uncle Lewis?" she muttered.
Behind it was a staircase leading down into darkness. The air that wafted up smelled like old copper and lightning storms. The staircase descended for what felt like hours. Nora used her phone's flashlight, but the beam barely cut through the gloom. Finally, she reached a circular chamber. The walls were lined with gears—thousands of them, from tiny brass cogs to iron wheels the size of wagon tires. They turned slowly, grinding against each other, and in the center of the room stood the clock.
The notebook was her uncle's journal. It detailed his discovery that the house was built in 1789 by a man named Silas Vane, an amateur occultist who believed that time was not a river but a machine . According to Vane, the universe runs on a celestial clockwork mechanism. Most people can't hear it. But if you build a house along certain ley lines, and if you install a clock made from the remains of a fallen star, you can not only hear the mechanism—you can alter it.
The first night was uneventful. She unpacked her suitcases, ordered pizza from the only place that delivered (a twenty-mile drive), and slept in her uncle's old four-poster bed. The second night, she heard it.
