The Timekeeper's Daughter Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Within Darkness - Book Two

  For the Readers

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Timekeeper’s Daughter

  by C.J.M. Naylor

  Copyright © 2018 by C.J.M. Naylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  C.J.M. Naylor

  [email protected]

  Cover Design by Alexander von Ness

  Printed in the United States of America

  Second Edition

  For Paula. This book was unfinished the last time I saw you. It is finished now because of you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  December 1943

  My mother always told me that God gave people their own personal trial in life. She said everyone had their own personal struggle—something that they had to work through on their own. But she also said he rewarded them for this in heaven.

  I have lived my entire life with a personal struggle. Every single day, as I walk to and from my classes, and the library, I have my own trial. It sometimes feels like an endless war that is raging inside me, a war that never wants to come to an end. I wonder if the people I pass by every day can truly see me. I know that they see the face of a girl, almost eighteen, with minimal makeup. A girl with her hair tied back and on a mission to complete something—a girl that doesn't care what other people think of her. At least, that's what I'd like for them to see. But the truth is, I do care.

  I don't want them to think I am insane.

  For as long as I can remember, I have heard disembodied voices. I am the only one that can hear them, and they are there. They aren't inside my head. They live in the empty space around me. And they aren't cruel. At least not yet. They are kind. Sometimes, I hear a mother speaking to her child. Sometimes, I hear people reminiscing about life after the war. I'm not sure what war they are talking about. I'm constantly reminded there is a war going on. Signs are pasted all across the city that warn citizens to wear their gas masks. Just the other night, we spent some time in the bomb shelter again. It isn't as bad as it used to be, the attacks. At the beginning, they were terrible. London suffered lots of property damage, but more important, we lost the lives of innocent people.

  The sounds of traffic through my window disrupted my thoughts. The everyday sounds of London were attempting to wake me up. The voices returned and once again they were soothing.

  "She's beautiful, because she looks just like you," a man spoke.

  "I love you," the woman replied. "I love our daughter."

  Silence. My eyes popped open. I could not control when the silence came and the voices stopped. The voices were in control, not me. When I had first heard them, they were only whispers. I couldn't hear what they were saying or what gender they were. The only sound was constant whispering. At first, it had scared me when I heard them. Hearing voices, not thinking them, hearing them, was enough to scare anyone though. At ten years old, if you start to hear things that aren't there, it might be cause for concern. The secret was my own though—I kept it locked away in my heart.

  At a younger age, I liked to live in my own little world. Imagining was my favorite past time. Because of my imagination, the whispers were welcomed into my head. I had only confided in two people about the voices: the first was Bridget. She was my closest friend. The first time I told her, she thought it was great. She thought perhaps it was some kind of magical ability. But as the two of us got older, she thought I should seek some professional help. Seeking help was the last thing I wanted to do. My mind came up with the wildest fantasies. If I sought help, then that must mean an insane asylum waited for me. If it was hundreds of years ago, then there was a stake ready for me. I could see the villagers already.

  "Burn the witch! Burn her!"

  I realized it was the effect of an overly active imagination, but still, if someone came up on the street and told me they were hearing things, well, I would probably think they were insane. However, in my case, I probably would consider we had something in common.

  One of the reasons I did not want help for this was because of my past. I was adopted when I was a child. My mother and father could not have a child of their own and decided to adopt. However, the way I was given up was quite sad. My biological mother dropped me on the doorstep of an orphanage and walked away. She didn't leave a note. She didn't leave a reason why. She just got rid of me like I was trash. My friend Bridget did not even know this about me. I chose not to tell her. My parents told me when I was nine. I felt ashamed of it. I felt unworthy of a mother's love. I knew that I shouldn't feel unworthy, but I did.

  A knock at my bedroom door distracted my attention. I waited. My mother would knock, to simply announce she was coming in, and then she came in.

  "Abigail!"

  I pulled my covers up to my nose and tried to feign sleep.

  "Wake up."

  My mother pulled the covers off my bed and I was exposed. She stood before me, the short woman she was, hands on hips. She was already dressed to head out to the hospital for a day's work, but she had haphazardly thrown on an apron to cook breakfast no doubt.

  "Sleeping in is a gift." I pulled the covers back toward me and turned on my side.

  The covers were pulled off again. I would never get one day to sleep in. My mother was one to wake up and enjoy the day. I prepared myself for her usual statement about every day and smiled when it came.

  "It isn't necessary to sleep in and waste another day on God's good Earth," she said. "You never know..."

  "When it could be your last," I finished. I did know. She told me all the time. My mother and father had raised me in the Catholic faith. My faith was something that was important to me, especially in this time. In a time of war and death, people needed faith in God to do the right thing. I needed it.

  "Of course!" my mother smiled at me. She was older now, but her beauty was still there in her soft, black hair. She often wore it in a bun, like today. "Besides, you need to get out of bed and seize the day, because tomorrow is your eighteenth birthday and we will be having endless celebrations, like always."

  My birthday was tomorrow. The last time I had thought about it was a week ago, and now it was tomorrow. It amazed me how quickly time could fly by.

  "Phillip is downstairs."

  Before I knew it, I shot out of bed like the sheets were on fire.

  "Why didn't you say something?"

  She smiled at me and simply shook her head.

>   "Young love," she said as she left my room. "I was there once."

  My heart pounded as I thought about Phillip waiting for me. He was the other person who knew my secret. He had proposed to me a couple of weeks ago. It hadn't exactly been formal, and there wasn't a ring, but I said yes, and every day since I was thinking about our life together. We had met two years ago when I started university at Birkbeck College. He had been a junior at the time. He was now working at the London Library.

  "Abigail, you will learn the truth."

  I stopped frozen, my hand on the doorknob to my bathroom. When the voices came, I usually had the ability to keep going with my day. But this was different. The voices had never said my name. They had never said anything to me. When I was younger, I used to respond to them. I used to ask them questions. But when I never got a response back, I grew out of the habit of doing that. I decided to try again now.

  "Hello?"

  The wind rustling outside. A sound of a double-decker bus's horn. Those were the sounds I could hear, seeping in through my window. I did not hear a response, however.

  I decided to try one more time.

  "Hello? Are you there?"

  "You will learn the truth. Be ready."

  I wasn't sure why it was, but I could always tell when the voices were leaving. This voice was leaving.

  "Wait! What truth will I learn? What will I be ready for?"

  But then the voice was gone. I wasn't sure how much more I could take of this. If conversations between the voices and I were going to happen, then that was something different altogether.

  The water from the tub was warm against my bare body. I had my eyes closed, and I let the water take me to a different time. Imagination was powerful, especially during a war. I would rely on a warm bath to erase my thoughts and my fears. I would allow it to take me away, but it could only be briefly. I used the soap and shampoo briefly, keeping in mind that it was all being rationed.

  After the bath, I brushed my hair, admiring my reflection in the mirror. My wet, brown hair was what I liked most about myself. My hair fell down to the middle of my back. I knew that a person should not be too vain, but I liked to admire myself in the mirror. I was always a simple girl. I did not like to wear lipstick, but occasionally I would put some powder on my face and redden my cheeks, as my mother would call it. Like I said, minimal makeup.

  I curled my hair and let it fall down one shoulder, matching one of the styles that were in. My mum had washed my button down striped blouse. I put it on and then pulled out a pair of black slacks. Finally, I wore my favorite black flats that had what looked like a flower at the tips.

  The voices of Mrs. Baxter and Phillip could be heard from the upstairs landing. I did not go downstairs just yet. I liked to visit my father in the morning. He would not always be down for breakfast when I was; I liked to make sure he knew I was nearby.

  My mother and father's door was slightly ajar and I was able to peek in. My father was sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. I could feel my heart pounding, as it did everyday, when I was about to see him. I would always go in, not knowing what he would say or what he would remember. His memory loss had grown substantially worse this last year. Some days, he would seem entirely there, but recently, he seemed dazed and confused. He remembered me though—it was my mother he had forgotten first. My father no longer knew who she was anymore. He assumed she was his second nurse and frequently asked where his wife had gone. It broke my heart.

  I pushed the door inward and walked quietly into the room. His back was facing me. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap. He had put on his pants and his undershirt, but his shirt was only partially buttoned up.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed next to him and he took my hand, placing it in both of his.

  "I knew you would come to see me, Abigail Lu."

  He had called me his Abigail Lu for as long as I could remember.

  "I come see you every morning, Dad," I said. "You know that."

  He nodded his head and then let go of my hand. His hands shook, but he brought them up to work on the buttons on his shirt. He managed to get one button buttoned, but his hands began shaking more and he struggled on the next one.

  I knelt down in front of him. "I'll help you."

  "No."

  He put his hands out in front of me.

  "I'm fine. Why don't you go down and help the nurses with breakfast?"

  The nurses.

  "Mum and Mrs. Baxter," I said. "Mrs. Baxter is your nurse, and mum is your wife."

  A confused expression enlightened his face.

  "I think I meant that. Yes. Go on."

  He shooed me out of the room. I walked down the landing, down the stairs, and into the main hallway. I had lived in this house since I was adopted. My mother and father, older than most mothers and fathers, had raised me in this house. Pictures of the three of us adorned the walls. Phillip always said there wasn't one room he could walk into in this house and not find a picture of me.

  "These pancakes are delicious, Mrs. Jordan."

  I heard Phillip commending my mother on her cooking as always. It made me smile.

  Upon walking into the kitchen, I found Mrs. Baxter, my father's nurse and my old nanny, sitting at the table reading her newspaper. She had worked in this house for eighteen years. She began as my nanny, raising me in the day while my parents worked. When I went off to school, she was our maid, and was here to watch me when I returned home. Finally, when my father began to lose his memory, she was his nurse. She cared for him during the day while my mother continued to work at the hospital. She was a short, stout lady, even shorter than my mother. Phillip often had to crane his neck all the way down just to look at her. She had the cutest glasses a little old lady could have and she always wore her hair back in a tight bun.

  "Good morning, Abigail," Mrs. Baxter addressed me over her paper. She couldn't see me, but she always knew my footsteps coming into the kitchen when everyone was already there.

  Phillip had his back facing me, but he got up from his chair immediately.

  "There she is," he said. He pulled me into a hug and kissed my forehead. Phillip quickly pulled away and smiled. The look on his face told me he wanted to kiss me, but he never had the courage to do it in front of my mother. What was with men and mothers?

  "You act as if we've been a part for days," I said. "I saw you yesterday, in case you've forgotten."

  "Darling," Phillip remarked, "every minute apart from you, is like a century in my heart." He said it very theatrically and I giggled.

  I sat down at the table and helped myself to the limited pancakes. My mum did the best with the supplies she had. Items like sugar, flour, and the essentials came rationed in the time of the war. One thing I loved about my mother though, was that she would do her best to get these items and make us simple treats. She would use just enough ingredients that would make just enough for us to enjoy. I looked forward to the days after the war—the days when things would not have to be rationed, and the days when we wouldn't have to worry about waking up during the night to an air raid.

  "What are you two dolls doing today?" Mrs. Baxter asked.

  I looked at Phillip for that answer. I wasn't entirely sure. I didn't have class on Tuesdays, so I assumed we would probably spend the day at the library. Even though he was off, we still spent our time there. He was given his own office for his studies and work, and we both loved books and falling into worlds we couldn't have.

  "The library," my mum said. She was standing at the sink and had a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder.

  "We didn't say that," I protested, a grin appearing on my face.

  My mum pointed her index finger at me.

  "Abigail Lu Jordan," she said smiling, "I see it on your face. I admire your tastes in books, the both of you, but you don't have to spend all of your time there. Remember, we don't want to waste another day on God's Earth—"

  "Because you never know when it could be
your last."

  I looked over at Phillip after he said it. He knew my mother to a "T". He appreciated her positive outlooks and views on life.

  "Right, you are, Phillip Hughes," my mum said. "Now, both of you, off. I have a kitchen to clean and work to be attending."

  Phillip came around and pulled my chair out for me.

  "Such a gentleman," I joked.

  "No need to be joking about those things Abigail, dear," Mrs. Baxter commented, "I was at the market the other day and spoke to a most interesting woman. She thinks the days are a coming when men won't be as polite as they are now."

  "Mrs. Baxter, that day has come and gone," my mum said, "you simply need to take a day off and experience it."

  "Nonsense!" Mrs. Baxter said. "Now, Annette, you get to work and I'm going to finish these dishes."

  Phillip and I left Mrs. Baxter and my mum in the kitchen. All the way out the front door I could hear their bantering about who would finish the dishes.

  Phillip pulled the door closed behind him. "Those two will never agree.

  As soon as the door clicked, I felt him tug at my arm and I twirled into his arms. We stood there on the steps for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. I wondered if this is how my parents felt when they were in love, or if it was different for everyone. Phillip tilted my chin up just a bit and then our lips met. They moved in perfect unison with each other, his lips with mine. The kiss ended and we looked into each other's eyes a bit longer.

  "We can kiss in there," I said. "It doesn't have to be on my front stoop for the city of London to see."

  "I know," he said, "but I want to show the world how much we love each other."

  "Okay, let's show them."

  I took his hand in mine and we strolled down the walkway, arm in arm, toward his car. I let my mind wander for a while—how could a war be going on when our love and the love of many others was in the world?

  Phillip drove his black, 1940 Riley Twelve in the direction of the London Library. My body vibrated in the left passenger seat as Phillip drove through the streets; occasionally he would hit a bump in the road and I'd bounce up and down. He was excited about spending time with what we loved: books. Books made up an important part of my life. My schooling had always included reading novels of many genres. Having developed an interest in school, I enjoyed books of almost all kinds.