All other clocks, even the handless clock of Death, were reflections of the Clock. Exactly reflections of the Clock; they told the universe what the time was, but the Clock told Time what time is. It was the mainspring from which all time poured.
And the design of the Clock was this: that the biggest hand only went around once.
The second hand whirred along a circular path that even light would take days to travel, forever chased by the minutes, hours, days, months, years, centuries and ages. But the Universe hand went around once.
At least, until someone wound up the clockwork.
And Death returned home with a handful of Time.
A shop bell jangled.
Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of floribrunda Mrs. Shover. Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly indistinct; in fact, even afterward, Druto was never sure who had been in his shop and how his words had actually sounded.
He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.
“How may I hel—”
FLOWERS.
Druto hesitated only for a moment.
“And the, er, destination for these—”
A LADY.
“And do you have any pref—”
LILIES.
“Ah? Are you sure that lilies are—?”
I LIKE LILIES.
“Um…it’s just that lilies are a little bit somber—”
I LIKE SOMB—
The figure hesitated.
WHAT DO YOU RECOMMEND?
Druto slipped smoothly into gear. “Roses are always very well received,” he said. “Or orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses—”
GIVE ME LOTS.
“Would that be orchids or roses?”
BOTH.
Druto’s fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.
“And I wonder if I could interest you in these marvelous sprays of Nervousa Gloriosa—”
LOTS OF THEM.
“And if Sir’s budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of the extremely rare—”
YES.