I KNOW. “Why isn’t it chasing us?”
WE’RE SAFE UNTIL THE SAND RUNS OUT. “And you die when the sand runs out?” NO. WHEN THE SAND RUNS OUT IS WHEN I SHOULD DIE. I WILL BE IN THE SPACE BETWEEN LIFE AND AFTERLIFE.
“Bill, it looked as though the thing it was riding…I thought it was a proper horse, just very skinny, but…”
IT’S A SKELETAL STEED. IMPRESSIVE BUT IMPRACTICAL. I HAD ONE ONCE BUT THE HEAD FELL OFF. “A bit like flogging a dead horse, I should think.”
HA. HA. MOST AMUSING, MISS FLITWORTH.
“I think that at a time like this you can stop calling me Miss Flitworth,” said Miss Flitworth.
RENATA?
She looked startled. “How did you know my name? Oh. You’ve probably seen it written down, right?”
ENGRAVED.
“On one of them hourglasses?”
YES.
“With all them sands of time pouring through?”
YES.
“Everyone’s got one?”
YES.
“So you know how long I’ve—”
YES.
“It must be very odd, knowing…the kind of things you know…”
DO NOT ASK ME.
“That’s not fair, you know. If we knew when we were going to die, people would lead better lives.”
IF PEOPLE KNEW WHEN THEY WERE GOING TO DIE, I THINK THEY PROBABLY WOULDN’T LIVE AT ALL.
“Oh, very gnomic. And what do you know about it, Bill Door?”
EVERYTHING.
Binky trotted up one of the town’s meager handful of streets and over the cobbles of the square. There was no one else around. In cities like Ankh-Morpork midnight was just late evening, because there was no civic night at all, just evenings fading into dawns. But here people regulated their lives by things like sunsets and mispronounced cock-crows. Midnight meant what it said.
Even with the storm stalking the hills, the square itself was hushed. The ticking of the clock in its tower, unnoticable at midday, now seemed to echo off the buildings.
As they approached, something whirred deep in its cogwheeled innards. The minute hand moved with a clonk, and shuddered to a halt on the 9. A trapdoor opened in the clock face and two little mechanical figures whirred out self-importantly and tapped a small bell with great apparent effort.
Ting-ting-ting.
The figures lined up and wobbled back into the clock.
“They’ve been there ever since I was a girl. Mr. Simnel’s great-great-grandad made them,” said Miss Flitworth, “I always wondered what they did between chimes, you know. I thought they had a little house in there, or something.”
I DON’T THINK SO. THEY’RE JUST A THING. THEY’RE NOT ALIVE.