The Epoch Clock chimed thirteen times, calling out over the cacophony of voices at the market. I wove my way through a crowd of shoppers and turned south toward the Seventh Chime. Unlike in the Eighth, with its brick and stone townhouses lining cobblestone streets, the Seventh was mostly businesses crafted from iron, brass, wood, and glass—something the Lower Chimes could never afford.
Nothing physically stopped people from moving around the city, but it was usually obvious at a glance where people belonged, and no one enjoyed feeling out of place. A couple of men bumped into me on the crowded street. They ducked their heads and mumbled an apology before continuing on, though I could feel their gazes on me. The city was bound by societal rules as strict as gravity with a person’s Chime based on their income. The affluent families in the Upper Chimes rarely mingled with those in the Lower Chimes and vice versa, but those in the Middle Chimes had a bit more flexibility. And right now, I looked like I belonged in the middle.
The men’s attention set me on edge, and my hand drifted to my side, ready to reach for the knife in my boot. It wasn’t their status or gender that had me wound up, so much as the memory of the killer on the loose. He’d already been close to me once, and I couldn’t forget that he was out here somewhere.
Finally, I made it to the Iron Watch and drew in a few calming breaths. Now that I wasn’t frantically trying to report a murder, I could admire the building’s majesty. Its tall walls and wide, sweeping arches, domed roof, and its spires cutting into the sky. Not to mention that most of it was gilded in iron that glinted brightly in the sun as if demanding attention. It was one of the oldest buildings in the Seventh Chime thanks to the fact that the original Prime Meridian had decreed that the Iron Watch be built first.
My heart pounded as I stared at the plaque above the door—a metal saber in front of a blue star. I smoothed down my hair, then pushed my way inside. The clack of typewriters, the squeaking of shoes on the floor, and the distinct scent of sweat and oil that filled the room.
“Excuse me,” I said to the closest Blue Cape. “I’m looking for Detective Atwood.”
“He’s not here,” he grunted, barely giving me a glance.
“Oh.” I frowned. Detective Atwood probably had better things to do than sit around at his desk all day, especially when I hadn’t told him I was coming. “Do you know where I can find him?”
A few paces away, a man with disheveled brown hair who looked around my age glanced up from a desk piled high with paperwork. “He left for his lunch break a few minutes ago.”
I bit my lip. Maybe talking to him outside of the station was a better plan anyway. “Do you know where he went?”
The disheveled man eyed me, as if deciding what to share.
“He asked me to come see him if I had information about a case, but I’m in a hurry, so I don’t want to wait.”
Something like recognition flickered across his face. “He went to Nuts and Bowls today. It’s over in the Fourth Chime.”
“Thank you.” I dipped my head at him and headed outside. Fifteen minutes later, I’d made it back to the center of town, but this time I headed east toward the Iron Docks in the Fourth Chime. I stopped a passing woman for directions to the restaurant, then I quickened my pace, passing a house with boarded-up windows and a door hanging off its hinges. The buildings and shops leaned against each other as if to hold one another up, sort of like how the people here walked around in huddled groups.
While I’d grown somewhat used to it during my visits to the Lower Chimes with Geneve—she frequently reminded me that Mamá had been against the inequality—I rarely came alone. But I hadn’t left home to be bound by Papá’s stifling rules. If he expected me to sit at home with the server bots all day, he shouldn’t have bothered teaching me how to defend myself.
The further I got into the Fourth Chime, the more apparent the poverty became. A few children darted past with dirty faces and bare feet, probably left unattended while their parents scraped together a living on the docks. A woman with a baby on her hip hung up laundry outside a run-down shanty made from scrap metal and wooden planks. If only there were more I could do to help. My visits with Geneve to hand out clothes and the occasional financial donation I convinced Papá to contribute never felt like enough. Clothes hardly mattered when what they really needed were jobs and safe places to sleep. What they really needed was structural change in the Lower Chimes, and that was more than I knew how to tackle.
But for all the difficulties those in the Lower Chimes experienced, I envied their freedom and equality. The women worked just as hard as the men and they were often treated the same. While Papá was worse than most in the Upper Chimes with his stifling rules, it wasn’t uncommon for the elites to deal in arranged marriages and political alliances. It kept the power and money among the same families, while the poorer classes got to marry for love.
I made it to a crowded, circular building where the scent of fresh rolls and steamed fish beckoned me inside. The sign had once read Nuts and Bolts, but someone had crossed out the word Bolts and painted BOWLS in large block letters.
Over the years during my visits with Geneve, I’d realized the Lower Chimes had more of a “if the gears are turning, let them be” mindset. But that said, even many of the places that were broken still didn’t get fixed.
Ignoring my rumbling stomach, I pushed my way into the throng. Inside, tables and chairs were shoved into every viable space and the windows hung open, letting in fresh air and sunlight and letting out the tantalizing aroma of food and the chatter of conversation. I scanned for the flash of blue that would give away Detective Atwood’s uniform.
A man bumped into me from behind.
“Pardon me,” I said reflexively as I spun around.