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buildings, the Barrel Arbor clocktower he could barely see, the slumbering hulk of the orchard hill. His father was already so lonely with his wife gone . . . and now Anton Hardy would have to do the work in the orchard, press the cider, wind all the household clocks by himself. And Lavinia, who had expected to marry Owen (or so he assumed, once they both had their printed cards from the Watchmaker, wishing them happy, stable, contented lives), would be alone, too.
    But Lavinia hadn’t come to meet him at midnight as she’d promised. . . . Had she actually promised, or had that been his own assumption and hope?
    So often, the assistant apple orchard manager had buoyed up his days with hope, while everyone else in Barrel Arbor simply had faith that the world was as it should be. All is for the best.
    But Owen wondered if all was as it should be. His father had said he would put away the remarkable books on Owen’s birthday. Put all this foolishness behind you. To the young man, that meant more than just cutting a fond, last connection with his lost mother—it would lock away his dreams. Owen had never stopped thinking big, and this was his chance, even if it was an accidental chance, to see the wide world. Perhaps that was for the best.
    He slumped down and looked up through the tattered canvas hood that covered the cargo car, seeing a swatch of constellation speckled sky through a gap. “On my way at last,” he said again.
    He remembered his companion—host? fellow traveler?—and blinked at the man, who had been waiting patiently for Owen to settle himself and catch his breath. The stranger had a lean face, a sharp nose, a razor-thin mustache, and a pointed goatee. His expressive brown eyes had a piercing intensity even in the shadows of the cargo car. The man had shrugged down his hood to reveal wavy, dark brown hair and eyebrows of some significance. His traveling clothes looked comfortable but impeccably tailored, much finer than the garb Owen would have expected from a man riding a dirty cargo car.
    “I wasn’t planning to do that,” Owen said. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
    “You can say thank you, young man. Sooner or later you’ll realize what I’ve done for you . . . or, more accurately, what you’ve done for yourself.”
    Owen extended a hand, suddenly remembering his manners. “I am Owen Hardy from Barrel Arbor, assistant apple orchard manager.” He waited, and when the man didn’t speak, he said, “And what’s your name?”
    The stranger shrugged. “Names are so confining. They put you in a box. I’m me , and you can see who I am. I may change later. Why would I want a name to lock me into somebody I once was?” Without asking, the man reached into the satchel Owen had brought aboard and took one of the apples. His left hand was puckered and scarred, the skin angry red in places and too white and waxy in others. The man shifted and hid the burned hand in his sleeve. “We’re traveling companions—let’s leave it at that. I saw you there, and I knew you wanted to come. So I invited you to join me.”
    “How could you possibly know I wanted to get away?”
    “You were outside at the steamliner track after midnight.”
    “That doesn’t mean—“
    “Yes it does, my good friend. You should have been in bed, ready to get up early in the morning for your everyday . . . everyday-ness . Because you were out where you wanted to be, I knew you were a seeker of freedom instead of an adherent to mundane rules. Maybe I know you better than you know yourself.” He raised his impressive eyebrows.
    Owen felt flustered. This was the strangest conversation he’d ever had. “I’ve never heard the Watchmaker’s way called mundane before.”
    The stranger took a bite of the apple. “If you’ve listened only to the Watchmaker and no one else, then there are a great many things you’ve never heard. Good for you to escape the rules! Now you can go where you want, do whatever you decide to