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the way in which you laughed was improper. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
    “Yes,” said Clara. Her cheeks burned.
    “You had better go to bed. There will be no more festivities today. I will tell Cook you will not require dinner.”
    Clara nodded. She had not been sent supperless to bed for many years. To have such a babyish punishment on her birthday was a double disgrace, but she supposed she deserved it. “Yes, Miss Cameron. Only, please — before I go up to bed — oughtn’t I to see Mamma?”
    The governess hesitated. When she answered, the sharpness had gone from her voice. “She may not wish to see you.”
    Clara waited. After a moment, Miss Cameron inclined her head.
    “You are right to want to apologize. Very well. You may go to your mother’s room. After you have spoken to her, you must go to the nursery and get ready for bed.”
    “Yes, Miss Cameron,” said Clara. She turned from her governess and began to mount the stairs.

S omething glistened on the stair landing. Clara caught sight of it as she climbed the last three steps: something that shone against the dull carpet like a miniature sun. She bent down and picked it up.
    It was a gold watch. Clara had never seen a watch quite like it. The dial was no larger than her thumbnail; it seemed to represent the full moon. Around it was a night sky made of black enamel, with two figures set against it: a golden wolf and a silver swan. The swan was suspended in midair, its wings outstretched. The wolf’s jaws gaped, its teeth as thin as needles.
    “Madamina!”
    Clara’s head jerked up. The puppet master Grisini stood in the doorway of the drawing room. She had seen him leave a quarter of an hour ago.
    “You come
apropos.
” He swept off his hat and bowed. “I want your eyes, Miss Wintermute — your keen, bright eyes. Come and help me!”
    Clara hung back. She wasn’t sure whether it was proper to speak to him. They had not been introduced, and she didn’t know what
apropos
meant. She had a vague idea that
madama
was the proper title for an Italian lady;
madamina
might mean a little lady. She wasn’t sure whether Grisini was mocking her or being very polite.
    The puppet master stretched out his hands. “I have lost my automaton watch. Your so-kind butler, Bartletti, told me I might come up the back stairs and search for it — but the light is dim, and my eyes are no longer young. Will you come into the drawing room and help me, little
madama
? It is very rare —
preziosissimo!
— my automaton watch.”
    Clara hesitated. She had no wish to follow Grisini into a dim and empty room, but she could think of no polite way to refuse. Close at hand, she could see how disreputable he looked. His tattered frock coat glistened with fog, and there was a patch of sticking plaster under his chin. His words seemed to hang in the air:
madamina, apropos, preziosissimo, automaton watch . . .
! But
automaton watch
was English and must refer to the object in her hands. Clara smiled with relief. “I’ve just found it,” she said, and held out the timepiece.
    In a flash he was at her side. He nipped the watch out of her fingers so swiftly that she never saw his hands move. “Ah! There it is!
Attenti
— I will show you; six o’clock is about to strike. It is time for the wolf to frighten the swan —
guardate
!”
    As if in response to his words, the figures on the watch began to move. The wolf’s golden jaws gaped and snapped. The swan’s wings flapped, allowing the bird to jerk upward a quarter of an inch. There was a faint sound from inside the watch: a minute hammer striking a tiny gong.
    “Bau! Bau!”
Grisini mimicked it. “That is how dogs bark in Venice, Miss Wintermute. Do you like it — my automaton watch?”
    Clara wavered. She liked the colors of the watch, the richness of the gold and silver against the black enamel, but she pitied the poor swan, who could not fly away. Soberly she said, “It’s beautiful.”
    Grisini nodded.
“Sì,