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Johann’s vision burned white. The older man was playing him, using his wealth and power to take advantage. But what other choice did he have than to accept the meager offer? Herr Hoffel was the only man in town with the money to buy the clock. But then he turned back to the table and as he looked at the work of art into which he’d poured his sweat and soul, Johann’s spine stiffened. He would not part with it for a figure so far short of its worth. He would take the clock to the city, try to sell it to one of the merchants there, before he would let Herr Hoffel steal it from him at such a price.
    Unless, of course, Herr Hoffel could be swayed. He took a deep breath, prepared to try again. “Herr Hoffel, forty is less than half our agreed price,” he began, struggling not to stammer. The innkeeper’s eyes widened in fury at the unexpected challenge, but Johann had gone too far to stop now. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly …”
    “That clock is extraordinary.” A voice behind him interrupted the exchange. Johann and the innkeeper turned toward it. A man whom Johann did not recognize from town stood behind them. “May I?”
    Johann and the innkeeper stepped back, parting to allow the stranger access to the clock. Older than Herr Hoffel, the man had a wide girth that bespoke muscle in his earlier years and a mass of silver-gray beard that seemed to swallow his face. His eyes were a curious pale blue that Johann had seen only once before in the eggshells of a robin’s nest, formed in the eaves of the barn.
    “Which clockmaker?” the man asked. His German, Johann could tell, was not quite native to the region but from the north, somewhere urban and cosmopolitan.
    “Me,” Johann blurted. “That is, I made it myself.”
    The stranger considered Johann for several seconds, not speaking, and Johann realized he had been expecting the name of one of the finer clockmaking houses. An odd expression crossed the man’s face, as if he doubted the truth of Johann’s words. Then he reached out, grazing the top of the clock with considerably more care than Herr Hoffel had done. Though his clothes were dusty from the road, his nails were trimmed and a band of solid gold marked the fourth finger of his right hand. But beneath were calluses that no amount of grooming could mask. Not a laborer’s hands, but hands that had known honest work. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the man murmured, more to himself than to the others.
    “It’s called an anniversary clock,” Johann offered, the confidence and strength in his voice growing. “A new design from America. It only needs to be wound about every four hundred days.”
    “How much?” the stranger asked.
    Johann hesitated, resisting the temptation to raise his original price, lest Herr Hoffel think he was gouging his guests. “One hundred.”
    “Now wait a minute,” Herr Hoffel interjected, his interest piqued by the competition.
    The stranger turned to him. “Are you buying it?”
    “I don’t—” Herr Hoffel faltered. “That is, the price—”
    “The question is a simple one: yes or no?” Anger flicked across Herr Hoffel’s face at the audacity of the stranger using such a tone with him in his own inn, and for a moment Johann thought he would confront the man. But travelers were Hoffel’s stock in trade and word got around—an innkeeper reputed as rude would soon find his rooms empty.
    “One hundred, then,” Herr Hoffel said, reaching for the till.
    But the stranger was not finished. “One ten.” His eyes glinted, a seasoned trader bargaining for wares.
    “One fifteen,” Herr Hoffel replied evenly. To him, the clock was still just a commodity. “Not a penny more.”
    The stranger delivered the final blow. “One twenty.” A hand squeezed Johann’s throat, making it impossible to breathe. Did the man really mean to pay him such a sum?
    There was a moment of hesitation. Would Herr Hoffel bid again in spite of himself? But the