A Direct Question

“There’s no debt,” Corwin says, evenly. “Clock’s just old. Runs how it runs.”

It’s a good lie, delivered without a flinch — except in his hands. They are wrong: crusted white at the knuckles with dried salt, the way skin goes after hours in seawater, and they will not stay still on the workbench while he talks. He notices you noticing and puts them in his pockets.

He won’t say another word about Penrose, the Nightjar, or the clock’s true purpose. But he’s not surprised you asked, and he’s not surprised you’re still here.

The tide turns at midnight. You have until then.

What do you do?

• Wait for the turning of the tide