A shroud of mist obscured the city like a silk curtain. It hid an airship passing over head. Those below it could only hear the hum of its engines and see the muted glow of its headlights. It cloaked the skyline. Only the foot of the tallest and the shortest buildings could be seen. It filtered the light from streetlamps to lights within buildings. It allowed shadows to cast the city into a premature evening. And in the darkness between an office building and an abandon dance studio, the mist obscured a slight woman.

She stood tense, dampened from the mist. The only spot the mist didn’t touch was the handle of her carpet bag under her cramped hand. She dared not to let it go as it contained everything she had to her name. A necklace, two books, a tea set wrapped around a quilt sown by her grandmother, a music box, and a torn picture of her and her two children.

She wore what she needed: a skirt, blouse, thick overcoat, and fur-lined boots for walking in the snow. Her mittens stayed in her coat pocket. She wanted to keep them dry as the palms of her hands were sweaty. A thin layer of sweat had also formed over her forehead, despite the fact she was cold. Her nerves were getting the best of her. She wanted it darker. The streets emptier. She needed to go to the shop across the street. However, it had to be closer to closing.

She looked down at her wrist. It was fifteen minutes till it closed. She didn’t expect a customer to come in later than that. But what if they did? She swallowed another lump in her throat and looked at the sign to the shop:

Trolly’s Timepieces

She was told that was where she needed to go. Though it didn’t make sense. Then again, nothing within the last week made sense. And getting a painting from a watchmaker was the easiest thing for her to handle.

She squinted and studied a tall man behind the front display counter with a watch in hand. He didn’t worry her as much as the shop’s warm lights. They were going to act like a spotlight the moment she walked in. She didn’t want to be seen. That was a problem. Maybe she should wait longer. Then again, she couldn’t wait. Leaving the city was out of the question by train or airship. Maybe she should just leave the city on foot and live in the wilderness. What she was told had to be too good to be true. Nothing good came from those who made deals using the unknown.

However, if one wanted a painting, they had to go to Trolly.

The patrolman she had been watching, passed by her again. Walking in the direction she going to head, unknowing to her location. She waited until he vanished and shoved aside her fears. However, when her foot moved forward, she hesitated with a moan of uncertainty. She jogged in place, wrestling with herself.

This wasn’t something she should or could do. It was better if she went to the police station.

On impulse, she darted out of the alley and shoved back any logical thoughts and dove into the shop.

Her heart thumped in her chest as the door swung closed behind her. Her nerves found that rhythm far too slow and sped up because at the realization of how exposed she was. The glass cases filled with gold and silver didn’t help the fact the curtains were still open so that anyone along the main street could see her. It was as if a stage was set for her.

“Hello, what can I help you with,” spoke a mild voice.

Betty’s racing mind snapped her attention to the man behind the counter. He had a bald head and a face of indeterminate age. His skin, the color of golden sand in an hourglass, had the wrinkles of a man who smiled, but not one worn by time and harsh circumstance. He was old enough to care about looking professional. But, the waist coat he wore wasn’t the typical solid color of a merchant. It was covered in a golden paisley design. His tie was plain, but his taste for the unusual touched that as well. His tie clip was in the shape of a sun dial. The other thing that was remarkably strange about him was the pair of round spectacles with darkened lenses. When she got close to him, she could barely see the shape of his eyes. However, they were friendly.

“Are you here for one of my watches? Or maybe something larger. I have a grandfather clock in the back,” he said, stepping aside and point to a backroom door behind his counter. Through the glass, she could see the face of it. “All I need to do is to install the pendulum.”

“I want a painting,” she hissed.

“Excuse me,” he asked, tilting his head slightly. Betty took it as confusion.

“Aren’t you Trolly? Cato Trolly?”

“I am,” he replied, picking up the wristwatch off the counter and placing it in a wooden box. He pulled a ribbon from a roll, sitting off to the side and snipped a length of it off. Betty watched him a moment tying his box before sitting her bag down and, tapped the glass gently with the pads of her fingers to get his attention.

“I heard you make paintings for people. I want a painting.”

She could see his brow arch critically at her above the rim of his glasses. “And from whom did you hear this from?”

Betty bit her bottom lip. She didn’t want to say it aloud.

“You had to hear that from somewhere. People whisper all sorts of things in town. From shops to along the streets. Perhaps by a statue.”

“An owl in the park,” she whispered. It was ridiculous. She nearly died on the spot when it spoke to her. “He told me to tell you that Barnaby says hello.”

Maybe she was crazy. What happened had really broken her mind more than it had. Stone owls on top of statues didn’t suddenly talk and take pity on people.

“Barnaby doesn’t just help anyone,” he remarked.

“I plucked a tree blossom off his head so I could see what he fully looked like. He appreciated it,” she said with her voice shaking. Then she winced and followed it with another statement. “An-an-and then I fed a kitten. She said I was sweet and told me I should listen to the owl.”

“Owls are wise, and kittens are helpful when they had a meal. What did you give this kitten to eat?”

“Some chicken. It was the only thing I could give her,” she told him. It was the first thing she had eaten in days. She hadn’t slept very much either. Maybe she thought the kitten spoke to her. That the lack of sleep was starting to take her.

The man behind the counter nodded his head. “Kittens do like the taste of birds around here more than fish.”

“N-n-now that I said it. Can I have a painting? I’m desperate.”

The man finished tying his bow, a smirk tugged at his lips. “It’s always the desperate that want paintings. Very rarely does the adventurous human ask for one. I like those. The most memorable human I helped was a man who wanted to know what it was like to be a knight. We painted a grand kingdom. Mystical and full of rarities. He stayed there because he became a king. Then there was the astronomer who wanted to explore. He wanted to see another planet they had seen through a telescope. They were certain there was intelligent life there. Now he studies at a distant planet’s university. I had hoped you were one, dressed as you are.”

She looked backward and at the window for the patrolman on foot. The streets were empty, no motorcars were in sight.

“I’m sorry, but can I get a painting or not? I can pay you if money is what you want.”

He shook his head. “Money isn’t what I want.”

She dug into her pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. She found them in her husband sock drawer, hidden under an old betting card from the racetrack. “Where I am going, I won’t need this money. I’ll earn the money that is there.”

He looked at the bills and pushed the roll aside. In their place, he leaned on the counter.

“What sort of painting do you want, Betty Pulman,” he asked.

Her eyes went wide, and she stepped back. “H-h-how do you know my name?

The watchmaker pointed to the side. There, on a bulletin board in the only shadowy corner, was a wanted poster of her.

Horror raced through her mind. “Please don’t turn me in,” she begged.

“What sort of painting you want,” he asked again steadily. His voice calmed her down.

She then spoke in a small voice. “Mountains, no, a valley. A snowy valley like the one I grew up in. I want a cottage that overlooks a pond. Blueberry bushes to make jam. A place where children can catch fireflies in the summer.”

“Nostalgia. I see.”

“Not nostalgia. Just the home I miss. The land I miss. The people I miss. Or something like that. But not here, not the city. There is nothing here. No birds singing. Just racket, people yelling and hearing your neighbors through the wall. I want to see snow that’s actually white and not gray and black because of soot from factories running coal.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully and pushed away from her. “I think I can help, Mrs. Pulman.”

He reached under his counter. Though Betty couldn’t understand where. He was standing behind a display case. She could see his legs. Yet from there he brought out a piece of paper and an inkwell. He then stretched out and she could hear his hand patting a hard surface, searching. He frowned and muttered to himself before bending down out of view. She could hear him rummaging for something in something metallic. She spied down at the counter again. The only thing visible through the glass was his legs as if he was leaning on the counter. Once he straightened up, he held a black quill pen. He blew at it and off, sending a puff of dust into the air.

“Many don’t request my skills very much anymore. It is expected. The sun sets, the clocks turns, and you blink and another century is on you. No many want to deal with the unknown as you call it. Some claim it and all the being associated with it, don’t exist anymore. The truth is, a human isn’t aware until they are forced to confront us. Anyway, Mrs. Pulman, you must sign a contract first. You must be certain this is what you want.”

He pushed the paper towards her. She looked down at it and tried to read what was in front of her. Nothing made sense. The words met nothing to her. Some words stood out, others just jumbled together, forming a mass of black letter. She rubbed her eyes and realized she was just too tired to attempt reading.

She pushed the paper back and said with embarrassment. “I can’t read. I mean, I can, but I have trouble. I don’t understand this.”

She could see his eyelids flutter behind his lenses. She waited for a scoff or a sigh from him. Wondering why she could be so stupid. Something she almost heard daily for over a year. He didn’t vocalize his assessment of her. Instead, he pointed to the first line with a long nimble finger and explained.

“This states this is your personal contract to me, Cato Lorry. You consent that I will help you create a painting,” he said, and his finger went down to the next paragraph. “This states I’m not liable for whatever happens to you in the painting, good or bad. And this one says, you agree to live out your life in this painting. Once you have lived your life, the painting becomes part of my collection.”

“My entire life?”

“What is left of it, yes,” he told her.

All at once, she became uncertain if that was what she wanted to do. She bit her lip again.

“You have nowhere to go, correct? There is nothing else in this world you care or want? Barnaby wouldn’t have sent you here. But if you truly don’t like this, I can modify the contract to a specific number of years so you can return. Maybe after the statute of limitations passes.”

There was nothing else. No one else. Everything she had left was taken away from her in a single night. Life didn’t even feel real anymore. She didn’t even know if she stood in a winters coat inside of a watch shop asking for a painting. The other day, she was talking to owl statues named Barnaby and a kitten.

She eyed the quill feather. It looked as if it had come from a very large crow. She reached out for it and took it into her fingers. Suddenly it sparked into the color and flames. She dropped it. The feather transformed on the counter as a plume of red and gold with a purple eye filled with blue and green.

The watchmaker smiled, intrigued. “Phoenix feathers only reveals themself to those with a special heart. We will make a beautiful painting together.”

Betty picked up the feather with a shaky hand and dipped it. At the bottom, there was a line where she scratched her name slowly and tried to keep each letter on the line. She failed; her name, it was crocked. She could hear her teacher slapping the yard stick on her desk for such sloppy pen work.

“Oops,” she muttered. “Maybe I could sign another.”

“No, this is fine. Character should be valued,” he said, beaming at her name.

Maybe in the painting, she would be able to read and write. Then she would be able to read the books in her bag. Her brother wrote them for the world to read and yet she was unable to. She hoped her husband would read them to her. But that day came and never will.

The paper then rolled up and sprung into the air and floated. The watchmaker then opened a swinging door between the wall and the counter.

“Once you go beyond this, there is no turning back. You must accept the painting. Out there, I can still burn the contract.”

She looked down and just saw a wooden door on a hinge.

“Not all boundaries can be seen. Not by humans, unless allowed.”

Betty gulped. The knot in her throat, threatened to strangle her. She then heard the engine of a motor car rumbling down the road. She could see the head lights reflecting in the glass. There was nothing but a courtroom, judge, and jury waiting for her. She worked up what remained of the tiny amount of courage in her heart, and stepped behind the counter.