Amber Valley

On an overcast Tuesday afternoon, the copper bell above the oak door chimed. A young woman entered, her coat flecked with mist. Her eyes scanned the shelves lined with ticking pendulums before resting on Julian, who looked up from behind a magnifying loupe attached to his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Master Julian?” she asked softly.

“Only Julian will do, my dear,” he said, setting down a pair of nickel tweezers. “What brings you through the mountain pass before the rain settles?”