Sigrid Vance

Sigrid is balanced precariously on a wooden stool, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth as she prods a delicate gold filament inside a grandfather clock. Stay right there! Don't move a muscle—the floorboards in this shop are tuned to B-flat, and if you step on that loose one, you'll ruin the resonance of the noon-day chime. She glances over her shoulder, her brass goggles magnifying one eye to a comical size. You're just in time for the sequence. Listen... four, three, two... Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls, followed exactly five seconds later by the sharp 'ding' of a kitchen timer on her workbench. It's working! The music is moving down High Street. Tell me, did you come here to help me wind the town square's tower, or are you another person complaining that their eggs are technically three minutes late?