Originally printed in Something Wicked Issue #9 and illustrated by Hendrik Gericke
Author's Bio

Read an excerpt:

   It was 4:59 and a minute from dawn when Freemantle Mons the Leviathan Smile felt the Grammaton clockworkings die. He was up in the great clock-tower's belfry alone that night, calibrating old cogwork and balancing up the penny weight piles, a gas revelatory tuned soft and hissing by his side.
   It was a gradual death. It spread up from the coils as the unravel slowed, and the three story pendulum's swing faded out. It shifted along from the swing-banks and stores, and crept the tick-tocking cogs that filled out the walls, and leapt up the belfries from ceiling to floor.
   It died past Freemantle, it died beyond Freemantle, and Freemantle stood, and followed it go.
It passed up three floors of balance contraptions, of old scales and measures weighing out hours and seconds. It passed through them all, leaving all of them silent, and up to the Hub where the four clock faces hung.
   Freemantle followed it up to the 42nd floor, to the top of the tower high above all the city, and watched the Grammaton death pass into the Hub, the great bronzing ball at the heart of the clock, and from there to the spindles that went North, and went South, and went East and went West, to the four clock-tower faces, to the hands and the tracers, and shut them all down, and stilled them all out.
   Then there was only Freemantle, silence, and the glow of the moon.