Chapter 2

The sheriff’s son has no chill

The headmistress’s office smelled like lavender polish and silent judgement. Marlowe sat in the oversized leather chair like it might swallow her whole. Long limbs folded awkwardly, tall for fifteen but still too gangly for grace. Her light cocoa skin was smudged with flour and soot from yet another experiment-gone-wrong. Her thick black hair lay in a tangled mess down her back. Sharp light-brown eyes flicked warily around the room, already calculating how many seconds it would take to bolt if her little monster-dog caused a scene.

Stubby, firmly leashed but not remotely interested in behaving, was curled around her boots like a living trap. He let out a slow warning growl, low and steady, like a kettle about to whistle.

Opposite her stood a boy who looked like he hadn’t laughed since the invention of bread. Rhydian Granger. Tall, broad-shouldered with cheekbones sharp enough to slice toast and a posture so straight it looked like he’d swallowed a ruler. His dark brown hair was neat to the point of suspicion, and his toffee eyes scanned Marlowe like he was trying to find the bit of her most likely to cause explosions. She didn’t know him personally, but everyone knew of him. Renowned Sheriff Jeffery Granger’s son, earmarked to take over from his father one day, to keep Charlotteville safe and sound. Prodigy in his own right.

Currently a huge pain in her side.

“Miss Bellamy,” the headmistress said, tone clipped. “I take it you know Mr Rhydian Granger. He’s working with the sheriff’s office on special assignment to resolve this matter.”

Rhydian inclined his head slightly. “Miss Bellamy.”

“Special assignment?” Marlowe repeated, slowly adjusting her skirt. “Is that what they’re calling tattling now?”

The words spilled from her lips before she could stop them.

Way to go, Marlowe!

Granger’s eyebrow twitched, slightly. If it moved any more, he’d probably shatter into a million pieces of annoyance.

“I’m investigating the sabotage of the Invention Fair exhibits. So far, three projects and a teacher’s prized highlight have been damaged with you present.”

“I was also present during breakfast this morning. Shall we blame me for bitter porridge as well?”

No use holding back now. Stubby growled louder in support. Rhydian’s eyes flicked to the dog, then to his trouser leg.

“Does it bite?” he asked, a slight nervous hic in his voice.

“Only when he’s threatened,” Marlowe said sweetly. “Or when people wear smug expressions.”

“I’m not smug.”

Stubby barked once, short and full of confidence. That confirmed it then. Smug as a fox in a henhouse with a key. The headmistress sighed like this wasn’t even her top ten worst Tuesday moments.

“Rhydian, please escort Miss Bellamy to the scene of the incident. Perhaps you can work out together what happened before anyone else’s project ends up in cinders.”

No one ever called her by her first name. It was always Miss Bellamy or Bellamy, like using her full name kept things safe, tidy, and comfortably distant.  Marlowe stood, brushing flour off her blouse.

“Fantastic. I’ve always wanted to tour the wreckage of my reputation.” Rhydian frowned, clearly unused to people who didn’t take him seriously. 

“I expect your full cooperation Miss.”

“And I expect snacks,” she replied over her shoulder as they left the headmistress nursing a bad headache. “Let’s see who’s disappointed first.”

Rhydian close the office door with a soft click of the lock. His mind reeling from the encounter within. What in heaven’s name has he got himself into? Bellamy and her pet terror! Of all the people, of all the cases, did he have to end up with her? He liked keeping to himself. Quiet, orderly, predictable. Bellamy was none of those things. She had a natural talent for scattering trouble in every direction.

People avoided her instinctively, like pigeons dodging a bakery explosion. And now here he was, assigned to her mess like it was fate’s idea of a joke. All he’d wanted was a smooth, uneventful year. Academic success. Gold stars. Goal achievement. Preferably with both shoes intact. He’ll probably lose a pair by the days end. He exhaled loudly as her foot tapped impatiently against the tiles. He turned to follow. Time to get on with it.

As they walked side by side, well Marlowe walked; Granger marched, through the stone corridors of Bramblewick Academy, the weighted quiet between them stretched long and thin.  The bright lights above doing nothing to brighten her mood. A dull knock-knock could be heard down the copper pipes. Probably mum doing her best to keep the ceiling from collapsing.

“Do you have any idea what this is?” he finally asked, holding out the small cube Marlowe had picked up from yesterday’s scenic disaster.

She glanced at it. “Clocky, tick-tocky, mysterious boxy thing?”

Rhydian didn’t laugh. “It looks like a mechanical cipher. Possibly linked to the old Bramblewick Inventors’ Society. My father investigated a few remnants of their work years ago.”

She hadn’t expected him to spill that much to someone he was supposed to be investigating. She’d never heard that many words come out of his mouth before, not all at once.

“Your father’s the sheriff, right?” she said, peering at the cube as it clicked faintly in his hand.

“He is,” Rhydian said, a little too stiffly, knowing full well she knew who he was.

“And here you are, Junior Badge-Bearer. Trying to solve mysteries and look moody in corridors.”

He gave her a long look. “I take this seriously.”

She grinned and shrugged. “And I don’t. So, we balance each other out.”

Stubby let out a soft chuff beside her, as if in total agreement with his master. They stopped outside the science wing, where the red-and-white hazard tape criss-crossed the doorway like a lazy spider’s web. Hand-written signs were taped crookedly to the arch:

DO NOT ENTER – UNLESS YOU LIKE EXPLOSIONS, one read in bold black ink. Another added in a sloppy scribble, THIS MEANS YOU, MARLOWE BELLAMY.

Beyond the threshold, the flicker of motion-sensor lanterns cast jittery red light over upturned desks and the half-melted remains of a robotic bee that still twitched occasionally. Brass gears lay scattered across the floor like lost buttons, while an electronic panel on the wall blinked a mournful red:

SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. PLEASE CONTACT HEAD OF SCIENCE OR PRAY.

The room was cleared of all the other inventions, for safety reasons of course. The corridor buzzed faintly from exposed copper cabling threaded through aged stone, and a small automatic mop trundled by aimlessly, squeaking and occasionally spraying lavender mist at no one in particular. It all made the place feel like a laboratory built by an eccentric time traveller with a taste for chaos. Marlowe peered through the glass.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to knock over the owl.”

Rhydian paused. “I believe you.”

She turned, genuinely surprised by the admission.

“I don’t think you’re malicious,” he added after a beat. “Maybe… chronically untidy.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.

“You shouldn’t.”

Her smile vanished. They stared at each other for a strained moment. Rhydian looked away first, brow furrowed as though he couldn’t quite understand why he’d said any of that aloud. She rubbed him the wrong way. Loud, unorganised, unapologetic. And yet… here he was, offering unprompted honesty and details of the investigation like some bumbling fool in a courtroom confession. He corrected his blazer and rolled his shoulders.

“Anyway.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Stubby trotted forward and bit Rhydian’s boot with renewed vigour, breaking the tension. Marlowe exhaled. There was no point arguing, people saw what they wanted to, and this walking statue-of-justice wasn’t about to change his mind about her.

“He doesn’t like authority.”

“I’ve noticed.”

For a moment, Rhydian Granger, wall of seriousness and champion of frowns, almost smiled. It was so unexpected, Marlowe half expected the sky to crack open and rain custard. He cleared his throat and motioned for her to follow him. They ducked beneath the barrier, careful not to trip over a collapsed trestle table.

“Walk me through it,” Rhydian said, taking out his notepad. “What exactly happened before… all this?” He waved his arm in a wide arc around them.

Marlowe folded her arms. “You want the honest version or the one that doesn’t include jam, a stolen sock, and an owl with a grudge?”

His unblinking gaze remained unfazed. “The honest one.”

She relayed the events with theatrical flair, chasing Stubby, bumping a lever, a symphony of collapsing gadgets. As she gestured toward the spot where the clockwork tower had exploded, she bumped into Rhydian in a cloud of flour dust. She caught the small, brass-edged cube before it hit the floor, like a startled cat in a tutu. The metal warmed, and a soft, unmistakable chime echoed faintly, not solely in the air, but somewhere behind her eyes.

Then…click.

The cube shifted. Its seams realigned with mechanical precision. Gears ticked inward. With a low whir, the top twisted open and a scroll rose from the centre, neatly unfurling itself like it had been waiting. Marlowe stood carefully, eyes wide. Rhydian stood beside her, stunned.

“Did you… just open it?”

“I think it opened itself,” she replied, her voice low. Her fingers tingled faintly.

Rhydian frowned harder. “No. Cubes like this don’t simply open. They respond to pressure triggers or coded commands. They require sequences.”

“I didn’t press anything,” she insisted. “It… happened. When I touched it.”

He narrowed his eyes, studying her like she was a particularly confusing equation.

“So, what exactly did you do? How would it recognise your touch?”

Marlowe tilted her head innocently. “Dunno. Maybe it likes girls with a flair for kitchen-based chaos and emotional instability.”

Rhydian opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “That would imply bio-link encoding or identity resonance, but those systems are ancient and…”

“It warmed up. Then it clicked. I didn’t mean to do anything,” she snapped, tossing him a glare. “Look here, Mr Prim and Proper. I didn’t study ‘Advanced Cube-Poking’ or whatever bedtime manuals you read for fun. I grabbed it, it liked me, and now it’s doing spooky scroll acrobatics. Blame the box, not the baker.”

Rhydian blinked, clearly recalibrating. “That’s… not how any of this should work,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, welcome to my life,” Marlowe huffed. “Nothing works the way it’s supposed to. Especially me.”

Her fingertips tingled again, and a dull ache began behind her eyes, like the echo of a memory she hadn’t made yet. She picked up the scroll. It was no bigger than a matchstick and tied with copper thread. She uncurled it carefully and read aloud:

“Hands that turn and numbers tick,
Truth is buried, deep and quick.
Time unwinds when gears align,
Find the heart, and you’ll find mine.”

Rhydian stared. “That’s not a message. That’s a trap dressed as poetry.”

“Or a very interesting treasure hunt,” Marlowe murmured, the glint in her eyes unmistakable now. She looked up at him. “Let me hold onto it. For a few days. I’ll return both cube and scroll with no explosions. Probably.”

Rhydian hesitated. “It’s evidence in the invest…” he didn’t complete his sentence as Stubby growled softly, threatening another shoe attack.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said brightly, tucking the cube into her apron pocket.

Her mind was already racing. Gears, hearts, secrets hidden in rhyme. Something had been set in motion, and for the first time in her life, she had a mystery that wanted her to solve it.

Rhydian shook his head. He’d gotten nowhere with the cube and his gut told him that this walking chaos of flour and jam might. He was willing to take the risk, with her anyway.

“You’re going to be trouble.”

She didn’t expect him to agree so easily. It didn’t fit with his law-abiding image, but she’ll take what she can, no complaints.

“I am trouble,” she said, grinning. “You’re lucky that I do come with snacks.”

---

Chapter 3

Operation: where even is east?

The cube ticked. Not loudly, more like the polite sort of ticking done by an item that wants to explode but has excellent manners. Marlowe had placed it squarely in the centre of the Bellamy kitchen table, where it now sat among crumbs, jam-smeared spoons, and what could generously be described as “baking supplies.”

There were gears next to the sugar bowl, a shining spanner wedged in the butter dish, and a suspicious scorch mark on the curtains from an earlier “testing incident.” Stubby lay under the table, chewing on an old school newsletter with evident satisfaction.

The kitchen was a strange but cosy place, like a half-retired airship hangar that had decided to settle down and raise a family. Pipes ran along the ceiling with the occasional hum of steam, and mismatched appliances. A temperamental toaster beside a voice-activated kettle that spoke in riddles, was the result of years of tinkering and after-hours scavenging.

Marlowe lived with her mum, who served as Bramblewick Academy’s Head Caretaker and Maintenance Director. It was Mrs Bellamy who kept the ancient pipes singing and the rooftop lightning catchers from blowing off during storms. She had hands built for hammers, a sharp eye for loose wiring, and a firm opinion about students leaving gum where they don’t belong. Marlowe barely remembered her father but often imagined him with a grin and pockets full of mischief. Her mum spoke of him in fond fragments, usually when the lights flickered and she was elbow-deep in a boiler pipe muttering, “Your dad would’ve used a crowbar by now.”

They looked nothing alike. Starla Bellamy had pale skin and glorious golden blonde hair that she tied up with whatever ribbon or screwdriver was closest to hand. Her eyes were striking, an intense gold like pure sunlight caught in glass. Marlowe, with her chocolate skin, wild black braid, and restless limbs, had gathered she took after her father. She had no pictures to confirm this though. They had lost all their belongings in a fire before they moved from the Capital.

Marlowe leaned closer to the cube, elbows on the table, expression thoughtful. This mystery, whatever it was, had wormed its way into her thoughts like a song she couldn’t stop humming.

Starla swept through the kitchen like a sunbeam with a schedule, grabbing a slice of toast mid-stride and sloshing a quick cup of tea into a chipped mug. She barely slowed, her movements brisk as her golden eyes flicked to Stubby with a look that said one wrong move, gremlin, and it’s the shed for you. Then she leaned in, peering over her daughter’s shoulder at the contraption on the table. Eyebrows lifted, expression curious but cautious.

“Are you sure it’s not a bomb?” she asked, munching on her toast.

“Bombs don’t usually include poetry,” Marlowe replied, waving the tiny scroll that had popped from the cube. “Unless it’s a very niche sort of villainy.”

She cleared her throat and read it aloud for the tenth time:

“Hands that turn and numbers tick,
Truth is buried, deep and quick.
Time unwinds when gears align,
Find the heart, and you’ll find mine.”

Starla frowned. “Sounds like one of Gran’s riddles after she’s had too much elderflower cordial.”

“Exactly!” Marlowe said, brown eyes lighting up. “Which means it’s my kind of nonsense.”

Marlowe jumped up muttering to herself, then shot off down the passage. She skidded into her bedroom with the elegance of a dropped cupboard, door slamming shut behind her. Moments later, chaos erupted. There was the unmistakable sound of a shelf giving up on life, followed by the dull thuds of tumbling books. Something hitting the floor with a suspicious and a very impolite curse involving cinnamon. More rummaging. A triumphant “Aha!” echoed through the house, as though she’d just discovered the lost city of Jamalon.

Then she burst back into the kitchen, hair wilder than before, cradling a dog-eared book that looked like it had survived a minor fire. She slapped it onto the table, flipped through the pages with a kind of chaotic reverence, and began reciting with dramatic flair:

“Three cranks backward, then spin to the moon,
Add a whisper, a pinch, and a teaspoon of tune…”

Without missing a beat, Starla finished the last of her toast and she sipped her tea.

“Is that the book of nonsensical rhymes you salvaged from the recycling bin last spring?”

Marlowe didn’t look up. “It’s poetry with purpose, thank you very much.”

She began rummaging through a tin of spare bolts, nuts, and… a toy goat, for some reason. Her fingers itched to pull things apart. Not because she was good at it, far from it. Give her a blueprint and she’d find a way to smudge it with jam, or custard. Ask her to build something, and you’d best have a fire extinguisher and a firm belief in second chances. She’d once tried to fix the kitchen kettle and somehow rerouted it to whistle in Morse code.

Another time, she’d attempted to mend the toaster – it developed stage fright and refused to pop without applause. She had a glorious talent for making things worse in increasingly creative ways. She’d never built anything remotely impressive. Half the time, her “inventions” ended up in the Bellamy Junk Drawer of Regret (located beneath the sink, next to the emergency plasters).

But something about the cube made her want to tinker anyway. It whispered in that quiet, electric way that made her bones sing. Like maybe, just maybe, this time she wouldn’t ruin everything.

Well. Probably.

“What if the riddle’s literal?” Marlowe said. “Hands that turn, like clock hands? Gears aligning? Maybe it opens somehow.”

Her mum gave her a familiar look. “You’re going to poke it with a whisk again, aren’t you?”

“It’s not poking,” Marlowe said defensively. “It’s highly strategic prodding.” She waved said whisk in a heroic arc and wore a mischievous grin.

She turned to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a cake tin, a jam jar lid, and a broken egg timer. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she fitted the jam lid over one end of the cube, using the egg timer’s pin to rotate a hidden groove. Starla let out a deep breath, loaded with doubt, as she drained her cup and slipped out the back door, toolbelt in hand.

“Try to keep my kitchen intact, Marlo love,” she threw over her shoulder on her way to the school grounds. Time for a day of repairs and silent prayers.

Click.

Marlowe jumped. Stubby raised his head, ears perked, then resumed his vicious attack on paper. A tiny flap opened on the underside of the cube, revealing a second scroll. Her mouth dropped open.

“No way…”

She unrolled the paper, which looked older than the first. Its edges were browned and curling. On it was a sketch of a building. A familiar one. Marlowe leaned closer, eyes narrowing.

“The old East Tower,” she murmured.

Most students barely noticed it, merely another crumbling bit of Bramblewick’s eccentric architecture. Marlowe was odd in a different way. Her mind, a cluttered attic of half-facts and curious scraps, had filed it away years ago beneath “Odd Things Worth Remembering.”

Today, for once, her habit of collecting useless knowledge had found a purpose. If only History before the Fracture 101 could be stored away as easily as those random facts. The tower had been closed and tightly guarded since the fire years ago. Was this placed in there on purpose?

“Or is someone deliberately leading us to something,” Marlowe whispered, a spark lighting behind her eyes. “What if it’s part of some big puzzle? Or a secret society, like starchy pants mentioned. Or… oh please let there be a secret society.”

Stubby barked in agreement. Or indigestion. Hard to tell. Should she tell Granger? Marlowe paused, lips pursed.

“He’d call it reckless and unauthorised. Plus, I’d like to have one victory before he swoops in with a magnifying glass and ruins it with rules.”

She realised that she was enjoying this, a little too much. Marlowe stood, clutching the cube and scroll, pondering her options.

“Come on, Stubby my boy. We’re going on a mildly illegal adventure.”

Stubby barked once, leapt to his paws, and trotted toward the door, a furry general ready for battle. The problem? Marlowe had no idea where the blasted East Tower was. Her sense of direction was absolutely atrocious. Oh, she’d seen it before, at some point, through a foggy window or while half-dreaming through a boring lecture on cog calibration. Locating it now was proving… troublesome. She had half a biscuit in her coat pocket and a very eager dog, but neither were particularly helpful in the navigation department.

She started with the west side of the school during first break, which was entirely the wrong side. Then circled round the steam tunnels, which she wasn’t allowed in since the Pudding Pressure Incident of last term. After dodging two teachers and a suspiciously curious squirrel, she ended up back where she started.

“Brilliant,” she muttered. “We’ve achieved a full loop of failure.”

Worse still, Rhydian Granger kept appearing when she least expected it. First in the corridor near the observatory, then again by the garden arch with a disapproving squint like he’d stepped out of a handbook titled How to Detect Trouble in Three Easy Steps. She nearly ran straight into him coming out of the maintenance wing. He sidestepped her with the ease of someone avoiding a flying pie: graceful, and entirely too practised for her liking.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Err… investigating the structural integrity of the bricks,” she said brightly, patting the wall beside her.

“You’re lost.”

“Nope. I’m directionally spontaneous.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is now,” she replied, then bolted down the corridor with Stubby in hot pursuit. It didn’t help that Old Crone Lawley, Head of Dorm Discipline and Chief of Eyebrow Raising, seemed to pop up whenever Marlowe so much as breathed near a restricted hallway. The woman moved like mysterious mist and glared like a lighthouse. Stubby growled at her once. He’s still recovering.

By late afternoon the next day, Marlowe finally found herself in the right wing, mostly by accident. The abandoned East Tower loomed in the distance, partially hidden by creeping vines and bad decisions. But before she could bask in the glory of her impending discovery, a loud ahem echoed behind her.

“Miss Bellamy.” She turned, wilting slightly under the gaze of Headmistress Alderton, who held a clipboard like a battle axe.

“As part of your disciplinary follow-up for the Invention Fair catastrophe, you’ll report to cleaning duty in the mechanical labs. Immediately.”

Marlowe opened her mouth to protest. Then deflated. “Yes ma’am.”

Stubby whimpered in shared disappointment. Soon Marlowe was elbow-deep in oil, cogs, and regret. The scroll burned in her coat pocket and the East Tower shimmered in the distance. The cube pulsed faintly. And somewhere, behind locked gates and layers of school history, the truth was waiting. Slightly out of reach.

For now.

Exhausted and completely drained, Marlowe dragged her aching limbs back home like a very dramatic, slightly singed zombie. After a quick supper and a shower that felt more like a steam negotiation with her ancient plumbing, she flopped onto her bed and sank into the mattress like a stone. The East Tower could wait. Tonight, her priorities were horizontal. She didn’t even make it under the covers before sleep claimed her, fast and heavy.

She dreamed of twisting twigs, doors covered in dust, and someone whispering her name through the cracks of a forgotten corridor.