On Bernard Street, Marek hears the lamps speaking for the first time, and their warnings lead him toward the buried secret of the Clockmaker.
Marek had been wandering the sleeping town for so long that the streets had begun to feel unreal, as if he had stepped into a place left behind by everyone else. By the time he reached Bernard Street, it was long past midnight. The windows were dark. The air smelled of rain on stone. Only the old cast-iron lamps were awake, pouring out a low amber glow over the cobbles.
He was about to keep walking when one of the lamps gave a faint, deliberate flicker, like a signal meant only for him.
Marek slowed.
Then he heard it. Not wind. Not a loose hinge. Voices. Thin, intimate voices slipping through the street from the lamps themselves.
"He can hear us," whispered one.
"He asked about the old Watchmaker," said another, its light shivering.
Marek stopped beneath the nearest lamp. Rust climbed its base like dried blood, and the glass above him pulsed once, as if it had a heartbeat. A deeper voice rose from within the metal, smooth and careful.
"Not everyone finds Bernard Street," it said. "And not everyone knows how to listen. If you're hunting the Clockmaker, you should think very carefully about what you want from him."
Marek swallowed. He had not expected the question, only the answer. He looked up at the circle of light around him, suddenly aware that every lamp on the street seemed to be watching.
"Before you go any farther," the voice said, quieter now, "tell us why you're really here."
The lamps flashed at once, white and hard, throwing Marek's shadow long across the pavement. Somewhere down the street, a metal door creaked open.
A whisper slid through the darkness.
"He already knows you're here..."
And then he heard footsteps coming toward him, slow and unmistakable, from the end of Bernard Street.