The storm passed just after midday, leaving the market square in Lipovice gleaming like a freshly polished mirror. The stone slabs were steaming and the smell of wet leaves and rain wafted over the wooden benches, which smelled of cinnamon for a while. Jagna stopped in the middle of the market and raised her notebook upwards. She was eleven years old, her hair was tied up in a high, crooked ponytail and she had this habit of writing down everything that sounded interesting: from the laughter of the pinecones to the creaking of the old gate at the baker's. Tymek, twelve years old and the owner of a collection of screws, strings and pockets full of plans, walked beside her, carrying under his arm a makeshift kite made of sticks and a commercial. - Do you hear? - Jagna stopped and squinted. - 'The clock is going to strike. The clock on the town hall tower struck once. The second. The third. Usually it was twelve. This time, however, when everyone had stopped counting, there was another, soft, slightly delayed sound: thirteen. - 'Well, they haven't played that one yet,' muttered Tymek, but there was curiosity in his voice. At the same moment, Jagna noticed something by the well. The puddle, larger than the others, was shaped like... a key. No, not an ordinary drawer key, but a long, intricately curved key, as if from a fairy tale. Its surface trembled, as if it were breathing. In the reflection, one could not see the clouds or the tower at all. Instead, a staircase shimmered, descending into something that had no end. - 'Look,' whispered Jagna. - It's not the sky. Tymek crouched down and, instead of touching his finger, took a tiny screw from his pocket. He placed it carefully on the surface of the water. The screw did not sink. It rolled - they could see it clearly in the reflection - down the first step of the stairs and disappeared into the depths, as if it had fallen on the stone floor. - 'If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't have believed myself,' said Tymek with the seriousness of constructors and dreamers. - Shall we go? - 'Just for a moment,' replied Jagna, because 'just for a moment' was a phrase that could open any door. They took each other's hands. The water underfoot was neither cold nor wet. They walked as if through a transparent curtain of air that smelled of lavender and dust. It became darker, but not completely dark. From above, as if through a glass ceiling, they could see the market as if in an enchanted sphere: inverted, blue, distant. A staircase led down into the great hall. It resembled a workshop and a conservatory in one. On long tables stood jars with labels: "Spring Glows", "Summer Blasts", "Autumn Murmurs", "Winter Squeaks". Miniature clouds swirled in some of the jars, while others sparkled with speckles that looked like children's laughter or the breath of a pine forest. Magnifying glasses, brass tubes and caskets, from which a chill blew as if from an ice rink, were delicious on the shelves. Metal rings connected to cogs dangled from the ceiling, and in the middle of the room stood what Timothy immediately called a machine, although it was more like a sculpture with wheels, hands and seasons. On the plinths beside the machine were inscriptions: "SPRING", "SUMMER", "AUTUMN", "WINTER". Each season had its own colour and sound. Spring buzzed quietly like a bee, summer smelled of hay and freckles, autumn rustled the leaves on the stone, and winter was transparent and icy until the teeth trembled. - Where are we? - asked Jagna, although she felt that the answer was already sitting on the tip of her tongue, like a new word in her notebook that she had not yet managed to write down. - At the heart of something very important," said Tymek and took a step towards the machine. Right next to it lay a roll of paper with a seal on it. The seal was broken. Jagna unwound the parchment carefully. At the top, hidden between the ink stains, she could see hasty writing: "Don't touch if you can't. - Keeper of the Calendar." - He controlled it... - Jagna began. - And now he's probably gone - finished Tymek. A cup of dried tea lay on the table beside him, and a coat with a maple leaf patch was abandoned by the chair. It was as if someone had stood up in mid-sip and left on an urgent errand. In the silence of the room, something was ticking. Slowly at first, then faster, like a heart that had just taken to running. Jagna stepped closer to the glass with the words "Winter Squeaks" written on it. A drop of white ran down the wall and froze in flight, stopping in mid-air. It froze... and began to crack, drawing a thin web of frost. - 'Oi, I don't think that's how it's supposed to be,' Tymek furrowed his brow. - 'There's something slithering across the ceilings. A peculiar bulb in the shape of a rowan fruit was hanging from the ceiling. It blinked and went out, then came back on. For a moment the whole room rippled like a field of grass before a storm. Jagna tightened her hand on her notebook. She had hundreds of words in her head, but none would come out. Tymek walked over to the machine and touched the lever by the "Autumn" carefully. The lever was warm. There was a crack just behind it, as if someone had tried to move it and not finished the job. Underfoot, the floor trembled. The indicators on the machine vibrated. On a dial with four colours - green, gold, rust and silver - a silver arrow began to move a hair. A quiet chant flowed from the ceiling, consisting of sounds, smells and something that could not be easily named. - If he was watching this, and now he's gone, then... - Jagna didn't finish. A light shimmered beside their feet. The drops of water coming from their shoes were not falling. They floated lazily, as if gravity had forgotten what it was supposed to do. - Can you see it? - Tymek stretched out his finger. One drop touched his skin and immediately turned into a tiny icicle. - Okay. There's definitely something out of whack here. Jagna looked around, searching for anything that looked like an instruction manual. She found a board with hooks, and metal talismans on them: an acorn, a shell, a feather, a porcelain snowflake. Underneath each symbol was fine writing. Acorn: "Wake up slowly". Shell: "Listen carefully." Feather: "Do not rush the wind". Snowflake: "Do not wake up unnecessarily". - "Don't wake up unnecessarily" - read Jagna out loud. - Who would want to wake up winter unwillingly? - Someone who was in a hurry and pressed the wrong thing,' replied Tymek, glancing at the Guardian's parchment. Suddenly, a soft whisper came from behind the drawer cupboard. It didn't sound like a human voice. More like the wind trying to speak a word. A shadow moved past them, though there was no one here but the two of them and hundreds of enchanted objects. The jars on the table trembled, as if someone had scanned the room with their breath. - Who is here? - Jagna asked, not daring to raise her voice. The echo absorbed her question and spat it out with a quieter version. The ticking accelerated. The arrow on the coloured dial hesitated between 'Autumn' and 'Winter'. Somewhere below the floor, very low, there was the sound of shifting stones. A flash flashed between the shelves - for a split second Jagna was sure she saw a feather, long and silver, leaving a trail in the air as if from frost. - Did you hear that? - she hissed, grabbing Tymek by the sleeve. - I heard it. And I saw it. - Tymek swallowed his saliva and pointed to one of the windows by the machine. A thin scratch appeared on its edge. The scratch sparked blue and led on, like a line in a notebook that suddenly takes on a life of its own. From above, through the glass ceiling, came the sound of another clock. Not the thirteenth, not the fourteenth - something in between. Words that were not in any dictionary began to weave their way into their heads. The air grew cloudy. There were quiet chimes from the metal rings on the ceiling, like drops of delayed rain. - 'We'll stop it,' said Jagna, unsure whether she was talking to Tymek or to herself. - We have to find out how. Tymek was already reaching for the lever when the curtain of air at the entrance vibrated. Someone - or something - set foot on the top step of the stairs. First they saw a shadow, then a shoe fragment that didn't leave a wet mark. It smelled of snow and smoke from the chimney. And then, straight from the middle of the cracked glass of the "Winter Squeaks", a whispered name came to them, clear as a bell: - Jagna... The machine whined quietly, as if someone had awakened a deeply dormant mechanism within it. An arrow shot through the silver. For a moment, all the lights went out. Just in front of them, in the cool grey twilight, something rose from above the table and moved a wing of ice.