Chapter 1 of 3
A strange harvest
In the village of Willowmere, hours grew on silver-leaved trees. They looked like small glass pears. If you held one until it warmed, the world would pause for everyone except you. People borrowed hours before festivals, during harvest, or when an important letter had to be finished.
Nila repaired the village clocks, although the clocks were usually the last thing anyone worried about. One morning, every clock stopped at three. Outside, carts stood still and washing hung without moving. Yet the orchard keeper was walking towards her shop.
"We have borrowed too much," he said. "The orchard has no time left to lend." Nila followed him between the trees. Every branch was bare except one. At its tip hung a tiny hour, clear and cold, no larger than a button.