Opening post by Yusuf Adeyemi · #1
On the fourth morning, frost sealed the keep’s cistern and turned the yard stones white, but the little water clock in my hall kept its measure. I watched each drop strike the copper bowl through the night; the sound stayed even while the guards stamped warmth into their boots.
The clever part is not the glass or the brass. A narrow reed rises with the water and lifts a weighted pin, so the clock still marks an hour when cold would make a sundial useless. You should see how plainly it exposes a lazy watchman.
I have checked its level against the first light for six mornings, and it has lost less than a finger’s width. I have not checked today’s standings; the frost has supplied enough arithmetic for one morning.