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I do not believe in coincidences. I am certain that everything happens for a reason, even if those reasons aren’t immediately apparent.

Yet I find myself wrestling to come up with a mundane explanation for the sudden appearance of the exact same timepiece here as at the shop I visit in Boston. That clock was built by a French clockmaker. This museum celebrates a Swiss clockmaking family. Why is it here now if it’s not a symbol telling me that I’ve come to the right place?

“That is a Guillaume du Paris regulator clock,” Elena says. “Guillaume was inspired by my ancestor Georges Rousseau to construct grandfather clocks. Legend says that he found a Georges Rousseau piece in the foyer of a Viennese hotel and was so struck by its beauty that he made his own. There are, I believe, eight of these pieces worldwide.”

And I have somehow managed to see two within one day. Could this be a sign that I am truly on Annie’s trail?

I dismiss that almost immediately. For goodness sake, they are only clocks. One just happens to be here in a museum, and another just happens to be at an antique shop in Boston.

Still, I can’t shake the sense that this is an omen of some sort.

“You can leave your suitcase in the foyer for now,” she tells me. “Don’t fret about the water. The floor is designed to drain that water to the outside.”

She points out grooves on the outer floorboards where water can escape through small grates. “An ingenious design,” I tell her.

"Thank you, but of course, I can’t take credit for it. My ancestor, Tristan, designed the house this way when he built it.”

“Impressive.”

“Yes indeed. He was a brilliant engineer. Had he not been fascinated with time, he could have been one of the most celebrated architects of his day. Of course, he became one of the most celebrated horologists of all time, so I suppose I can’t say he was humble.”

I look at the grandfather clocks that stand on either side of the doorway at the back of the foyer. “Are these also Guillaume du Paris pieces?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. These are Georges’ pieces.”

“They’re beautiful.”

They are indeed. Each stands about seven feet tall. They are composed of rosewood with enamel faces and simple brass pendulums that swing smoothly and quietly in opposite motions to the other—outward, then inward, outward, then inward. The effect is almost hypnotic.

Elena notices my admiration and says, “You can thank Francois for their condition and the fact that their pendulums swing in opposite directions. There’s no practical reason for that, of course, but it pleases our visitors.”

“Who is Francois?”

"Our resident horologist. I'm afraid I elected to follow in the tradition of my mother and pursue a career in history rather than horology. I am still fascinated by clockmaking, as you can see, but I leave the intricacies of the art to Francois."

“I look forward to meeting him.”

She leads me through the foyer into the first exhibit of the museum. I gasp when I see the array of clocks around me. They range in size from small desktop clocks to large cabinets with doors from which I presume various automata will escape at the chime of the hour.

They're constructed of all sorts of woods: ebony, pine, mahogany, maple and others I can't name. Some are painted in bright colors, while others retain the wood's natural stain. One clock is set in a cabinet of wrought iron. Their faces are sometimes brass, sometimes ceramic, and a few ivory. The bright brass of the hands stands out well against the ivory-faced instruments. Each piece bears a capital letter R in an old-style serif font etched into the base of the clock's housing.

"These are all pieces constructed by Tristan Rousseau, Georges' great-grandfather and founder of Rousseau Clocks. They're spring-driven, the most advanced technology at that time. You can see the elegant minimalism of Tristan's style. His focus was on simple elegance, a trademark of Rousseau's clocks that would persist throughout the lifetime of the company. His focus on quality is evident, too. As you can see, the clocks are all operational, even now centuries later."

Not only are they operational, but they all appear to be perfectly in sync. This is nothing short of spectacular, considering the age of the clocks and the relative primitiveness of their mechanisms. Francois must truly be a miracle worker.

The next room is filled with grandfather clocks and pendulum-driven table clocks. They vary in their elegance, with some of the finer pieces constructed with pearl faces and sterling silver metalwork set in richly oiled mahogany cabinets. Still, all of them bear the simple elegance that Elena speaks of before. They are not nearly so intricate or showy as the clock I looked at yesterday in Boston.

“These are all Georges’ pieces?” I ask.

“These range across several generations. The earliest pieces are by Georges’ father, Robert. Some are from Georges and others from his son, grandson and great-grandson, and so on. It wasn’t until the middle of the nineteenth century that electronic clocks began to take over fully mechanical timepieces. I must say, I am somewhat bitter about that. As a horologist and historian, I fully appreciate the advantages of modern timekeeping technologies, but as a lover of all things beautiful, I can’t help but feel that the advent of electronic timekeeping coincides with the end of clock design as art.”

I’m not quite sure how to reply to that, so I only say, “These are very beautiful pieces.”

She smiles. “Thank you. The grandfathers are my favorite. Sophie likes the old cabinet clocks in the first room. When the hour chimes, you’ll have to see them. Some of the automata are truly impressive.”

She leads me through a back door to a short hallway with stairs and elevators on either side. “The first two floors are the museum. I didn’t show you the gift shop or the public restrooms. That’s the rest of the first floor. The second floor contains the electronic clock exhibit. The company ceased operations during the First World War, prior to the invention of the quartz clock. However, we also have an exhibit containing examples of timekeeping devices from the ancient world through to a modern radio-controlled watch that receives its signal from state-of-the-art ytterbium clocks. I can show you those if you’d like.”

“Perhaps another time,” I reply. “I should get some rest.”

“Yes, of course!” she replies. “I’m sorry for keeping you up. I just can’t resist showing off the golden age of my ancestors’ craft.” She smiles wistfully as she leads me back toward the foyer for my suitcase. “It’s strange. I curate a museum dedicated to the measurement of time, but I wish sometimes that time would stop so we could have our pretty things forever.”

I smile. “I know exactly what you mean.”

She sighs. “Well, we can’t stop time no matter how much we wish. But we can measure it and understand it. That’s a fair accomplishment.”

I retrieve my suitcase, and we return to the elevators. "The third and fourth floors are the house. The kitchen, living room, school room, and dining room are all on the third floor, with the bedrooms on the floor above. The top floor is a full-length attic. We use that for museum storage. There are a few spare rooms on the third floor that we use for personal storage. Not that you'll ever have a reason to venture up there."

She laughs, and I smile with a touch of embarrassment. I have a history, I’m afraid, of snooping through my employers’ attics.

Well, I’ve only done that because I’ve found scandals and mysteries with my other employers. As long as I don’t stumble on any scandals here, I’m sure I’ll have no reason to snoop. And I can’t imagine that Annie frequented a clock museum. I never knew her to care much at all about the past, let alone the past as it relates to timekeeping.

As the elevator rises, I ask, “If you don’t mind the question, why have you chosen to homeschool Sophie?”

Elena tenses a little. I nearly apologize for prying, but she says, “My work here keeps me too busy to take her to and from school, and I would rather she not take the bus herself. Besides, ever since her father—my son—died, I am alone here. I enjoy having her company.” She smiles at me. “And you come highly recommended. I am quite sure you will do a fine job with her education.”

“I will certainly do my best, ma’am.”

The elevator door opens to reveal a ghostly pale figure with light blonde hair and dark blue eyes. I gasp and flinch, and the figure blinks and takes a confused step backwards. Heat climbs my cheeks as I realize the figure is only the young Sophie Rousseau.

Elena tsks. “Sophie, what are you doing out of bed? It’s nearly midnight.”

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” Sophie replies. “I was nervous. I heard voices downstairs.”

Her accent is slightly thicker than Elena’s. I find it absolutely charming.

“You heard me talking with your new governess,” Elena says.

She bends over to kiss Sophie’s forehead, and I am struck for the first time at the age difference between the two of them. Elena is an elegant-looking woman, beautiful even, but she is fifty-eight years old, and she looks it. Sophie is a child of ten. It’s not impossible, of course, that Elena could have had a child at forty-eight, but it certainly isn’t common.

Really, Mary? That’s what you’re choosing to snoop about?

I shake the thought off and smile at my young charge. “Good evening, Sophie. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Her brow furrows. “You didn’t scare me. I scared you .”

I laugh. “So you did. Well, I accept your apology.”

I bow deeply and when I straighten, she is smiling shyly. She looks far younger to me than ten for some reason. Perhaps it’s her petite stature or the cherubic cheeks, or perhaps it’s only because I’ve worked with older children at my previous two posts.

I extend my hand. “My name is Mary. What’s yours?”

She giggles. “It’s Sophie. You’ve already said it.”

“Have I? Well, I must be tired.”

“We all are,” Elena says. “I suggest we all turn in for a good night’s sleep, and we can spend more time getting to know one another in the morning. What do you think, Sophie?”

Sophie nods and rubs her eyes. Her mouth opens in a yawn, and she says, “Good night, Mary. It was lovely meeting you.”

“And you as well, Sophie. I look forward to many adventures together.”

She gives me another beautiful smile before taking her grandmother’s hand and leading her away. Elena laughs and calls over her shoulder, “Your room is the second on the right, Mary. I’m afraid I can’t escort you. I’ve been kidnapped by a ghost.”

Sophie giggles and looks back at me with that same smile. The chill I feel earlier is completely gone now. Moments like these make me wish I had considered motherhood, but alas, that chance is behind me. I will have to settle for enjoying the time I have with the children I care for on behalf of others.

Still, I am here now, and for a while, at least, Sophie will be mine. I have already come to love her smile. It’s a good start to my tenure here in this old house filled with reminders of the inexorability of time. Things grow old, but new things take their place. There is wistfulness in seeing the lines on my cheeks deepen, but that wistfulness can’t compare to the joy expressed in a child’s smile.

I head to my room with a smile of my own on my face. Once more, I look forward to my time here with hope and not trepidation. Perhaps I will not only find an answer to Annie’s mystery but also peace from my own dark thoughts. It’s certainly worth hoping.