The village keeps its time by bells, not by clocks. From the Council House tower, twelve notes mark the day—simple, clear, and certain enough that even the lake seems to take its cues from them.
First Bell rings at dawn (about the seventh hour by my reckoning), waking ovens and sweeping brooms. By Third Bell—mid-morning—the market thins a little; Merritt’s rye is long gone and the last cups of jasmine tea steam at the Arboretum’s steps. Sixth Bell lands at midday, when ledgers are ruled and ink dries in neat lines while the sun stares back at the spires. We work, we bargain, we listen for the next note.
At Twelfth Bell, toil ceases. Fires are kindled, and Rowendrey turns toward the evening meal.
Between bells, time flows strangely here. I can fill a page, mend a hinge, and cross the square, yet somehow arrive just as I left—no loss, no hurry. The day feels full without being longer, as if Rowendrey tucks small pockets of time into its sleeves for anyone who needs them.
In winter, the hours between bells shorten, yet the work never seems undone. Markets close, loaves are tallied, ledgers ruled—all within a day that grows steadily smaller. The Council insists the bells are always correct, though no one quite agrees what they measure.
In summer, Twelfth Bell sounds while sunlight still lingers across the lake. The day officially ends, but few hurry home. You’ll find villagers sitting along the Market benches or by the shore at Bright Star Lake—musicians with small pipes, children skipping flat stones, even a baker sharing cooled loaves from the day’s bake. The Council pretends not to notice; after all, they too have been seen lingering by the water, listening for a thirteenth chime that never quite comes.
When true dusk finally comes—whether minutes or hours later—lamps bloom along Market Street, boats nudge their moorings, and shutters fold in like wings. All should be within by then. (Not all are.)
I am charged to record what the bells declare—the official day, the honest hour—but I have begun to suspect there is a second reckoning beneath the first. Not all rings belong to the tower, and not every silence means the day is done. Perhaps that, too, is part of Rowendrey’s keeping: a public time for the village and a private time for those who listen closely.
— W.O. Rowen
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