The Peculiar Tuesday in Mumbleton

The Clocktower of Whispering Winds Part the First: In Which a Most Peculiar Tuesday

Arrives There was once a town called Mumbleton, nestled in a valley between two gentle

hills that looked, from a distance, rather like a giant's sleeping knees. It was the sort

of town where everyone knew everyone else's name, and also their grandmother's name,

and probably their cat's name too. The houses were built of honey-colored stone that glowed

warmly in the sunlight, and the streets were paved with cobblestones that had been worn smooth

by three hundred years of footsteps, wagon wheels, and the occasional runaway cheese wheel

from the dairy at the top of Mulberry Lane. On this particular Tuesday morning—and