50 questions • 45 minutes
(Line 1) The workshop was Master Elmsworth’s universe, and Lyra, his young apprentice, was its sole, silent moon. Every surface was a landscape of gleaming brass cogs, half-finished silver filigree, and tiny, sleeping mechanisms. Dust motes danced like miniature galaxies in the shafts of sunlight slanting from the high, grimy windows. Master Elmsworth was a horologist—a master clockmaker—but his creations were more than mere timepieces. He built clockwork dreams: songbirds that trilled real melodies, spiders that spun metallic thread, and pocket watches whose faces showed not hours, but the shifting phases of the moon.
(Line 8) He was a kind but fastidious man, and his most important rule was simple: Lyra was never to touch the ebony chest tucked away beneath his main workbench. It was the only object in the workshop that was always locked. "There are unfinished thoughts in there, Lyra," he would say, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "And unfinished thoughts are best left undisturbed." He had once told her that the difference between a simple machine and a true creation was a single, indefinable spark. "You do not create the spark," he had explained, his eyes distant, "you simply build a perfect vessel and hope it chooses to arrive."
(Line 15) One Tuesday, a summons arrived from the Royal Observatory. A crisis with the great celestial clock required the Master’s immediate attention. He packed his tools with hurried precision, gave Lyra a list of components to polish, and departed, promising to return in three days. The workshop, usually humming with the quiet energy of creation, fell into a profound silence. For the first time, Lyra felt truly alone. The silence seemed to amplify the ticking of the dozen clocks on the walls, each one marking a second of her solitude.
(Line 22) Her eyes kept drifting to the ebony chest. His words echoed in her mind: unfinished thoughts. What could that possibly mean? Her curiosity, usually a quiet, manageable flame, roared into an inferno. She told herself she was only looking, not touching. She knelt, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs, and examined the lock. It was a complex, star-shaped mechanism of his own design, utterly impenetrable. Disappointed, she ran her fingers along the smooth, dark wood. As she did, her thumb pressed a small, almost invisible knot in the grain. With a soft click, a hidden drawer, no wider than her hand, slid open from the side of the chest.
(Line 30) Inside, nestled on a bed of faded blue velvet, lay a single, exquisite clockwork sparrow. It was a masterpiece of articulated feathers and jewel-like eyes, but it was incomplete. A tiny, golden key was tied to its leg with a silk ribbon, but the winding hole on its chest was empty, a hollow space where its ticking heart should have been. Beside it was a half-drawn schematic, a complex web of lines and numbers with a single, cryptic note at the bottom: The heart must hear the sky’s first song.
(Line 36) Lyra felt a strange mix of guilt and exhilaration. This was no mere unfinished project; it felt like a secret. She understood instantly that the note was not just a technical instruction but a riddle. The master’s words about ‘unfinished thoughts’ and the ‘spark’ suddenly made sense. This sparrow was a perfect vessel, waiting. A quiet determination settled over her. She would not let this thought remain unfinished. She would solve the riddle.
(Line 40) The desire to imitate life with machinery is not a modern obsession. Long before computer-animated films or robotic assistants, inventors known as automata-makers were the masters of mechanical magic. The term ‘automaton’ refers to a self-operating machine, and its history stretches back to the ancient world. The Greek engineer Hero of Alexandria is said to have designed automatic doors for a temple and even a simple mechanical theatre troupe.
(Line 46) However, the golden age of automata truly began in the 18th century. European craftsmen, often skilled clockmakers, reached astonishing new heights of complexity and artistry. One of the most celebrated was Jacques de Vaucanson. In 1739, he unveiled his masterpiece: the Digesting Duck. This incredible life-sized copper automaton could flap its wings, stretch its neck, drink water, and, most remarkably, eat grain and appear to digest it.
(Line 52) Another famous creator was the Swiss-born Pierre Jaquet-Droz. His creations, known as the Jaquet-Droz automata, are three humanoid figures: the Musician, the Draughtsman, and the Writer. Completed in the 1770s, these are arguably the ancestors of the modern computer. The Writer, a clockwork boy, can be ‘programmed’ to write any custom text up to 40 letters long using a large wheel to select the characters. These were not simply toys for the wealthy; they were serious scientific enquiries into the mechanics of life itself, blurring the line between machine and living being. They inspired awe, wonder, and a deep philosophical questioning that continues to this day.