Just to make it easier, the pocket watch I'm describing is the one shown in Leviathan, the one Franz Ferdinand left on the tennis court. The picture inside is Sophie obviously, as shown in Keith's beautiful picture.
Disclaimer: I don't own the image of the image of the pocket watch, or the different described pictures. Those go to Scott Westerfeld and Keith Thompson.
Pocket Watches
The clunky faceted face is accentuated by the delicate numbers and slender hands, reaching up to gently kiss the pretty ivory. The gold leaf covering is burnished to perfection, which is faded with heavy use.
But the magic is on the inside.
The slight woman gazes up at the world from her faded finery of black and white. Her lengthy hair is swept up in an elegant bun. She's sitting regally, a queen in her own right, with nothing but a drop of royal blood in her. A graceful smirk almost twitches across her face. Her eyebrows almost quirk upward. She is, in every way, beautiful.
Rough fingers. Engine grease. They ease the stiff metal claws holding the photograph in place aside, making way for the new art.
This girl's jaunty and confident. Her hair is chopped obscenely short. This girl has not even a squick of royal blood. Common as dirt, she is. A sarcastic smirk definitely flashes across her face. Her eyebrows definitely quirk upward in amused appraisal. She is, in every way, beautiful.
Her photograph overlaps the other. Then it covers. But not replacing, never replacing. Merely a tradition unfolding.
More hands push at the claws over the years. More hands rub the burnished gold leaf. More pictures cover the old ones. Lover after lover. Life moves on.
It's dead romantic.