Clockwork and Cinders

ith sweat and my limp, throbbing wrist lashed to a pillar. I stifle a groan, letting the heat seep th

s, words elusive as mist in the

a breath, the taste of sour and acid tingling on my tongue. "Who am I?" The words come in fragments. "Uh… I can't… I'm not sure…" I try to think back far enough to remem

es

Luciel, please don't go into another bout of existential crisis. I've known you for y

eyes, hints of tastes and textures, faraway laughter and pains in my chest. They come back slowly, settling into my conscience like paint through cotton canvas. Traces of a shi

despite the temperature. As time passes, I remember a few things. I remember how the moon shone through the hole in my box, the ve

eeks. My voice has a way of fall

that when the airship crashed and the blackness slunk into my conscience, they took me. Whatever happened, I don't want trouble. "Luciel Cheng. Nineteen. I me

owls around me in tight circles, almost like a zoo cat. A strip of light flickers across the floor paces aw

bled in my head. It happens sometimes, forgetting how t

eing only part alive, th

rying it for taste. A little shiver creeps through me. The room drips with shadows, the air stale and pitch-black, the type

veryday I've cursed them. Questioned them. Missed them. MN-9's wheels spin though he has nowh

ighs. "Spea

rst. I need to know the time and I need to get home, before the strike of midnight, before my transformation takes place. My chest heaves, if only a little, as I tug harder on the strap. No give.

ect us to be

and my opposite elbow twisted at an odd crook. An earthy, pungent odor taints the air, like wilted herb. I stiffen. Shouts echo in

that

ey can't seed a sprig of the betrayal or loss that have dogged my entire little life. It's all still there, wound up deep inside. I can tell you the taste of spice candy,

rig, not even a taste of what happened, but

" the ma

, his round mechanical skeleton snug against my body. Glass shatters across the room a

sn't know who we are, he say

ng than a catcall. A red jewel sparkles on her pinkie finger, her slim hands pr

ye

though I only remember them in fragments. Black eyes, thick lashes, glossy brown hair hanging in perfect ringlets down their necks. They matched in every way, but you could always tell who was who. Clara had a certain pride to her gait, chin up and back straight

fingers clammy and breathing labored. She doesn't even look at me. The man leans over them, so close I can feel his body heat. The smell of his spicy soap makes the room spin. Another sound of

e. The two sound like twittering birds, and their very voices make me dig my fingers into t

now these ar

wear uniforms, blue jackets of rough fabric that wrinkle at the shoulders and cream-colored lace cuffs that hang limp over the wrist. The slouchy captor has a feminine figure, too feminine of a figure, the lines and curves drawn up so tight t

more queendom than kingdom, always have been since war swept the system. My h

e your people, if you

the Inventor, just married into it. Took the name with the wealth. "Look, I won't cause trouble." I wet my lips eno

dni

a weak smile, wondering if they can see it in the dark, wondering if I can drop it because it hurts to keep on my face. When you're a m

arms over his chest, wrinkling his jacket. His features are big. Bulbous nose, thick eyebrows, a handlebar mus

. Why do you car

ity, but now he only fidgets with the same nervous energy burning me up inside, purring in the peculiar way machines do. "Please let me go

g plays out louder. The man's deep voice is as smooth as it is tight, each word drawn out with pain. My heavens,

like someone took my heart up

nside me surges into my chest until I can only shake. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Someone is getting hurt and

soap. I stare at my leathery shoes, feeling the chill of floor through the holes. It's only a little me

o the surface of my pale skin. My wrist looks so thin and translucent you'd think it could slip right through the strap, like a ghost's.

into my neck, the edges of my hair ribbon brushing my sticky skin. The voice from befor

crime. My whole existence was a crime, outlawed years and years ago. I'm not supposed to be ashamed, now that I'm legal, now that I have papers, but my head stays bowed and my eyes trained on a crushed spider leg smeared by my foot. The

A string of spit dribbles down the man's chin that he quickly wipes away. The officials stare at me, backing aw

'monstrous.' My skin crawls, my insides laced up so tight I imagine the air folding around me like a body bag. Breathe in. Breathe out

stepsisters or the tarnish I am to my family. There's another cry, and all I can think about are the people I've seen hurt, just out of arm's reach. The children, gre

ound. Every muscle in my body tenses, images of cruel laughter and rusty bars trickling through the back of my m

o white veins show under her skin in clustered webs. MN-9 squirms. He's good at sensing trouble. He knows. When I grasp his clunky body, he gives a mechanic

down in a smooth motion that almost looks graceful. The blade slices the leather strap and I let out a little

utting into my tattered stockings and scuffing on the s

come in a tumble. I'm free. I should listen. I should go home before

ck under the man's arm and