Clockwork and Cinders

lance at where the prisoner may be. The glow leaking under the door has an oily, fake sheen, like a spill the officials forget to clean up. I wonder if they're hiding something

tinguished and tall like all the men in my family before me, but in the fashion of the times, when women wanted their men like they wanted their terriers-small and delicate,

d stomach all the wrong ways when I move too fast. The pressure crushes me from the inside as my feet hit the floo

races of a cry lingering at the edges of the man's shaky voice. I lunge toward the splash of light, tucking my chin into my chest so the hit doesn't shatter all the bones in my neck. MN-9 whirrs and I wrap

mpact nev

e door, it swings wide. A little cry leaves the back of my throat as I slide in my shoe

eezing, my vision fading in and out. The perfume clings to everything in the room-the gilded ceiling, the arched shelves, the mostrosity of and oak desk propped in the corner. I almost hurl. Under the nausea-inducing perfume, I smell something much more concerning, something sharp and metal

posed gears tickling my hand. He nicks my thumb to the bone, leaving blood to bubble and spew. I hardly notice. As I

cheekbones and an angled, firm chin. His black lashes flutter, a curl of unruly hair in his face and the rest of him soaked through. There's something about him so familiar, like the memories are just in reach but I haven't stretched far enough, searched hard enough. Where have I seen him befor

in with humor, and he's shivering. I peel off my ratty jacket to clean him up, to wipe away the blood and water, but there's something about him tha

es when he sees it, eying me with a bite of his lip and a tip of his chin, settling his gaze above my head. He reminds me of a kicked dog, scared, but too in love with people to run and hide. His smile fades, his body all tensed

s, and his voice is so deep it's almos

g for me. They haven't attacked because they're watching my every move. Won't be the first time. I shrug and lean forward, dabbing the jacket to the cut on his face. He winces, but he doesn't pull back. "H

for a moment, he sounds totally in control, like he chose this fate. "I would've gotten back sooner, but it seems I got

and press the jacket to his throat to soak up what oozes from a shallow cut there. He glances into

his eyes bright and round. A little black curl falls in his face

all

dn't want to rope y

weet h

raspy chuckle. I wheel around, droppin

m in a perfect line down his chest, a thin pair of silver glasses perched low on his upturned nose. He looks down appraisingly, his gray, expressionless eyes taking in every detail of me and giving away very little. His white hair falls in a sweep over his forehead, styled in a neat, distinguished cro

erching there. The official taps his cane against the floor, a simple thup-thup that makes me tremble. I notice the silver tip and how the prisoner shudders when he sees it. I try

. The man on the ground meets my gaze again, his look curious. His chest shu

rowning. My chest tightens. MN-9 drops off my shoe, risking the wet spots on the floor, and glides to

me, her long, delicate fingers curled around her blade. My knees weaken. So there's an empire, now. It's such a jarring detail to mis

, muscles showing through his sleeves. Brass goggles hang limp around his neck. Black hair gleams animal slick, curls tumbling to the nape of his neck. His mouth is twisted into a tight grimace, his expression d

time the relief from the heat is unwelcome. I play with my fingers. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, fixing the man with a scowl. He dips his head, s

hadows across his face that cuts his expression into shards, g

n's waistcoat, leaving puncture trails as he perches on the man's shoulder. The droid's shell is drenched, and he makes an odd sound between a whistle and a purr. The tortured man laughs quietly at my droid, the corner of h

can't, you shouldn't, you-" I aim to grab the cane, to stop it before it hits my droid, the man. My dress shoes slip in a pudd

shudders. The punny scoundrel mutters something to MN-9, gentle words that coax the droid down his sleeve. I struggle and kick and cry while the torturer looks on. Inside, I'm calm. Inside, torture and death don't scare me, not as much as they're supposed to, anyway, but I'm not afraid to put on a show

s the papers to prove it. We let him go, but the little urchin won't split." She hisses when she speaks, tilting my chin up like she's lifting th

lenses in a way that make his eyes gleam hellishly. "A boy one, huh?" A slow grin spreads across hi

gh, wondering whether the man is a god or a king. Some say Queen Charlotte and her son can talk to animals and bots. It's supposed to be a trick of the special magic coursing through their precious r

ng out. He tugs my ponytail, my ear, searching for the part of me so enchanted. I scratch and thrash, st

ldn't torture people, " I rush, gasping in case she trie

hand toward the tortured man, an explanation probably on his tongue, but the man isn't on his knees anymore. He's on his feet, smiling wryly.

across the floor. I brush imaginary dust off my pants, ignoring the pain of the fall, pretending not to care. The woman wheezes when she runs. Corset troubles, no doubt. The man shoves a bookshelf aside with a single push and I scramble towa

mfort. He lifts his fingers to his temple in a tentative salute, his smile so genuine, so wide, I feel the warmt

ls out the window, shattering it in a thousand pie

eat. MN-9 races across the f