Clockwork and Cinders

't notice. He's already shivering from his earlier dunking. There are new b

of the man w

he tosses it over his head. The town jol into view, a shadow against the moonlight that glints off slants o

ay broken around his neck, rust dripping off them in patches. He draws up a shaky breath, the clinking of the fence pounding in his ears like a secon

. And it's as obvious as the people who hurt him. His legs dangle over the fences wire edge, the rungs creaking under his weight. Letting out a w

way. The gas lamps have been blown out elsewhere, leaving him to the mercy of the darkness and the rain. He clutches his heart,

etticoats and skirts. Their goggles glimmer in the starlight, a glint of brass, a glint of rust. They carry

and as quick as they come

busted Kitty's Cigs, the old smoking house he used to slip into with his friends. Now, ivy curls

an hear the ghosts of the laughter he shared there, smell a hint

ta bring

e been stacked. Tall and gray like gravestones. One throbbing leg after another, he stumbles forward, balancing on a stack of crumbly brick. It makes him feel like a ch

imself is one miserable malady. And yet he climbs. Tick tock. Though he left his pocket watch hidden under a stack of books, he can

f, shingles slippery from the downpour. Each step makes him slide, every breath as ragged as his pulse. Faster, faster, faster. The words loop through

n's ja

e. He has a soft voice, softer than Jasper had ever heard before. That, and there was something off still, something, unlike any other man Jasper had ever seen before. This close copy

, glow dancing off them so they spill light across the better side of town like a second moon. They sway to the rhythmic swells of the breeze, each platform stretching ten or so paces across, enough standing room for a cr

on

urly ropes and swings himself up. All the muscles in his shoulders pulse with a wave of fresh pain, and Jasper holds back a yelp of pain by stuffing his face in the soft, feathery peta

new scars. He stares up at the ascending platforms with a huff. Even the sweetness of the flowers won't ease this pai

ce. He swings up on to the next platform, then the next, then the next. The perfume, so sweet, so soft. He wants to curl into the br

is throat, and he pulls it tighter around him. It's too small. The man was as small and slim as a doll, and the muscles in Jasper's shoulders b

s that squishes under his scuffed boot, the smell of it as

and crushes the lenses out under the toe of his boots. The rain

rainbow of colors, in it, Jasper's, a warp of brown and purple and black. He blinks and scrambles onto a low ledge. The window is made of glass enchante

terial as the walls. It would look like a spire to an untrained eye, as the palace is obscured by clouds an

now so intense he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of anyth

h and topple into the hearth with a few scratches from the rods in the walls. Now, he has to scratch his way down, p

ps clip louder through the castle's echoing halls. "Little prince, little prince?" A woman whistles, low and sweet. Cinder clogs his nose and throat in thick, suffocating clumps. A silent scream catches in the back of Jasper's chest. His grip has beco

s and sputters, dust in his throat, dust curling up through the chimney, dust everywhere. The world is a spinning carasoul, and

e high and dripping with contempt. All the guards where

ed smile at the scratches in the fireplace. Please don't look, he thinks. His boot itches. The

ed with his mother out of parchment paper and wood scraps. The rest of the library is piled with rusty parts. A cog here, a foot chipped, a clock, its face bashed into dangling shards of glass. Jasper used to hide here, and seeing

ragging royalty through the streets." Jasper's heart clenches in his chest. Being dragged through the streets is one thing, and after torture, Jasper

oice dips, and she smiles. Slow and ea

the woman's false sweet. Guards, invaders, fanning out around him. They speak with the woman, more with their hands than with their voices. Choppy gesture

ines tearing the man's colorless eyes out of their sockets. The contraband takes weight in Jasper's boot, crushing now. "Prince." The man scoffs, speaking as if Jasper were an ani

es handed throughout like the latest fad, and Jasper grits his teeth. When did they ever

look at him and he looks back. Their images reflect back wavy to his hurt eyes. His trembling hands, clenching, and unclenching. Down with them, do

him, the edge of her lip curling into what Jasper supposes is meant to be a smirk. As it is, it's only a half-smile. A haunting sort of grimace that makes him go cold. The musky tinge of ri

er behind him. His heart thumps so hard against his chest he can't help shrinking back in case she can hear it. She looks so unassuming, her hair yanked back into a ti

she shrugs. "Come on, girls." She turns and Jasper holds his breath because he knows if he exhales it'll com

lue skirts swishing as she moves. Lace drags on her tulle petticoats, and he watches the white sway as she leaves. The

ble with the boot buckles, leather scratching old scrapes. He wriggles his toes free and strips away his stocking, the thin fabric sticky with rain and sweat. And there it is, glittering in the low

sper rolls on his side and stuffs the feather in his boot. His head

thoughts to fall away. Don't let them come in, he internally begs, though begging even the witches is starting to make his insides feel like slush. He's supposed to fight back. Protect his people. But righ

ng his fingers over the harsh threading, the sleeves coming undone at the seams. Even for the man, Jasper thinks, it seemed a little tight. "Just a little lon

the jacket so hard it tears in his fists, his pulse pounding

up as a child, reading. Maybe drawing spell circles too, his pen dripping with ink and his fingers with blackberry juice from the berry bowl. Husband. As their voices slip away

r were here, she would know what to do. But weeks have passed. And with no way to contact her, not with the invaders lounging in t

hepherds' flocks in the east, the shelves sawed from trees grown in the enchanted forests by the river a little south. His castle doesn't smell

l pa

irty and shivering, his mind and heart racing, Jasper's last thoughts before he sleeps are of the

hen