Clockwork and Cinders

My first moments of freedom begin with a crash and end in the back of a warehouse, my neck dripping with sweat and my limp, throbbing wrist lashed to a pillar. I stifle a groan, letting the heat seep through my bones and the ache through my muscles. If the picture were any prettier, I'd have it framed.

A throaty voice drifts to my ears, words elusive as mist in the dizzying heat. "And who are you?"

"Uh." The airship's steam and smoke mingle in the back of my head, stinging my nose though I'm far, far from the wreckage. I lift my shoulders in a meek shrug and let out 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 remember a name, but it's all a blurry haze, like of what I can remember I dreamt in a fitful nightmare. From the snippets of memory left still intact, I hope that's the case.

"Yes?"

MN-9 buzzes in my vest pocket, rolling anxious circles against my ribs as if to say, Luciel, please don't go into another bout of existential crisis. I've known you for years and years and I needn't see it again. Luciel. My heart throbs. My name is Luciel.

"L-Luciel, sir." I move to pat my droid, but my fingers hang stiff at my sides, too heavy and shaky to lift. I raise my head instead. Memories swirl like circus colors behind my 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 ship's bow flit before my eyes when I blink, seared there from the crash, the darkness so heavy it encases the room like a lid of smoke. My eyes can't even adjust; I only see black.

"Speak up." The voice is harsh, the type that snaps words into barks. A militia man, no doubt. I feel a chill crawl through my skin despite the temperature. As time passes, I remember a few things. I remember how the moon shone through the hole in my box, the vertigo of the fall, the footsteps of scrambling ladies as they raced through the cargo hold and left me to die. I tip my head back.

"Luciel." A blush rises to my cheeks. My voice has a way of falling into a whisper when I speak.

MN-9 hums, driving a thorn through the silence. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I'm speaking to. Maybe pirates, maybe scavengers. All I can figure is 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 mean no harm." I blink hard. Images move like ghosts at the edges of my vision, taking form if I tilt my head just the right way and squint just the right amount.

A man, portly and squat, looms over me, his belt buckle glistening in a faint glow as a slouchy creature prowls around me in tight circles, almost like a zoo cat. A strip of light flickers across the floor paces away. Even straining on tiptoes, that's the most I can see. I grip the edges of my jacket and hold my breath.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. The steps feel all jumbled in my head. It happens sometimes, forgetting how to breathe. It happens when you're part alive, part not.

It's thinking that, me being only part alive, that snaps me to my senses.

The creature straightens. "Cheng, " the light, lilting voice of a young woman says, rolling the name over her tongue as if trying it for taste. A little shiver creeps through me. The room drips with shadows, the air stale and pitch-black, the type that suffocates. Cheng. My head throbs like a mallet's striking away at it from the inside. "As in Clara and Arabella Cheng?"

My stomach drops to my toes. It's been years since I've heard anyone utter those names, but everyday I've cursed them. Questioned them. Missed them. MN-9's wheels spin though he has nowhere to go. My chest stings, and I nod, a throat too full of cotton balls to choke out words.

The woman sighs. "Speak up, boy."

"Yes, ma'am." I try not to squeak, bouncing from one foot to another. Pressure replaces the throb in my skull, like my thoughts have substance and if they keep filling up my head my skull will burst. 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. It only hurts my wrist. My body, sturdy and well-designed as it is, has little strength left in it. That's what happens when you spend a years of your short and somewhat miserable life in a cage.

"And you expect us to believe that?"

I stare bleakly ahead and will myself not to fidget. "I'm their stepbrother." My fingers wriggle weakly, my free arm dangling limp and my opposite elbow twisted at an odd crook. An earthy, pungent odor taints the air, like wilted herb. I stiffen. Shouts echo in the distance, the scraping sounds of heels dragging on an uneven floor. I did nothing wrong. You have no right to lay a hand on me!

"Is that so?"

I gather the last of my breath and finish. "I've been sent away. We've been estranged for five years." The words hurt to speak, so curt, so dry, such bones of the story they 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, the jerk of frayed ropes around my wrists, the sticky heat of late summer. Some memories just don't fade. The edges never blur, crisp and clear as they were when they came.

Which is okay. These people don't need a sprig, not even a taste of what happened, but the thoughts still cuts deep to my marrow.

"Proof, " the man says.

"I-I have identification papers." I lift my hand to my pocket. MN-9 nests in my papers, his round mechanical skeleton snug against my body. Glass shatters across the room and a man yelps. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. "Who are you, anyway, may I ask?"

The militia man snorts. "Doesn't know who we are, he says. A Cheng, he says. A Cheng."

The woman whistles, long and low. When she does it sounds more like a canary song than a catcall. A red jewel sparkles on her pinkie finger, her slim hands propped on her hips. "Beautiful women, aren't they? They will make great royals."

"Aye."

Gasps. Splashes. I swear, I know nothing! Sparks rush to my chest. Part of me itches to fight back, to save the person being hurt. The other part is so wrapped in thoughts of my stepsisters I can hardly move. Beautiful women. They were pretty girls when I left, 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, her nose pointed in the air while Arabella clung to her petticoats, a shadow. I lower my head toward my bound wrist. They must still be pretty women now. A pretty family I can never be a part of. Someone snaps, yanking me from my stupor. "Identification papers?"

"Right. The papers." I force my voice louder as I wrestle the crumpled pages away from MN-9. He whistles his disappointment and I mutter an apology to him. I shove them into the woman's hand, 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 struggling, water splashing, gasps and hissed curses spill to my ears. "Can I go now?" I ask as she reads through my papers. I can't stand here. I have to do something and I have to go home.

The woman makes a 'hmm' while the man snorts. "Scandal, " he says with a click of his tongue. The two sound like twittering birds, and their very voices make me dig my fingers into the strap until I rub my skin raw underneath. How can they ignore that someone's being hurt?

"How do we know these aren't forged?"

"Who are you?" I ask, raising my voice just enough to sound out. A hinge squeaks and a hint of light creeps into the room. Only a pinprick, but I take advantage and drink up every detail of my prison I can make out. Badges glint. The officials 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 the poor woman must be in pain. A corset. I recoil. Even Queen Charlotte refuses to wear a corset. Women just don't dress like that in this kingdom, their ribs crushed and squeezed painfully tight by brass and whalebone. Not since the dark ages.

We're traders and inventors, and we dress like it, especially our women. We're more queendom than kingdom, always have been since war swept the system. My heart flutters in my chest like the wings of a caged bird. Something is wrong.

A polite laugh. "We're your people, if you really are a Cheng."

My head snaps up. My step family is nobility from across the system, settled here as an act of diplomacy. My father, the Inventor, just married into it. Took the name with the wealth. "Look, I won't cause trouble." I wet my lips enough to speak, holding up a hand. Changes must've occured while I was away. "I just need to get home before midnight."

"Midnight?"

"Curfew." Lies. My stepfamily wouldn't mind if I rotted in the streets, but I won't tarnish their reputation with such truths. I force 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 man like me, you can feel the night as it presses in. Tingles crawl up my legs and through my torso. Stiffness fills my muscles."Please..."

Another mutter. "Very well, " the woman says after a hesitant pause, but the man won't let up. He crosses his arms over his chest, wrinkling his jacket. His features are big. Bulbous nose, thick eyebrows, a handlebar mustache oil black. A shadow passes over his face. I shrink away, if only a little. Militia men aren't often kind.

"You're an adult. Why do you care about curfew?"

I roll back my head, popping a finger into my pocket to pat MN-9. He usually hates being touched, hissing and rolling away at any opportunity, 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." Strands of unruly brown hair hang limp before my eyes, ponytail tossed over my shoulder. I don't answer the question. I don't want to.

The woman paces tighter circles around me, her red bun glistening in the faraway oil light's sheen. The struggling plays out louder. The man's deep voice is as smooth as it is tight, each word drawn out with pain. My heavens, calm down! I'm not the man you're looking for, and if you think drowning me will help, I can promise you it won't.

I feel a squeeze in my chest, like someone took my heart up in their fist and clenched it.

A pause. Murmurs. Wood cracks and a dazed squeak follows. Sir. My fingers curl into fists. All the magic pouring inside me surges into my chest until I can only shake. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Someone is getting hurt and I can't do anything, anything to help. Breathe in. Breathe out. I let the words ribbon into a rhythm in my head.

"I asked you why you care." The man leans so close I can smell each distinct spice in his ginger-root soap. I stare at my leathery shoes, feeling the chill of floor through the holes. It's only a little mercy, but still an appreciated one. The woman's brisk steps snap in my ears like musket fire. "Answer me."

"You asked." My voice dips below my breath, the words more of a croak than I care to admit. I pinch the inside of my palm, drawing pink to 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. A sad grin twitches on my lips. If I could do that, I'd be far, far away by now, probably a planet across the system. "I-I care because-"

"Speak up, child!" He steps to me, thrusting his chest in my face. I flinch. Stucco digs into my neck, the edges of my hair ribbon brushing my sticky skin. The voice from before, the man in pain, comes again. I'm not who you think I am. Don't jump to conclusions.

The energy leaves my body with a shaky sigh. "Because I'm enchanted, sir." I never raise my voice. I never look up. All I know is the nervous ticking of my heart. It feels horrible to say aloud, like confessing to a crime. And it was a 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 woman stops. I know because her footsteps cease, the staccato sound silences, and the pressure in my head eases up. The coolness of her shadow is more than a welcome relief from the heat, though my stomach twists when she steps closer.

"Enchanted." The man's lip curls. I see it when I tip up my head, searching the dark for a door to the prisoner. A string of spit dribbles down the man's chin that he quickly wipes away. The officials stare at me, backing away with giant steps as if I'll transform into something mystical and they don't want the fairy dust to hit them.

I bite the inside of my quivering lip. I will transform if they don't let me go, but it'll be a dash less 'mystical' and a pinch more '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. The woman laughs. It's a hoarse thing, almost drunken. I think of bird caws. "Now that is a scandal, Horace. An enchanted Cheng boy."

Heavy breathing sounds from the far side of the room, shot with a groan of pain. A muscle twitches under my jaw. Right now, I don't care about the 'Cheng' name or my 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, greasy-faced and shambling. The men and women, frowning and choking on the bile in their throats. Now that I am free, I can finally help. "What are you doing to that man?"

And they are doing something. I hear the scrabbling of nails on the floor and something heavy crashing to the ground. Every muscle in my body tenses, images of cruel laughter and rusty bars trickling through the back of my mind. I have to help, no matter what the time is or who these people are. I have to help and I have to do it fast.

The woman blinks, heavy-lidded eyes round with faux innocence. "What man?" she asks. I huff, silent as she rolls her sleeve to her elbow, revealing an arm so 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 mechanical cry and I immediately let go, greasing him in a film of sweat. His mechanisms are sensitive like that. Sometimes I wonder why he doesn't melt in the rain.

She flicks out a knife from an armband. I don't flinch. It flashes at the edge of my vision and she brings it down in a smooth motion that almost looks graceful. The blade slices the leather strap and I let out a little sigh, rolling my wrist and flexing my hand, watching the long, sinewy muscle rise between my veins. "Thank you."

The militia man shoves me to the side, my dress shoes cutting into my tattered stockings and scuffing on the slatted floor. "It's eleven o'clock, " he says. "Go home."

One hour before my soul is shut back up in its prison. The thoughts come in a tumble. I'm free. I should listen. I should go home before I malfunction, before I collapse, before they see what I really am.

But when I hear a cry, I duck under the man's arm and race deeper into the dark.

"Boy!" The official grabs for my shoulder, but I slip out under his arm, skidding on the grimy floor by the heels of my shoes. I take deep, trembling breaths and squint for a glance 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 in the dark, but I can't dwell on it. Rain patters the ceiling and I grimace. I lace my fingers together so hard my knuckles go numb, a shard of pain nearly splitting my ribs.

When The Inventor tore my soul from my flesh and stuffed it into a clockwork shell, he could build me any way he wanted. So he did. Not in the way I was supposed to grow, distinguished 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, looks over stamina. I'm all feminine features, face-wise, big eyes and a dainty, upturned nose. My waist is so narrow sometimes it's hard to eat, the food just won't go down.

Each step I take is stiff and curt. Gentlemanly. There's a corset sewn up inside me, squeezing my heart, lungs, and stomach all the wrong ways when I move too fast. The pressure crushes me from the inside as my feet hit the floor in brisk, choppy strides, but I try to endure the pain. Ragged gasps spill over my lips. I'm breathing, at least.

Look. The voice pants. If I knew anything, I would tell. It's hot out and it'll storm. I want to go home. I'm sure this is just as unpleasant to you as it is me. The words come garbled, spewed in a rush, traces 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 my fingers around him to save his fragile body from impact as I charge the door. I'm pretty light, too light to make a good battering ram, but I have to try. I close my eyes and brace for the crush of pain.

But the impact never comes.

At least, not in the way I expect it. When I spring off my toes and hurl myself into the door, it swings wide. A little cry leaves the back of my throat as I slide in my shoes. I can't stop myself in time. My momentum carries me and I hit the ground in a tumble.

The pain comes in a wash. Instinctively, my knees curl to my chest, my arms flung wildly out on the floor like that of a mangled corpse. Water bleeds through my jacket, cooling my flushed face as I sputter and wheeze. The smell of cologne, musky and rich, hangs thick in the air. I blink, sneezing, 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 metallic. The odor seeps through the cracks in the checkerboard floor. Brown splotches streak the ground in broad jags. I clutch my stomach and force the bile back. Shards of glass lie in scattered heaps, fresh red roses torn into ragged petals on the floor. They smell of blood and flower sweet.

There comes a weak chuckle, almost a croak. I lift my head, MN-9 flailing his balled prongs to escape my fist, his exposed gears tickling my hand. He nicks my thumb to the bone, leaving blood to bubble and spew. I hardly notice. As I lie gasping on the floor, a face leans close to mine. I smell cinder and blood. A man's eyes flit down to meet mine.

They're green. A striking shade of green so bright they're almost iridescent. My heart twists up inside, ticking against my chest like a clockwork toy. In the room's weak gold glow, the man's beautiful eyes flash like cat's. I've seen them before. I've seen his face before. Lean and hungry, high 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 before? I roll my head back. A nervous smile twitches on his lips. We're almost at the same level, him on his knees, me curled in a trembling ball. I scramble to my feet. A long scratch runs along his cheekbone, crusted with dry blood and still oozing. All I know is that I want to stop the bleeding.

"Are you supposed to be a knight in shining armor?" he asks, head tipped and eyebrow raised. His grin is a tentative one. Silly. Many people mask pain 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 that looks too proud to accept my pity. His head is held too high, his shoulders rolled back too casually. But I don't care. I just want him to be okay.

"You could say that, " I tell him, though I'm as far from a knight as one can get. I kneel, black jacket wound over my hand. It's ragged at the seams and much of the threading is coming undone, but it's all I have. The man flinches 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 up like he's built of coiled springs, well wound and ready to pounce. When he looks back down his grin is sad. There's a bruise under his eye, mottled purple and blue on his dark skin, but even with his scars, he's a handsome man.

"That's real nice of you, " he whispers, and his voice is so deep it's almost musical, "but you're being watched."

Of course, I'm being watched. The silence around us is heavy. Too heavy, with all the people around. I know a second person hangs back, the man's torturer, and I know the people outside the door are waiting 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. "Hey, relax." I try to say what I wished someone would've said to me years ago. "It'll all be okay, I swear. Everything will be okay. And I don't mind being watched if you don't. Need some help getting home?"

"You could say that, stranger." He opens a single eye, smirking though he's still trembling. He steadies his voice, and for a moment, he sounds totally in control, like he chose this fate. "I would've gotten back sooner, but it seems I got a little tied up in the situation at hand." He motions his head back and I catch a glance at the ropes around his wrists.

I shudder and watch a blot seep through my jacket. "Bad pun." My jaw tightens. I tilt his chin up and press the jacket to his throat to soak up what oozes from a shallow cut there. He glances into my eyes and I let mine wander. "Almost punishing, really." I'm waiting for a sign of the torturer.

The man puffs out his chest and beams as I wipe away the blood, his eyes bright and round. A little black curl falls in his face, and he gives me his big, goofy smirk. "They're my speciality."

"Really?"

"Really. But I wouldn't want to rope you into my antics."

"Oh, sweet heavens."

Someone clears his throat with a dry, raspy chuckle. I wheel around, dropping the jacket at my feet with a 'plop'.

An oil lamp lights the room all the way to its corners, so I make the torturer out clearly. I squeeze MN-9, all the muscles in my arm taut like chains. It's no wonder I didn't notice him before. The man just blends in much too perfectly, with his polite smirk and faded blue uniform. Brass buttons gleam 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 crop. He doesn't look like a torturer, leaned on his hooked black cane like that, his expression as passive as if he were watching a stage play. But I'm not fooled. If I've learned anything, it's that the most unassuming people are always the most dangerous. I root my feet to the floor and hold my breath.

"Who are you?" the man asks, no hint of emotion in his voice, his strides rigid as he moves toward me. I release MN-9 and the droid drops to the ground, scurrying up my shoe and perching 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 to stand straight and roll my shoulders back, to face him with dignity, but I can't. I've forgotten how, it seems. It's almost funny. I've forgotten how to do anything but cower.

"Um, that..." I swallow hard, my mouth so dry my tongue feels like sandpaper. The man on the ground meets my gaze again, his look curious. His chest shudders, brown pinstripe waistcoat tattered over a dirty white workman's shirt.

Making out a gray, dented bucket pushed a little to the side, I remember him saying something about drowning. My chest tightens. MN-9 drops off my shoe, risking the wet spots on the floor, and glides toward him. "That isn't important." I motion toward the man. "You shouldn't, uh, you shouldn't do that-"

"For the love of the Empire, speak up!" I snap my head toward the door. The woman stands there, tall, nearly taking up the entire frame, her long, delicate fingers curled around her blade. My knees weaken. So there's an empire, now. It's such a jarring detail to miss I straighten. A familiar pang of homesickness hits my heart, but this time it isn't just for my kingdom, it's for a different time.

The man on the floor mutters, his playfulness sapped. He looks grave. "For the love of the Empire. No one loves your empire." He's a tall man, even on his knees his size is obvious. Broad shoulders, a thick neck, 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 darkened, his head held high. Suddenly, he looks wild, like if the ropes weren't in place he'd lunge. Clara had a name for men like this, lean and starved, men God cut from the same material as wolves. Scoundrels.

"What?" The woman doesn't say it like a question. Drawing the word out into a low growl, she says it like a threat. Her shadow stretches over mine, but this 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, swift and chivalrous, shooting me his silly grin with a wink in my direction. My heart thumps faster. He turns back to the other man and the grin disappears.

"Down with the Empire, " he says. The oil lamp casts blotchy shadows across his face that cuts his expression into shards, giving him a look so intense and so hawkish I almost draw back.

"You." The torturer raises his cane, lip curling into a snarl. The silver cap glimmers, flashed so quickly it doesn't even look real, like glitter on a wave's crest under morning sun. MN-9 uses his prongs to crawl up the man'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 his eyes flicked to the cane. His tremors becomes more violent, though the dead calm on his face never fades. It's as if his mind and his body function separately. The cane cracks down. "You Elizrians are all the same, you-"

"Wait!" My hand snaps out. Sometimes that happens, my body reacting in perfect time, like clockwork. I dive forward. "Wait! You 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 puddle, kicking up water and sending me skidding forward. I flail out with a cry and my hand whaps the cane, flinging it sidelong.

I hit the ground harder than I did before. The pain is sharp this time, like stab wounds all over my body. The brown walls and rich-cologne smell go spinning, spinning, spinning until they come to a stop so sharp it snaps me out of my haze. Clammy hands grab my elbows, yanking me to my feet. My breath 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 if that gives the man a chance at escape. The woman slaps her hand over my mouth, muffling my screams. The man blinks his brilliant green eyes, murmuring urgently to MN-9. She shakes me once, twice, until I feel my brains batter the inside of my skull. I squeeze my eyes shut and limpen just a little.

"We found this one at the crash site of an Luthinian airship, sir, stuffed in a cedarwood box and left for dead. Says he's an enchanted Cheng. Has 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 the muzzle of a prize dog to show the numbers on its neck. I cry out, and with my head at this angle, it admittedly does sound a little like a yap.

"An enchanted Cheng." The uniformed man swipes a finger across his glasses, light reflecting off the lenses in a way that make his eyes gleam hellishly. "A boy one, huh?" A slow grin spreads across his lips. It looks cruel on his distinguished face and I brave a glare in his direction. "Interesting."

He approaches, strides brisk and airy, like he floats instead of walks. The man on his knees squirms, glancing over his shoulder at a gleam of rusty metal. MN-9. He got MN-9 to help him. I almost laugh, 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 royal blood, but I've never seen it first hand. I don't think anyone has. The man twists a little, exposing the ropes around his wrists. MN-9 buzzes and pokes at him with the dull edge of his prongs.

The uniformed man pushes his glasses up, surveying every feature on my face, on my body. I twitch, kicking out. He tugs my ponytail, my ear, searching for the part of me so enchanted. I scratch and thrash, struggling to catch a fisful of him until he steps back and glances at the woman. "Let him say his piece."

The woman lets go of my face without argument. "You shouldn't torture people, " I rush, gasping in case she tries to smother me again. "I-it's not very nice, you know."

The torturer cups his hand over his mouth and laughs in that quiet, sickeningly polite way that makes me want to hurl. He turns and sweeps a 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. Curls of black hair wisp in his face, fluffed up in all the wrong spots. The torturer's glasses hit the ground and shatter. I almost laugh.

The man whirls away and the torturer says nothing, just grows paler and paler until his skin is the color of talcum powder. As if adhering to an unspoken command, the woman drops me and races after the fleeing prisoner. He's already halfway 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 toward the door. He tosses his head back and laughs. The sound is low and scratchy. Starlight trickles through a low, newly revealed window, dust and dander lifting in the air in a yellow drift. The torturer lunges to stop him, but he's too slow.

"Good luck." The scoundrel looks up and locks eyes with me. I almost look away, my heart beating too fast for comfort. He lifts his fingers to his temple in a tentative salute, his smile so genuine, so wide, I feel the warmth all the way in my toes. "See you again, knight, " he says, and his voice is smoother than the finest symphony.

"S-see you again." I watch as he hops up and barrels out the window, shattering it in a thousand pieces that dice the air like throwing knives. I duck.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. MN-9 races across the floor and I bolt out the door.

I run.

And I run.

And I run.

The problem with large, dark places is that finding ways out can be hard. Even more so when you're running from a scary person with a scary cane. This complex has become a labyrinthe, deep halls of deep dark that makes sweat burn my eyes like tears.

I keep up the pace until the stitch in my side cuts so deep blood oozes from my insides. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. Flesh and loose bolts don't always play along, I suppose. Every movement sends a jolt through my bones. Every impact locks up my joints that much more. Ah, the joys of not being all that human.

The darkness is unyielding, an expanse that only deepens the farther I race. MN-9 hardly keeps up, I can just hear his faraway whistles. Tingles claw through my veins and behind my bones, heat flushing me through and through. It settles in my aches, dulling them like a shot of rum. "No, no, no."

I don't know where I'm going. I still don't know where I am. But I know it's close to midnight; I can feel the magic thrumming through my veins. "Hey!"

I skid toward a flash of something white, a column to steady myself with, when a hand lurches from the darkness and takes my shoulder. I scream. My entire body recoils and I launch into the air, the heat coming heavier, thicker now. I can feel it filling me up, settling under my skin, in my joints, around my heart. The moisture dries up in my hands and cheeks, each movement becoming more of a struggle. I have to fight to keep my footing. I have to fight to get away. "D-don't touch me." My breath quivers and I pull out of his grasp with a single, lousy kick. I shiver. This must be how a moth feels with its wings trapped under a glass pane. The dark never lifts. I can feel bruises welling up underneath my skin where the man grabbed my shoulder, but I know they'll go away very, very soon.

"MN-9?" He rolls up to my shoe, my strides coming that much shorter, that much stiffer. Rain pelts the rooftop, the pattering an incessant drum in my ears. MN-9 whines. I swoop down and lift him into the palms of my hands, his scrap parts glinting in thin pinpricks of starlight. The more I stare at him, the more he only looks like a bundle of cogs and wheels held together by a few bolts and the endoskeleton of his prongs. A junk pile. His glowing sensors only provide a pinprick of light and suffice to say, it's not much help, not really.

I slam into a wall, one, two, three times, until my entire body aches and quivers from shock of it all. "I could use some goggles, " I mutter to MN-9, though we've had the conversation a thousand times. Goggles are expensive things, infused with old magic to make the night less dark to tired eyes. My fingers find the stucco and I use the prickly edge to guide me across the threshold, gliding with a gentleman's restraint. I can hardly move. MN-9 twitters, and if droids were the emotional type, I'd pin it on nerves.

Of course. It's raining. I suck in a heavy breath, the smell of sweat and damp earth misting through the dark. Smooth material meets my fingertips, a curl of cylindrical metal under my fingertips. I pat MN-9 back into his pocket and draw my hands up, above the metal, against polished lacquer. A door. My chest throbs, and I have to wait for it to ease. The faster my heart beats, the harder the transformation is on it. I squint, ignoring the surge of heat pressing at my skull. It has to be a door.

Fingers tap the side of my neck. I jolt, my stomach upturned and twisting, a twinge in my chest. I don't want to fight. Please don't make me fight. I freeze, bracing for the worst.

"Let him go." The voice is gruff, the words spoken as a command. I grab for the door, groping for something to hold, a knob of some sort. The air feels sour and thick. I almost gag. The voices dizzy me, all around. I can't even make out who's speaking.

"But you saw what he did! He let the man-"

"What part of 'let him go' do you not understand? We can't hurt him. He's a Cheng."

My hand closes around something cool and round. Cheng. I've forgotten how important the name is here and what it means to my kingdom. I lift my leg, grip the knob, and kick out as hard and fast as I can. The door is a lot heavier this time, jammed in a lot harder. Laughter dogs me. I slap the hand away and kick with all my might. MN-9 whines. The door squeaks open, mud splattering my shoes and squishing through my soles. My eyes don't adjust to the light in time and I stand there dumbly until a hand shoves me out. "Good luck, enchanted Cheng!"

The door slams behind me.

I run.

The pain in my side almost cripples me. It's the type that burns, rising through my ribs and searing under my flesh. My entire body trembles. The rain is no relief to the heat; it only makes it worse. Each drop sizzles as it drags down my skin. MN-9 squeals. I slam my hands over his pocket, the flutters in my stomach growing so sharp I drop to my knees, the pain and heat and transformation tremors so intense I can't stand. It just, well, it hurts. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. They're the only words in my head, forced commands to keep me alive. I think about the man. I hope he's okay.

MN-9 gives a mechanical wail and my heart plunges in my chest. The magic takes over. My skin, human and soft, tightens to my bones until it fits around them like a porcelain straight jacket. My neck jerks up, out of my control. I hear the tick, tick, ticking in my ears and let my body limpen. I've learned not to fight the process. I've tried before. It never works.

Knocked on my back from the violence of the magic, I stare up at the sky, the stars glittering like holes into the heavens. The night sky. I haven't seen it in so long I feel an ache in my chest. Heavy steamliner airships chug across the sky, their bellies moving like shadows over the clouds. But they can't blot out the moon. It hangs like a white medallion in the sky, painting the city in broad, milky strokes. I shake my head to dislodge the drenched, limp strands of hair blown out of my ponytail and slicked to my face by the storm.

Tick tock. My timebomb heart ticks in my chest like a clock, and I know the transformation has ended. I can feel the gears whispering against each other, hear their scraping. It's a sound I know so well, I could cry.

But I can't cry. I can't even blink.

When my "real boy" form slinks away I become who I really am once more-a clockwork toy-I can't do or feel much, and even that's a bit of an understatement. I can't smell the smoke of the city or the scent of buttery croissants rising in the baker's oven. I can't taste cinnamon dustings on crumble cakes or feel the scratchy lace of tea dollies. I can see, but the edges are blurry and unfocused, like I'm squinting through a dirty looking glass.

Sometimes, when thoughts about it all come to my head in a rush like this, the pump in my chest throbs so hard I think my heart's mechanical parts and human parts will come undone and finally kill me. The rain soaks through my shoes, drowning the plucky clumps of grass around and seeping through my thin shirt. I almost wish I had my jacket. MN-9 squeaks, scrambling up my body and searching for a dry spot.

"Okay, " I say to test my voice, my jaw popping down when I speak.

When the green-eyed man spoke and his voice carried a musical sound to it, it was beautiful. It's the type of voice you'd listen to for any stretch of time because of just how natural it sounded, how comforting and deep. But mine isn't like that. Mine is light like flute music, but not in a beautiful way, in a mechanical way. When I talk, the sounds are never quite right. They're eerie, too musical, like a music box never wound down. And it's a painful reminder. I don't sound real because I'm not real.

I wrap my porcelain fingers around MN-9. He jerks. My hands are wet, but I have nothing to dry them on. "Okay, " I say again, listening to the clang of his body against my delicate hands. I lift myself to my feet, every jerk of my mechanical parts choppy and painful. Each movement is a fight, like pulling against puppet strings. My breathing comes in shallow clicks. The rain pounds. I rise on jerky legs. The city slopes, cobbles scraping through my shoes. "We're going back to Stepmother's, somewhere safe and warm." Except 'home' is never safe with my stepfamily, but I'm too tired to grapple with that now, all machine and MN-9 malfunctioning in the downpour. The city sags before me, shops and carts built of rotting white wood slats. I can make them out easily, caked in green and yellow mold. I can even make out traces of the church in the distance, gothic architecture washed out under the moon's silhouette. The palace isn't that far either. Hanging in the clouds, shiny and white, its towers twisting so high up they fade out of sight. When I was little, I used to think it was heaven. For a moment, I hang back. Standing here, numb to the whistle of the wind as I look over the hills, I watch moonlight glint off shop windows and think of the streets I used to take refuge in. For a moment, I'm a child again, led by my stepsister's hand. "You wanna see the circus?" she asks with a wry wink.

The pressure in my chest comes so suddenly and unfurls so deeply I think the steel in my ribs will come undone and all my parts will spill out. I heave a gasp and bolt, no matter the strain it puts on my joints. I stagger down the hill, clumps of grass and mud sticking to my shoes and making speedy escape even harder. There are no gates to the city, only crumbling remains of two brick walls. I tear past them without much thought and stumble through the city square. The dark coats it like a fog. A few lone women slink through the streets, parasols raised and goggles drawn up on their noses. MN-9 makes a pained sound and I hush him, my head ducked to keep from seeing and remembering too much. I can deal with it all in the morning. Right now, I just want to go home. I just want to get out before the situation devours me.

The streets slope up, then back down again. The hills of Elizra. I remember the serpentine lay of the land like I remember the day I left. Magnolias. Spice candy. Clara's hand. "Luciel?" a woman calls. I risk a glance up. Fashions on the street have changed, leather to lace, work pants to long skirts. I'm closer, and with heart-wrenching ease my feet find the steep footpaths I used to climb. The pain is suffocating. Someone knows my name. Someone remembers who I am.

I wish they'd forgotten.

Windows gleam, splashing my reflection back at me. My mangy silk ponytail, my blank mask of a face, my glassy brown eyes. I even catch a hint of the silver key sticking out of my back, the length curved and glowing under the moon. MN-9 silences his clicking. I curse and force my joints to extend farther and my steps to hit the ground heavier. To me, it doesn't matter my body isn't built to take the impact. Nothing matters at all. I focus my eyes to the to the only place I dare, to a house that juts out of a rocky mass in the distance. I ball my fists, trembling, the dumb, terrible magic in me crackling up my gears and down the braided plating on my spine. If I could, I'd squeeze my eyes shut and sink deep, deep into the street, huddled in a ball to stop the spinning in my head. But I can only stare, like a horse with blinkers, all the bubbling feelings and fears surging inside but unable to slip across my sculpted face. The only sign is a twitch in my fingers, my thumb and forefinger clanging against each other while my mechanical lungs pump. I can hear every cog as it spins inside me. Tick tock.

Time doesn't heal old wounds. As I approach the house, heart and mind trained on MN-9 and the man he saved, the thought whispers into my mind with the hiss of the pounding rain on the street. If time healed old wounds, I'd be dead, buried, and rotting. I step into the mud, weeping trees waving like skeleton arms in the night. The brass knocker glints, burning at the edges of my vision.

The house is just as I remember it, a prim manor painted white with quaint red roofs that arch to the sky in vaults. The windows glisten blue in the night, smoke lifting in elegant curls to the clouds. I clutch my droid with shaky hands. He's dying. I have to get him home. Tick tock. My heart keeps time as I step from the muddy road to the lawn. I have to lower my head to watch my steps on the greenery, my peripherals of little use. Many a time have I longed to smell the crisp scent of early spring grass, but now it is only an ache. An ache that will have to wait.

I step up onto the path and lurch for the door, the key in my back twirling, twirling, twirling. It makes a sound like bristles dragging over a scale. "You think that scoundrel got home?" I ask MN-9, my nerves so thick I can only feel the tick of my insides. I hope the man is doing better than I am. He's probably been through more than even I have, and babbling about him is a good distraction. "What did he tell you, MN-9, to get your help? Sure, he seems charming. And his eyes, don't they seem familiar somehow?" I pause. MN-9 whistles softly and I pretend to know what he's saying. Sometimes I think I do. "Okay, yes, eyes are a funny thing to dwell on, but they seem so odd. They don't look quite human, but then again, we aren't quite human."

MN-9 sputters and falls silent.

The house looms over me, scattered memories of my stepsisters blotting out my thoughts like shadows, funneling them into whispers of days long passed, of a boy long gone. My rigid lips press together, the only outward sign of emotion I can give. I wonder if my "sisters" missed me. I wonder if they cared.

I shamble up to the pink door and stand there, fist raised and poised to knock, the rest of me frozen like a garden statue. I stare.

My stomach can't clench and my heart can't flutter. My knees can't weaken and my lungs can't heave. You'd think that would make me braver, but it doesn't. I still want to run, still want to hide. But I can't. I have as many places to escape to as I do friends in this now foreign land-none.

I knock. One, two, three times, until a crack grows down my fingers. I knock and let the demons back in.