Clockwork and Cinders

ears, blowing wisps of hair out of my ponytail. The rain mists into a drizzle. If

the sky lets loose another sweep of rain. It almost knocks me off my feet. A gust of wind sloshes mud onto the path and into my

s, I can hear them clicking even from here. I curl that hand at my side, flicking my eyes up from the exposed joints in my fingers. Another moment paces. Squeezing MN-9, I step back, imaging the sweet smell of rain and earth, the feel of

and she'd know. I might say Hello, I might just wave. Maybe I'd say something dramatic. 'It's me', or just, 'I'm home.' But she'd smile, take my arm, and help me into the house. Sometimes

ville that opens th

ke to say something about my stomach flip-flopping or my blood running cold, somethin

l? Me, shivering with excitement, knowing that Clara cared about me, hoping maybe she didn't hate me after all. A real sister. Her humming, soft and sweet, haun

uards were right, Clara is beautiful. Her features are lean, her cheekbones so defined you can see them through her skin. She is pale, her eyes the darkest shade of brown I've ever seen. Everything about her

in the way she looks at me, I know nothing has changed. And yet. My mind races, a cloud of something like hope making me

a word, she drops her lit

So prim and white, with its silver ring of a knocker glittering in the night. The house, such a big thing, standing

inside and clean away the rust before any more damage can be done. His pieces clang against my porcelai

lanet. Another step back, and I take stock. Two stories. A sloping blue roof with

read of gold, but if I can see it with my hazy vision, then it must be unmistakable. MN-9 and me, we look out for each oth

dares come near. One wrong move and the skies could open up and a blast of red light could kill every Elizrian in the vicinity. Folk tale, I know, now. There are no invading ships in orbit, whose here is here. Elizria is too small to even warra

It is as dignified as the house, all dark wood and thick bark. I feel a tingling behind my pump, a clench

mat

nd. Stuffing MN-9 into a pocket, even though my clothes are soake

t in your cage and stare out at the darkening sky, that or the men and ladies ogling you. Climbing trees with hands that can hardly open and close and a shell of

d black, spiky limbs lashing out like tendrils, waving under my feet. I wish I could close my eyes, squeeze them shut and forget the images of

l my head. The balcony, with its curly iron rails the daintiest shade of blue. I edge toward it, a branch moaning under my weight. My hands slip on the wood. Pump grinding, I hold my head up to the clouds and

t itself. Sometimes, I forget how to move in this form. My arms yearn to stret

I'm shrieking like a musical duck as I grab for the rail. My fingers slam against the iron posts, porcelain crun

d and gravity themselves. MN-9 moans. I scrabble up, the rail scraping my stomach with a sound like c

ses again. It's if the clouds have exhausted themselves, but still it doesn't stop. Wind whips my ponytail in my face, velvet ribbon sla

an apology, just a word would suffice. Any word. "

t to press on, to force myself into a home no one wants me in. I have never h

g. Thinking of how to get up onto the roof without busting all my parts in a shower of metal and glass. A second passes, th

tips. Climbing is a desperate, painful scrabble. Shingles bruise my porcelaine and leave hairline fractures. My heart grinds with a click-click-click! I dig my fingers into t

o go, for me, for my dying bot. I raise my head, focusing on the brick chimney extending up b

porcelian fingertips, wishing I could feel the texture of the brick against my fingers, the slap of rain on my face. Climbing is relatively out of the question, so, clicking

handhold. Puffs of soot fluff around my falling body, then my fingertips are driven into a crack. It takes seconds for a prick of starl

al parts. MN-9 makes a pained sound, a mechanized yelp. I pat him on his circular h

ough the chimney. The papery, soft blue walls and the sagging shelves of yellow-paged book on the walls. The sigh of the straight-back velveteen chair under my weight. I remember loving that c

textureless place around me that was once my home. My heart, instead of sinking, on

der with a shiver of fear what wi