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the wind chilled him. He glanced back through the cab window. Admiral Daughton sat behind an open newspaper.
    Ikey turned his attention to Smith. A shiver shook Ikey. “How far?” he yelled at Smith.
    Without looking from the road, Smith shrugged. He held up his mechanical hand, extended three fingers, then a fourth.
    “Not miles.”
    Smith shook his head.
    “Hours?”
    Smith nodded.
    Ikey pulled the tarp closer. His teeth chattered. He closed his eyes against the bone-jarring vibrations of the carriage. The chugging of the engine resonated deep in his chest. He inhaled deeply. The wind broke over his face and brought him a variety of scents, from sheep dung and horse manure to coal and woodsmoke, all smeared over the cold, metallic scent of rain. They flew along the road as fast as a horse could run. Perhaps faster. As much as he wished Uncle Michael was along to experience the ride, at least Ikey didn’t have to finally say no to him. He didn’t have to see Uncle Michael’s disappointment every time he dodged eye contact with Ikey, every time he glanced away to keep the hard, hurt look from his nephew.
    Ikey took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and took in the bristle of levers before Smith. His tin-plated hand gripped a steering lever. His hand knew neither cold nor fatigue. It never felt pain. The damage it took earlier in the day was nothing more than a source of annoyance, an inconvenience.
    Ikey released the hem of the tarp and flexed his hand. Tendons and muscles stretched. He imagined the array of rods and gears and escapements needed to reconstruct it. He envisioned the frame needed to hold a similar mechanical arm to his body, how it would encase his own left arm and allow him to stand up to his dad.
    As he dreamed up different variations of design, the miles rolled by, interrupted with brief pauses to refuel the boiler. As the sparse landscape of the moors gradually gave way to the edge of a town, Ikey noticed a large structure in the distance, behind a bank of brick buildings. The structure resembled a metallic chrysalis. What ever was being transformed inside lay hidden away. High along the six- or seven-story walls, a bank of large windows let in light, but kept out peeping eyes. On the end of the building, two giant doors presented themselves. Again, the windows in the doors sat too high to provide anything more than light.
    Ikey leaned over to Smith and shouted out to know what the building was.
    Smith jerked a thumb back at Admiral Daughton.
    “It’s the admiral’s?”
    Smith nodded.
    “What’s in it?”
    Smith glanced over and lifted an eyebrow, then shook his head as he returned his attention to the road.
    To Ikey’s dismay, rows of stucco-fronted buildings obscured the hangar as they filled in the space on either side of the road. Within a mile, the road descended into a valley where houses stood several stories high. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they crowded the street and formed a canyon that funneled them down toward a dark river.
    In the fine drizzle numerous people coursed through the streets and bore every manner of dress. A few men sported top hats and frock coats. On their arms, women glided along in skirts and mutton-sleeve blouses with frivolous little hats pinned into upswept hair, all beneath open parasols. They walked along ensconced in bubbles of privilege, chins high and backs straight and tall and not bowed in the least with toil or troubles.
    Ikey sat further back against the bench and hunched down some. His matted brown hair struck him as too long and messy. Wrapped in his tarp, covered in mud, he wished to hide from the others.
    Mixed in with the well-heeled bustled a larger assortment of others who appeared to have a variety of concerns. Most of the people in the street were women who clutched at baskets or bundles or an armful of fussing child. These women wore dresses that brushed the ground as they walked, and their sleeves ran to their wrists like the dresses Ikey’s mother