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them. “If you are concerned, perhaps some careful reconnaissance . . . ”
    “Enough of this nonsense,” interrupted the man who appeared to be the oldest and crankiest in the group. “Wait for the problem to arise, then seek solutions.”
    Mattie thought that the mechanics were generally inclined to solve non-existent problems; she took a step away from the group when her leg shook and she felt faint. Her movements faltered, and she felt a fine tremor spreading through her arms and legs, while her head felt suddenly foreign and unwieldy. She stumbled and would have fallen, if the edge of the table had not presented itself to her dimming vision; Mattie grabbed onto it, her fine fingertips splintering under her weight.
    She saw Loharri making his way toward her, worry on his face, and his fingers already unbuttoning the tall collar of his jacket. Before her eyes closed, Mattie saw him pulling out a thin chain and a blinding flash of light reflected from a polished metal surface. The flash grew larger and obscured the room and the dismayed faces of the mechanics, annoyed at such brazen automaton malfunctioning, and Mattie could only feel her creator’s hands—loving, repellent—tugging the dress on her chest down, exposing her shame for all to see. And then she stopped feeling altogether.
    Mattie came to—at first, she didn’t realize that she was in the same room, lying on the same floor. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, and the people were gone. Only Loharri perched on the edge of the table, motionless and dark like a gargoyle in the gathering dusk.
    She pushed herself up, and her hands clanged against the hollow floors, making them sing with resonance. Her fingers found the smooth window in her chest and traced its familiar oval shape. It was closed again now, secure and snug, but her heart whirred strongly behind it, all wound up and ready for another few months of labor. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “It’s not your fault.” He didn’t move, and she could not quite decide whether he looked tired or irritated. “Not the best timing, but these things do happen.”
    She stood, testing her limbs. He didn’t seem mad at her for the embarrassment she caused him. She should be grateful for that, she thought, but instead she felt hurt. Violated. He exposed her heart for all to see, he wound her up with the key around his neck right in front of his friends. “I want to go home,” she said.
    He hopped off the table, and the floor echoed again. “As you wish. I’ll walk you.”
    “No need,” she said.
    “I’d rather keep an eye on you,” he said. “To make sure you’re all right. I just wish you’d tell me when you need winding.”
    “I don’t know when I do,” Mattie said. “I just wish you had given me the key.”
    Loharri led her outside, into the uncertain, still-tremulous light of the streetlamps that were just starting to go on. “If I give you the key,” he said, taking her hand into his, “you’ll have no reason to spend time with me.”
    They had had this conversation often enough, and it always went in circles like that. Mattie reassured him that she would come and see him, but he shook his head and insisted until Mattie agreed that he was right. She wouldn’t—oh, for a while she would feel dutiful and visit, and then the obligation would become a meaningless chore as the reasons behind it faded and resentment overcame loyalty. She looked away.
    “Why do you hate me?” Loharri asked.
    “I don’t.” Mattie faltered, unsure at the sudden change of tone and subject. She didn’t, not really. He was just trying to confuse her, to take care of the uncertain, vulnerable state when her mechanisms settled after the recent disruption. “I honestly don’t. I just . . . I just wish you’d given me the key.”
    He patted her arm. “All in good time,” he said.

Chapter 4

    Iolanda sniffed at the vial—Mattie had found the most expensive crystal, and the slanted sunrays