The Heartsmith's Daughter

Chapter 14.

I woke up, cold and wet from the morning dew brushing off each intricate blade of glass like a fine brush against my cheek. Slowly, I sat up, rubbing my eyes as I stretched my hands up towards the smog-coated sky. I looked around, when I noticed something was off.

Where's Oliver?

"Oliver?" I shouted, drawing myself up to standing. "Oliver!" This time it came with a tone of worry as I looked frantically around the horizons of dusty grass, only decorated with the smallest patches of trees.

"Oi!" came a response, if it could even be called that. Relieved, I turned around to find him far off in the edges of my line of sight. Skinny as he was, he must have had quite the set of lungs to call out from that distance. I decided to wait patiently for him to come closer, each step allowing me to make out more detail, until finally I could tell he had something in hand.

"Whatever is that?" I inquired once he was close enough to hear me speak at a normal volume.

A small smirk flashed across his freckled features. "Breakfast!"

"Stolen, I presume," I mentioned with raised eyebrows.

"Hm, I suppose you could call it that." He held the stained brown bag close to his squinted eyes, inspecting it. "But I like to call it an equal trade. After all, it's from a factory whose workers are entirely composed of small children. Since I spend more than enough time caring for those children later, when they decide they're no longer useful, I think a free breakfast now and then is more than fair."

I sighed. It was hard to argue with that. Though I had only seen them out and about in my hometown, it was hard to miss them whenever they ran past me. Children with missing fingers, crutches to support their weight, or those that had a hard time thinking of anything other than small thoughts, their minds so deteriorated. Father had always said it was because of the chemicals they worked with. It was why he had always tried to wear a mask whenever he dealt with his patients. I frowned for a moment, finding myself rather unlucky to have none on me for my own procedure tonight.

"Fine then. I hope it's at least something I'll be able to eat."

"I'm sorry. They were fresh out of tea and cakes for her majesty when I slinked over there. I made the best of efforts though," he joked, even though I was none too appreciative. I begrudgingly took the can he handed me from the bag, using my knife to slice a small hole into both the top and bottom. It contained beans, drenched in molasses with small bites of sheep mutton for a change of pace in an otherwise very mundane meal. With neither a spoon nor a fork, I sat there, wondering how I was ever supposed to eat it, when I turned to find Oliver pouring the contents into his mouth as though it were water from a glass.

"Are you going to sit there and stare at the beans all day, or are you actually going to eat them?"

I turned my face away, feeling my face begin to flush with embarrassment. Though my features wouldn't give it away as easily as Oliver's fair skin, I would hate for him to see how much it bothered me.

Especially after he had to do so much to get it for me. I should be more grateful he got anything at all.

Taking a bite, I felt my eyes darting to the side, catching a glimpse of him sitting there, already finished. He was just staring blankly at the sky now, the bits of sun able to make it through the choking clouds lighting his hair like thin strands of copper and setting his eyes aglow. He seemed so distant, so mysterious.

For no particular reason, my thoughts drifted back to when we danced at the Rusty Spigot, only last night. He had seemed so carefree then. It struck me as odd that he could shift from someone never able to take life seriously, to someone so quiet and thoughtful. It almost made me want to pry into him like a clock, to open up his thoughts and learn about them and how they worked.