The Heartsmith's Daughter

Chapter 15.

He came home late, shutting the wooden door quietly. A creak sounded as he scratched back the stool in front of his desk, scraping aside screwdrivers and hammers. His dark face fell into his open calloused palms, and just as dark fine hair fell around them, hanging limp with sweat and an air of worry.

"I wish you had sat down at the kitchen table instead. Then I'd have more room to serve this." I placed the cup of chai tea before him, though it had cooled by this hour.

He turned around to me, brown eyes looking startled. "Why haven't you lay yourself down for the night?"

"I could ask the same of you." I laughed. "I thought you'd be home at eight."

I watched his body slump as a sigh escaped him. "The meeting... it ran longer than expected."

"Did the president feel the need to explain things with an anecdote taller than his own hat again?" I joked, but I soon realized that wasn't going to improve the Gadgeteer's mood in the slightest. This was beyond exhaustion. Something had happened at that meeting. Something drastic.

"We're going to war, Narsi. They want me to build weapons."

"What?" I cried out in shock. "Whatever is the reason? With whom?"

"With ourselves. The South of America refuses to release their slaves, and now the president wants me to use whatever machines the North can provide us to quiet the rebellion."

"That's... that's awful," I replied, feeling a piston release air like a sigh inside my chest, sinking deep into my abdomen.

"It is awful," he agreed dully. "It's the same thing we left our own country for, with those British wanting us to work for them, and their abusive merchants. I'm sorry Narsi, I truly thought America would be better for us, that it would be different here. But it's all the same. And I haven't even begun to speak of the worst of it." The last words came out as a chill.

"He doesn't want you to..." I couldn't bring myself to say it, but watched as his head came away from his hands as he managed to bring himself to nod.

"Yes. He doesn't want to have the country divided against each other. To have brother fight against brother. He wants me to make another, another..."

"Another thing just like me," I responded sullenly, looking down at my silver arms, able to shine through my long sleeves no matter how deep the shirt's navy shade.

"Narsi, no," he whispered, reaching out to me. "I don't want you to look at yourself like that."

But I couldn't help my face from scrunching up, tears unable to fall from my glass eyes. "But it's true. I am not alive, and will never be looked at as such. I'm a horrible replacement for the old Narsi, and now I've gone and dragged you into a war, which will only serve to have me looked at as a thing. A weapon."

"Narsi. Hush," and I hated how choked the words sounded. "You will not be going to war. I will make sure of that. I can't lose you. Not again." He stopped for a moment, looking at the cold tea beside him. Finally, he picked it up, taking a sip, which seemed to calm him, if only slightly. "Despite what you may think, you are a lot like her, you know."

I stopped for a moment, taking a seat on a thinly cushioned chair next to him. I had never heard him talk about her before. He would only claim that I was like her, or looked like her, but nothing more. From the day I had first been wound and opened my eyes, he had never spoken of his old life in India, unless it was a jab at the British or a quick mention of a food he missed. Yet... he seemed so close to opening up now. Could I truly just sit and listen?