Hearts

Chapter Two: Heart of Gears

Her father walked into the shop and saw the mess of shattered glass she was just beginning to clean up. "What has happened?"

"My arm, Papa," she said to him in shame. "It twitched again." She hung her head in disappointment.

She heard him come around the counter. He lifted her chin, and in his eyes, she saw love. "Adine, it will be all right. It just needs some adjustment. That is all. The glass is easily replaced."

She gave him a hug with her good arm. As she did, her mind turned to more important matters. "Did you find word of him?" She pulled away from Papa. "Was the missive correct?"

Adine watched as Papa's shoulders slumped. "Yes, Adine, He was there only last week, and had vacated the room just after that horrible murder in Whitechapel." He patted her broken arm and sighed before walking to the damaged countertop. "He must have been so frightened. That must be the reason he why would leave. He would not wish to stay in such a place either after such a vile crime occurred."

With a wistful glance at Papa's denials, she went to help him salvage the pocket watches in the glass. We worked in silence until all the watches were retrieved.

"Now then, let me examine your arm and repair the problem. Tomorrow, I will have the glass replaced."

"But, Papa, what about the shop," she protested.

"The shop can close early. You are more important, child."

After locking the shop door, he escorted her into his workroom. "Take off your glove."

She did as bid and placed her arm under his magnifying lens for when he dealt with the tiniest and most delicate of gears. Opening his leather case of tools, he began mumbling to himself as he poked and prodded within her arm.

"Ah, I see the problem." He stood and went to his storage cabinet where all his pristine gears were stored, still mumbling all the while.

As she sat there, Adine reminisced from when she was a child and sat here watching Papa work. She was whole then, before the accident, before her mother died.

Mama. She closed her eyes and remembered the vanilla and powder smell of her, the small crinkles at the corners of her brown eyes, and the ever-present smile she had for Papa and she when they came home.

Then that morning. The morning the storm came as they were returning to Town from Uncle Frederic's party. The horses spooked and the carriage overturned. Mama died, and her limbs were rendered useless when the carriage shattered her legs and one of her arms.

Nearly dying from her injuries, she healed, but was confined to a wheel chair. Papa was inconsolable, but he promised someday she would walk again. It took him three years to accomplish his goal, but it came as such a horrific price.

He did such a terrible thing, and Adine shuddered in remembrance. He should never done such a devilish experiment, but he was determined to right what he believed was his wrong. He blamed himself for the accident since he insisted he had to return to Town.

Poor little Gregory. Her brother. Where did he go, and why did he leave them? She knew he wanted to see London, but Papa wanted Gregory safe from those who would not understand. Maybe his unhappiness at being confined was the reason he left. Now, Papa searched for him where the poor, the criminals, and the other dregs of society called home. He roamed places such as Whitechapel trying to locate Gregory's whereabouts.

Papa's mutterings fetched her morose thoughts to the present. He studied her arm once more through his lenses. He took hold of the broken gear and gently took it out. He replaced it with the new, his steady hands slipping the teeth together in one precise movement. Winding the key in her wrist, he stood close to watch the mechanics. Once he was satisfied, he closed the panel. "There, my child. You're all better."

She lifted her arm and bent her fingers watching each articulated portion of metal shift. The whirl and clink of the gears and springs were so quiet the glove she wore to hide her arm muffled the sound from human ears.

The arm was not a crude device. From her shoulder to her hand, each metal piece was engraved. The engravings were so accurate that from one piece to the other the patterns aligned whether her hand was relaxed, extended, or clenched. Her father was a master of his craft. He preferred only the most faultless ornamentation for his daughter.

She knew not how it operated with her own flesh or how she manipulated it with the dexterity that she was able. At first, she dreaded her flesh would reject the device. The horror of gangrene filled her laudanum-induced contemplations. Somehow, her father circumvented these terrors, and she became whole once more.

Her thoughts turned to Gregory once more as she watched the fingers move. Little Gregory.

She loved her father, but he should not have done what he did. The cruelty of his experimentations left her heart unforgiving toward him. To save her, he used a wretched being in cold calculation.

Gregory, born with the heart and mind of a boy dead, lived in the casings of metal as she now possessed. He was the first. Her brother of metal was the prototype.