Lady Ironheart

Chapter Two

My head feels as though someone has jammed it full with cotton batting. It's stuffy and thick and terribly aching, and I don't want to open the eyes that feel as though there are weights resting on them. It's odd, though- my mother hasn't drawn back my curtains yet, and there's no sunlight beaming into my room.

Groggily, I force my eyes to open. My bedchambers are still dark, the blue silk curtains still closed over my window. I sit up slowly, a lock of stringy blonde hair falling into my eyes, and try to remember what happened to leave me so sore. I look down at myself, and even in the dim light, it all comes flooding back to me at the sight of my dress. Last night, and the ball, and rushing home, and it was all my fault for slacking off yesterday morning. Eighteen turns of the key will not do, as my mother loves to remind me.

I stand up slowly, trying not to let my shredded gown slip down any lower. The curtains are not too terribly far away, so I manage to tie them back without too much difficulty. I lean over to pull open my bedside table drawer, and when I do manage to get it open despite the sticky runners, I sink to the floor.

My key- the special skeleton key with four prongs- is gone. In its place is a scrawled note on a scrap of paper. At the bottom is a small puddle of deep blue wax, stamped with a letter.

Sophia-

3181 Aldsborough Way. Bring no one. We have much to discuss- and I have your key.

After a moment of gazing at it, I realize what the letter is. Pressed in hastily, almost puncturing the paper in some places and barely visible in others, is a spiky letter M.

My breath sticks in my throat, and my fingers shake, crumpling the edges of the paper. The key to my heart isn't some beautifully metaphorical thing, meant to whisper to a gentleman or write into a letter of love. No, for me, it is much more than that.

My heart is built of iron, scraps of metal and little gears. There is a steam pipe that connects to my lungs, a tiny clock that winds down the time, and a large keyhole that sits right in the center. Every morning, I must give it twenty-four turns to last me until the next morning. If I neglect to turn it the proper amount of times, well, the consequences can be- and often are- disastrous.

I stand and make my way over to my wardrobe. All of my gowns are high-necked, so as to avoid anyone viewing the top of my 'heart' and asking uncomfortable questions. The summer is beginning to creep around the corner, and soon, London will be swept into stifling heat, but for now, I can tolerate the dresses.