Clockwork Firefly

Clockwork Firefly - Chapter Eight

The fairground was buzzing before the sun was up fully. Prizes restocked, the petting zoo animals fed and watered, rides inspected for any needed repairs. The air soon filled with a mix of a thousand smells. Coffee and frying bacon, popcorn and spun sugar, the fragrance of baked goods being delivered from homes for donation and the warm smell of summertime flowers and the damp of dew fading in the growing morning. Behind the striped tent it was the smell of steam and oil which permeated the air in the small campsite that the Steam Man Band's group had created. The band themselves were glinting in the sunshine, devoid of any clothing, as their show clothes were being pressed by The Spine and then hung up neatly to keep them from getting wrinkled before the show began. Rabbit was sitting in front of a tri-fold mirror with a small boar bristle brush, cleaning dust out his cheek vents. The Jon was last in the line to get his workings checked, his hair up in one of Rabbit's bandannas to keep it out of his neck joints while the Colonel replaced a couple of lost screws behind his ear.

Beside Rabbit, a folding shaving table was erected by Peter Walter the second. Steaming water had turned the mirror to a gauzy silvery-gray, the fog wiped away with a towel that then was laid beside the basin. He shivered a bit, only half dressed, his suspenders hanging down, his undershirt sticking to skin still damp from his washing up. Dipping the bristles of his brush into the soap mug to swirl foam to life and paint his face with it. Leaning closer to the mirror as he angled his head to draw the skin taut, the steel of the straight razor's blade drug over the blue-black shadow of his night's growth of beard. One side of his face done, he shifted to do the other when he caught movement in the mirror and paused, mid-stroke as the door to the workshop swung open and Pete stepped out with a faint blink at the morning brightness.

"Good morning, Everyone." He spoke with a dry, weary tone. He had obviously been up all night, it was etched into the lines at the edge of his eyes, underlined with shadows of gray. He paused at the top of the stairs, noting that everyone was looking at him. Tucking the roll of plans beneath his arm, he frowned faintly and closed the door behind him, walking down the stairs wordlessly to trek across the field to the far side where he took a perch on an upturned crate, the plans unrolled and lifted to shield him from their stares. A few moments later, the sounds of preparation resumed.

He had gone directly to his father last night and told him what he'd done. His father had listened, promised he'd get to the bottom of it, but advised a very long walk, suggesting that it would probably be best not to be around when Peter showed up and Pete concurred.

Several hypothesis had occurred to him as he walked the streets of the town. He surmised, at first, it might have been done to hurt Peter. Sibling nature being what it was, one only had to give one brother a toy or a bit of candy to make the other want to have it as well. It had never happened with any of the other girls Peter chased about in the past, so why now?

His brother had inherited their mother's more artistic leanings and was far more casual in his humors. A true sanguine. Peter took the path of seeing women like he might view cake, something to enjoy but nothing of real importance or sustenance, not allowing himself to have anything more than superficial. He himself had inherited his father's choleric temperament. He had no thought for flowery romances. He had never paid heed to girls in school. They wanted things he could not give them. His time, his attention, his devotion. His life had been given up to the great destiny his father promised. In his youth, his days were focused on his lessons, both at school and at his father's elbow. Then on his work in the war. When he came home, he set his mind to the new task of turning Walter Robotics into the company of the future. He had no thought of anything else. Then, Mary Mickleson entered his life.

Every time he turned around from the moment she'd blocked his way into his father's shop, she'd been at the fore of his thoughts. He felt nervous and embarrassed when she'd spoken to him as she did, a queer sort of flutter of curiosity and want to talk more with her instead of focusing on his work. When he'd come upon her behind the tent last night, he'd stood for several seconds watching her listen to the music, her eyes closed, that little smile playing upon her mouth. All he had wanted was to speak to her like Peter did, all suave and sure of himself, but even in his mind he knew that he would fail and she would open those damnable eyes and give that half-smile that made him sure she was laughing at him. As though she somehow saw his deepest secrets and found them dull and uninteresting.