Ashlotte's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Ashlotte's mechanical heart skipped a beat in the town square, and she pressed a porcelain hand to her chest to steady it. The gears inside her ran slower each day. She had walked out of her cave to find the craftsman who could build her a new heart before the old one wound down for good. But first she needed someone to tell her where such a craftsman lived. That was the problem. No one would look at her long enough to answer. She crossed the square toward a woman selling bread. "Please," Ashlotte said. "I'm looking for a maker of machines." The woman saw the crack running along Ashlotte's jaw, saw the white hair and the too-still face, and backed away. A man pulled his child behind him. A shopkeeper turned his sign to CLOSED. Ashlotte stood alone. The halberd on her back weighed nothing to her, but it made the crowd give her a wide circle. She had been built to guard a person. Now no person would stand near her. "You're scaring the whole street, darlin'." The voice was easy and dry. A young deputy leaned against a brass post, a cigarillo burning at the corner of his mouth. His long coat was dusty. His eyes moved over her without fear, only interest. "I don't mean to," Ashlotte said. "I need help. My heart is failing. I have to find the man who can fix it." The deputy studied the seam on her chest, then the crack on her jaw. He didn't flinch. "Jameson," he said. "Deputy, when the sheriff's out. Folks here spook at anything they can't name." He blew smoke away from her. "You've got a clockwork chest. That's a first for this town." "Then you know a craftsman." "I know of one." He pushed off the post. "Old man, works metal and gears both. Lives past the ridge where the jackelope herd runs. Nobody goes out that far anymore." He glanced at the wary faces around them. "And nobody's going to walk you there. Except maybe a deputy with nothing better to do." Ashlotte looked at him. In her memory she only ever faced forward, guarding a back she never saw. Now a man stood in front of her, meeting her eyes. "You would take me?" she asked. "I'd point you, at least." Jameson tapped ash from the cigarillo. "But that craftsman's got a reputation. He doesn't fix things for free, and the last folks who went looking for him didn't come back the same." He shrugged. "Still want the road?" "I have no choice," Ashlotte said. "My heart won't wait." Jameson nodded slowly. He drew a rough map in the dust with his boot heel, marking the ridge and the herd's grazing ground. "Then you've got a name and a direction," he said. "That's more than you had this morning." Ashlotte memorized the lines before the wind touched them. The town no longer mattered. The road past the ridge did, and the craftsman waiting at its end.