The old Toy-Maker died in the middle of the night, clutching his empty bottle of gin, leaving his greatest work unfinished. Or stubbornly un-repaired. The old Master had left his debts as well as his business to his only apprentice, Owen Smalls.
Not much of a business, really. A narrow, cluttered workshop just off DaltonStreet, hidden amongst other failing business. A hatter, a tinsmith, a candle-maker. The alchymist next door had closed up shop long ago. Owen sat behind the counter of his new shop, waiting for a customer, deliberately not looking under the tarp on his old Master’s bench. Owen still slept in the workroom, the thought of moving into the small bedroom at the back of the shop was still too strange. It was still his Master’s room. He snuck a peak at the tarp.
Owen’s bell rang. He sat up straight, putting on his best welcome face. But it was only Belinda, the tinker girl.
“Hi Owen.” She smiled brightly at him. Short, young. Big brown eyes, round face and short  black hair hidden under an oversized floppy hat. Belinda’s curves were well disguised under several layers of oversized clothes.
“Oh hey Bel.” Owen was polite, but distracted. He and Belinda used to  sneak into the alchymist shop next door, to kiss and fumble about inexpertly. He liked her, she was nice enough, and pretty. But she was a tinker, and now he was a proper shop-owner and craftsman. What would his customers think, if they knew he consorted with tinkers? Reputation was everything. Not that he had any customers to worry about. And he really did like Belinda. She was just about the only friend he had.
“Any business?” She asked eagerly, placing her hands on his counter, fingers hidden by overly long sleeves. “Say, did you hear about the Angel? He was just up the street, buying a book!” Belinda, like many folk was enamored of the city’s celebrity Angels. Owen shook his head, and Belinda skipped around the shop, looking at the little toys. Now that the shop was his, he would let Belinda play with some of the toys, if she wanted. She was a little old for such toys, but they had always fascinated her.
Owen had cleaned up his shop a little, after the old man died, wiping soot and grime from windows and organized the shelves of little clockwork toys, tiny horses and soldiers and birds. He could not afford to paint the peeling storefront, but he had polished the brass hanging above the old door. Pascal’s ClockWork Wonders. He’d need to buy a new sign, Owen mused, with his own name. If business ever picked up. Owen sulked about for a while, while his friend puttered around with his copper and tin toys.
“Owen, this is flash!” Belinda exclaimed, holing one little toy. One of the old ones, from when the old Master was still working. Before the gin and the cane. The toy Belinda held was of an antiquated design. An old story-telling toy, it’s tiny moving parts told the tale of- “I know this story! My Da used to tell it to me. It’s the one about the cursed looking-glass that kills people who look upon it during the new moon. Three souls, my ol’ Da used to say, three souls is all it takes for a cursed item to awaken.” Belinda liked stories too. She always had some new tale to tell him, whenever her troupe was back in town. Owen liked to listen to her talk, and watch her get all excited and animated. He would listen for hours, even if he had already heard the tale before.
Owen sulked a bit more, glaring out his windows. Before too long, Belinda left, bored. She wanted to chat with him, he knew, but he was to busy waiting for somebody, anybody, to find his shop. He sneaked another glance at his old Master’s bench. His bench, now. If he ever got around to moving his tools over and organizing the clutter. If he ever moved the tarp.
He knew what was there, of course. Owen had been guiltily sneaking peeks underneath for years, risking his Master’s cane. A clockwork ballerina. A toy of such exquisite beauty and detail, that Owen had fallen in love. She had the face of an angel. He used to fantasize about her. He had even named her, in his dreams. Tima. He used to sit at his tiny little workbench and dream, about owning a shop of his own, full of rich clients. He would come home after work, and she would be there, waiting. They would dance together, through the night until dawn when Owen would return to work again, making his famous clockwork toys. Then his Master’s cane across his back would bring him back to the work before him. Cutting gears, polishing brass, oiling and cleaning and repairing.
But she didn’t work any more. Her heart-spring had been broken. Deliberately. The old Master had beaten Owen senseless when he dared to ask why. And there were no more rich clients, not any more. Nobody wanted clockwork. They wanted the new FaeStone toys they were making over across the River. Occasionally some collector would come by to have something repaired, paying just enough to buy gin for another month. And with the old Master gone, they were taking their antiques elsewhere. Never-mind that Owen had been doing all of the Master’s work for years now. Reputation was everything in this city. It was rumored that the old Master had once even had an Angel as a patron. But that was long ago. Owen thought that if business did not pick up soon, he might be forced to run off with the Tinkers, they would appreciate his skills with metal and tools. And of course there was Belinda.
Owen risked another glance at the canvas shroud. Grease this! He swore inwardly. The old bastard was dead, there was nobody to stop him. This was his shop now. Tima was his, and he would fix her. She would dance again, for Owen.
Owen Smalls, Master Toy-maker, cleaned up the old drunkard’s bench, and set out his tools. It took an hour before he had enough courage to remove the worn old tarp from Tima’s still figure. She was beautiful, sitting there perched atop his bench. A masterwork of design and esthetics. A porcelain doll’s face, eyes downcast, lips, almost smiling, so perfectly shaped that he longed to kiss them. Petite. Demure. Tima’s painted glass eyes, the only movable feature in her lovely face, were cast downwards and a little to the side, her head tilted slightly, as if she were resting. A delicate spine curved down from her perfect little head to her filigree body. Brass lace formed her shoulders and breasts and stomach, almost hiding the delicate, complex gearing within. Her upper and lower arms were of porcelain, trimmed with brass at the joints, where tiny gears could be glimpsed. Small child-like hands of brass and silver lay folded in her lap. Tima’s slender, mechanical legs were covered in white silk down to her dainty slippers, still supple after all these years. The old drunkard had maintained her nicely, keeping her oiled and polished. Why had he never bothered to repair her?
Owen was much more comfortable peering inside her, thinking of her as gears and cogs and springs, instead of neck and shoulders and breasts. Owen tried not to compare Tima’s slender form to Belinda’s curvy one. Tension and resistance, that’s what he should be thinking about. Gear timings and torque. He found the tiny clasp that held her chest-cover in place, and slowly, reverently, opened her, swinging the brass lace aside. Owen let out a low whistle of appreciation. The complexity and subtlety of the gearing, was well beyond his skills. The old Master, truly was a master.
Though Tima was light, there would still be several pounds of torque resistance on each limb, Owen was not entirely certain how she could be moved by such a small spring. When he finally worked up enough nerve to remove it, he began to understand how. Her heartspring was the most brilliantly designed part of her. Tima’s tiny heart was no larger than Owen’s palm, consisting of a small cage holding a series of gears over a tightly coiled spring. Dented and broken by a singular blow. Owen’s eyes went to his old Master’s hammer, sitting on the bench. The old drunkard was a right bastard, anyway. Owen set to work.
Repairing the housing and main shaft, Owen knew he could handle. But the spring itself, was a marvel. Made of a silvery alloy Owen had never seen before. Incredibly strong, he wasn’t even certain he could coil such a material, once it were re-cast. Or wind it. In fact, he could not even find any manner of winding. No matter, first he would repair her, then figure out what the old bastard had intended.
Owen’s shop had a small furnace and crucible to cast their own components. The old Master would not trust even a dwarf with some of his precious parts. Owen had been forced to learn metallurgy and mathematics along with the physical skills needed for his craft. He fired up the old furnace, preparing to re-cast the spring. He had all of the tools and skills needed to pound out and wind any other spring. He could do it. He would do it, for her. For Tima.
Once the silvery metal was heated to glowing, it burst into flames, melting and burning down to an ugly little lump of black slag. Owen screamed and covered his eyes against the bright glare. When his vision finally cleared, he saw the crucible had actually cracked from the intense heat. Owen knew of only one metal that would do that. He rifled through the old Master’s reference books, finally finding the entry he sought. There it was. A silvery alloy, similar to electrum, with an unknown component, and only one source. Angels. Celestial Gold.
If heated incorrectly, Celestial Gold would separate with an energetic reaction, rendering it unsalvageable. Owen smacked his head, ashamed. If he had only done his research first, if he had only identified the metal. Now, Tima was beyond repair.
Owen sat back, and wondered just how he would go about joining the Tinkers. They were in town, he knew; Belinda had just come by. Belinda. What had she said? An Angel had just bought a book from that seller on DaltonStreet.
Owen leapt from his stool, rifled around in the old cash-box, grabbed his hat and coat, and rushed out the door. DaltonStreet was a quiet little market street, lined with small shops in an out of the way part of the industrialized city. Hurrying on his way, clutching his hat to his head, Owen marveled at the variety the city could provide. Gentlemen in top hats and ladies in fine dresses with soot-bonnets and parasols. Merchants and beggars and craftsmen, both human and non. Elves and Dwarves, Goblin and Hoblin, even a red-skinned, fiery Rao. Airships buzzed above noisily, hanging heavily in the soot filled sky. Foot traffic was light, and Owen found himself in front of the bookseller within minutes. Not much larger than his own dilapidated shop, Weller’s Books was in a much more prosperous part of the market. The paint wasn’t peeling, and the windows were clean, Owen could easily see stacks upon stacks of books through the clean glass. Taped to one glass panel, was a newsprint clipping. Owen squinted close, reading. Belinda was right, one of the Angels had indeed visited this very shop and had bought a book of poetry. And he paid with Celestial Gold. Five Soldiers he’d paid, the article said.
Owen pushed open the door and entered, looking around. Owen knew how to read, of course, but had never seen so many books in one place before. It was a little unnerving. His old Master had taught him to revere books, for the knowledge they contained. The collected knowledge stored here, seemed to quiver, trying to burst free. The stacks felt alive, eager with barely contained spirit.
The smiling face of the owner, a friendly bearded man, greeted Owen as he entered the shop. Owen smiled back, hand in his pocket, fondling his meager stack of coin, and prepared to negotiate.
Owen left with his pocket, and spirits, a great deal lighter. Five coins of Celestial Gold clinked in his pocket. Enough to cast his spring. Five Soldiers worth of coin, had cost him five times that amount. People thought of Celestial Gold as lucky, as a sign of favor from God. Twenty five Soldiers, he had to pay out to buy the Gold from old Weller. Two and a half Nobles. That was almost all the money he had left in the world. Owen had just enough to buy another crucible and a bit of coal. Or eat. He shrugged, he’d gone hungry before.
Back in his shop, Owen poured over his old Master’s books. He would not make the same mistake twice. He locked himself in his shop for three days, ignoring Belinda’s little face peering in the window. No customers came by.
Three days with no sleep and little to eat, nothing but a few bites of porridge to keep him going. Three days of heating and cooling and heating a little more, pouring and beating and shaping. When he was finished he felt drained, spent, tired. He had done it. Owen Smalls had built a heart-spring of Celestial Gold for his beloved Tima. if he could do that, he could fix anything. Owen ignored his own fatigue, too excited now. He had to put her back together. He tried at first to wind the spring while he had the heart in his hands, but the tension was too high. He could not wind it by gripping the little main-shaft. There had to be a way to wind her, once the spring was in place. Carefully, reverently, he put her back together, polishing each gear and cog with care before delicately returning it to its place.
Tima sat there, as she always did, looking down shyly. She did not move. For an hour, Owen searched for some hidden key, some disguised way to wind her. Nothing. Well, he must have missed something. He would have to take her apart again, and find another way to wind her heart. With a sigh, he reached inside her chest. And cut himself on a tiny corner of brass. A single drop of blood fell from his fingertip. Before he could pull his hand out to pop the injured finger in his mouth, a single drop of blood fell onto the heart-spring, running along the spiral metal, flowing in between the layers of Gold. Grease! he swore, now he would need to clean it. The spring began to tighten. Winding itself. Just a little. Rattle and Clank, what the Hell?
One finger in his mouth, Owen pulled down the book on metallurgy again, flipping through its pages. Celestial Gold, has been known to react to certain substances. Most notably it responds to the fluid dynamics of blood. Owen sat back and blinked. He pulled his injured finger from his mouth, pain forgotten, and stared at Tima. Her perfect porcelain face, eyes downcast, seemed to be looking directly at his hands. His injured hand. His bloody fingertip. Heart thudding, Owen lifted his shaking hand to her chest again, holding his fingertip just over hear heart, and squeezed a few more drops of blood.
His blood ran along the spiral, filling the narrow spaces between the metal, as the blood sank into the heart, bit by bit it began to wind. Slowly, inexorably, Tima’s heart wound itself.
Owen closed her chest and stood back. With a tiny ping, the spring finished winding.
Tima lifted her head, to look at Owen. His heart thudding in his chest, Owen shook his head. He had done it! He had fixed her! Tima hesitantly moved her arms with a series of tiny clicks, tilting her head to look at her hands. Slowly, delicately, as if unsure if the would break, Tima waved her fingers in front of her face, blue-painted eyes looking around with child-like interest. Then she looked at him, and Owen thought he would die of shear joy. She was smiling at him, and she was alive.
Tima leaned forward, looking at the floor, then looked at Owen. He understood. Owen carefully lifted her down off the bench, one hand on ether side of her brass-lace torso, he could feel her little heart vibrate with life. Her silk legs extended to touch the ground, even standing on her toes she was much shorter than he, by a full head. Owen stood back, looking her over.
Tima lifted her hands above her head, posing just like any flesh ballerina, and spun for him. Three times she spun, each time, her head whipped around to smile at him, eyes locking on his. Then, almost sadly, she slowed, and slumped forward. The spring had unwound. Owen rushed forward to catch her, arms held out. But she did not fall, she simply slumped, unwound. So well made, so perfectly balanced, that even on her tiny toes, she did not fall. Owen marveled at his old Master’s genius. Well, he was pretty smart too. After all, it was Owen who had figured out how to wind her heartspring. No doubt the old drunkard had smashed her heart out of frustration, unable to wind her.
Owen had to see her dance again. He grabbed up a tiny, sharp little knife off the bench, and slashed it across his palm, dripping blood onto her heart. More than last time. Again, his blood ran in spirals, soaking into the groves between the metal and again the tiny heart wound itself. Tima again lifted her face to his, and this time she danced for him. She spun, she stepped and kicked, she leapt. She kicked over a shelf of tools, before winding down. He imagined she had a look of sadness, as her face bent towards the ground. He needed more room.
This time, he dragged her out of his workroom, into the main room of his shop. There, she would have enough room to dance her little heart out. Owen cut himself again, deeper than he had intended, and fed her heart more blood. Watching with joy as she wound herself.
Owen watched, enraptured, as she danced for him. She danced to her own music, her limbs making tiny chime-like pings and clicks as she moved. Owen knew there were fancy names for each of the moves she made, but he had never been to the ballet. Owen did not know what she did, he only knew that she did it for him, and that he loved her. When she finally wore down, she paused in a rather graceful position in front of his shop window, head down and hands held in front of her, circled like cradle. Owen had seen prints of real ballerinas, and they often posed just like that. Well, he had his own ballerina now, and she was real.
Owen felt giddy with success, and love. He felt dizzy. Three days without sleep and blood-loss. He would sleep, he decided, rest. Then they would dance again, in the morning. He climbed behind his counter and up on his stool, lay his head down on his arms, and fell asleep gazing at his very own little ballerina.
Owen awoke some time later, when the bell over his door rang. He lifted his tired head, looking blearily at the well dressed gentleman standing in his shop. High waisted, striped pants, brightly colored waistcoat and top hat. He was examining Tima. Owen felt a surge of jealousy. She was his, not something to be shared.
“This is rather remarkable.” The gentlemen said. “Truly spectacular. Mister Weller informed me you purchased his Celestial Gold. I came here, I confess, as an admirer of the Angels. I was hoping to make you an offer. I never dreamed to find such a skilled artisan such as yourself. I must have a sample of your work.” The gentleman glanced around the little shop, and selected a tiny wind-up set of horses. Before Owen could even speak, the man paid and left. Overpaid. By ten times the cost of the little toys. Owen sat there mutely, staring at the pile of coin. He could not believe his good fortune. His dreams were coming true.
He looked at Tima, happy for the first time in years. She appeared to be looking at the coins on the counter, though she had not moved since last night. Then he looked around at his sad little shop. Tima was out of place, in that dirty cluttered shop. They would dance later, he needed to clean first, in case more customers came by. There were no more customers that day, and hours later, after wearing himself out cleaning and dusting and polishing, he finally closed shop.
They danced for hours.
Owen woke the following morning, as his bell rang again. Two well dressed ladies with soot bonnets and shawls, chatting as they entered.
“Oh my, I heard about that little dancer, but this is absolutely marvelous!” One remarked.
“Oh yes, this wonderful! Wonderful!” The other gushed. “You are a master, no doubt about it! I simply must have one of your pieces!” They each bought one of his little toys and left. As the door closed on their chatter, Owen again stared down in disbelief at the pile of coins on his counter. Throughout his entire apprenticeship, not once had a customer paid so well. These were the prices his old Master reminisced about over his gin. Three sales in two days, and Owen had enough to eat for a month and buy an entire new set of clothes. Nice clothes. And a hat. His bell rang again. Owen smiled at his little ballerina, and greeted his next customer.
Days past, and Owen was happy. Each morning, he would wake, wander down the hall to his shop with a smile for Tima. Then it was off to his workshop to craft some small toy. Each afternoon, he would open for business, and customers would pour in, having heard of the Toy-maker’s Brass Ballerina. He never let her dance for his customers, making excuses that she was not yet finished. The mystique only enhanced her fame. Each evening after closing and counting his new wealth, Owen would cut himself and wind Tima, and the two would dance, until Owen would almost pass out from exhaustion. Sometimes, after they danced, Owen would stay up late trying to make just one more toy to sell, once he had no more blood to give to Tima.
He painted the front of his shop, a nice bright green, and bought a new sign. One with his name on it. Owen Small’s Small Wonders. He thought it rather clever. A newspaper man even came by, writing about his famed ballerina. Owen taped a clipping from the article in his window, like he had seen old Walton do.
Owen’s hands and arms were beginning to show a patchwork of scars, and he was often lightheaded and tired. He tried buying a small jar of lambs blood from the butcher. It failed to work. Tima wanted his blood. And she was insatiable, her little heart would drink up as much blood as he could give her. He hardly had the time or energy any more to make new toys. He fell asleep at his workbench one night, nodding off over a tiny wind-up cat.
He awoke startled, some time in the early hours of  morning. A scratching at his front door. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, grabbed up his hammer and tip-toed to the doorway into his shop. His shop-door opened slowly, revealing a slice of night sky, and a shadowy form slipping its way inside. A thief. No doubt attracted to Owen’s new found wealth. Owen was furious. He had worked hard for what he had, he would not let some sneak-thief take it. Hidden in the shadows of his doorway, Owen watched the thief skulk about his shop, searching. What if he came to steal Tima? Owen’s hands tightened on his hammer. Grimly, he stalked forward.
The burglar heard him just as he raised his arm, turning around with a cry. Before Owen could bring down his arm the thief lunged, shoving him away. He dropped the hammer, grabbing at a wall to keep his feet. Own swore, and reached for the thief as he bolted for the door. He would not let him get way! Furious, Owen grabbed the man, pulling him back into the shop, grappling him. The burglar fought back, lashing out, catching Owen on the jaw, sending him reeling. Owen fell, but the thief’s legs were tangled with his, and he went down as well. Owen leapt upon him, pinning him down. Suddenly, the thief was still.
Owen rolled off him, and stood, panting. The man lay there in the darkness, eyes staring up at the ceiling blankly. Owen nudged him with one toe. Nothing. He carefully, leaned down, and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He leapt back, frightened. He had just killed a man? How? Owen looked about the shop. A sense of dread rising, he rolled the thief over. There, in his back, was Owen’s little hammer. Imbedded in the thief’s spine where he had landed on it. Owen hurriedly shut the door. Nobody had seen anything. But would they believe he had not meant to kill the man? It looked like Owen had struck the man from behind. He could not call the Watch. They would investigate, they would find Tima. Then SpecialBranch would arrive, and take her away.
No, it would be simpler if Owen just hid the body. He was a thief, anyway. Nobody would miss him. Owen bent down to pull his hammer out, and noticed Tima looking at him. No, she was looking at the body. Owen wondered. It was not lamb’s blood. Would it work? Why waste it, he figured. The man was already dead.
Afterwards, she danced for hours. Owen hid the body in the empty alchymist shop next door.
Owen was happy again for a few more days, until the banker stopped by. Mr Vincent Briar. They had first met the day the old Master died. The ugly little man looked like his face had shrunken around an abundance of crooked, yellow teeth. His smile was ghastly. He only smiled when he wanted something, and he was smiling at Owen.
“Good day Mr Smalls.” He crooned, after slipping in the door as Owen tried to close for the night. “I see business has been good. It’s been a month, Mr Smalls, since we spoke last. Your debts are due.” He pulled a paper from the ledger clutched tightly to his chest, handing it to Owen. Owen scanned the list of debts, and about fainted.
“This is a lot more than it was a month ago!” He protested.
“Interest and penalties, Mr Smalls.” Vincent explained, looking around the shop with a calculating eye. “I gave you the opportunity to clear your master’s debts a month ago. It’s a pity you couldn’t pay them then.” Owen looked at the paper again. This was more money than he had earned so far. Far more. He swallowed. “Of course, you could simply pay the interest and penalties now, and I won’t be back for another month. The debt will still be due, of course, and you will have another month’s interest and penalties.” Vincent smiled again. Owen could pay the interest, barely. He’d spent most of his wealth on new clothes and paint and sign. And he had been eating well, for the first time in his life. But if he paid the horrid little man, then he would just be back again in a month. And how long could Owen’s good luck last? How much longer would people come by to see his ballerina and buy his toys? Sooner or later, Vincent Briar would get his dirty little ink-stained fingers on Owen’s shop. He would tally up all the merchandise, and sell it off for a profit. Including Tima. He would take Tima away from Owen, and sell her to a collector. Owen would not allow that to happen.
Vincent was looking around the shop, making clicking noises with his teeth, appraising Owen’s shelves. Owen stalked forward, and grabbed a copper and tin song-bird from his shelf. Vision clouded red with rage, Owen smashed the toy down on the banker’s ugly little head.
Owen stood over the banker, bloody toy in his hand, trying to calm his breathing. That horrible man deserved his fate. He was going to take Tima away. Owen looked at Tima. She was looking at him. Her perfect porcelain face was turned towards the dead banker, but her eyes, her piercing blue eyes were looking directly at Owen. He dropped his toy raven. He knew she had stopped dancing for him last night, and ended up in just this position, but his heart still skipped a beat. In his heart, she was alive, not just some automaton. She was smiling for him, he was certain. Owen looked down at the banker. He shrugged. Why waste blood? He simply could not keep up with her demand, any more. She needed so much of his blood to wind herself lately, he felt too week to stand. Besides, he already knew a good place to hide a body.
Weeks passed. Owen did little more than sell his few remaining toys, and drain himself for Tima. He slept a lot. When he was awake, he was tired and lethargic. He did not have the energy to make any more toys. Even simply copying his old Master’s plans, manufacturing old styles was too much for him. The new designs his customers asked for were out of the question. His head felt clouded and thick. But every night, Tima would dance for him, and he was happy. All he could think about was watching her dance. Owen was finding himself short tempered with his customers, hoping they would just leave, so that he could close up and watch her. He would snap at them and stomp about when they asked for new toys.
And then Belinda came to visit.
“Hi Owen, things are looking up.”  She pipped up, in her usual cheerful manner, skipping in the door. He mumbled something and slouched against his counter. “Where’d all your toys go? Did you sell them all? Oh, that’s wonderful! I knew you could do it!” He relaxed a little, hearing her familiar happy voice. How could she be so cheerful, when her people were so poor? Owen was doing pretty well now, had lots of money, and he was still miserable. He’d not been truly happy since before his old Master died, back when he and Belinda would sneak off next door. He missed those days. Belinda chirped something about seeing what new toys he was making, and flounced into his workshop, pulling her sagging pants up as she went. He followed after, as grumpy as ever. As he passed by Tima, he noticed she was looking down the hallway at Belinda. She seemed to have a little sneer of contempt on her lips. Oh Grease, she wanted Belinda now?
No, he would find somebody else to feed Tima, not Belinda. Some vagrant or something. Not her.
“Listen Bel, I’m tired. Maybe you could come back tomorrow? I’ll have some new toys for you to play with then.” She was examining one of his tools, a little cutting file.
“Oh its alright, I don’t want to play. I have some news for you! I-” Owen interrupted her.
“No Bel, look, could you just leave? Come back tomorrow, alright?” She turned on him, hurt in her eyes.
“Fine. If you don’t wanna talk to me, I don’t wanna talk to you either.” Her pretty little nose turned up at him as she stomped past, still clutching the little metal file.
He didn’t care if she was upset with him, as long as she left. Owen followed Belinda out into his shop. Tima was looking at Belinda again, he was certain she had moved again. Belinda turned to face him again about to say something, anger on her face, and tripped over her baggy pants. She fell right at the dainty feet of Tima. Tima had moved, now she was looking down at the tinker girl.
Belinda moaned, curling up upon herself. She rolled over a little, and Owen saw blood. She had fallen upon the file, impaling herself. Owen screamed inwardly, grabbing and pulling at his hair, falling to his knees beside her. He looked her over, rolling her onto her back. His file stuck up from her red-stained shoulder. Not fatal. Relief washed over him. Belinda moaned again. Why did so many bad things keep happening around him? He looked at Tima.
The brass ballerina was leaning over, looming, looking hungrily at his friend. Something snagged at the back of his mind, one of Belinda’s stories. About cursed items. Three souls, was all it took, for a cursed object to come to life. The thief, the banker, and now she wanted Belinda. Tima wanted one more soul. No wonder his old Master had broken her heart. How much did the old man know? Owen shuddered, thinking of the old man’s family. He had a wife and a child, once. Long ago.
Owen pulled Belinda away from Tima, dragging her along the wooden floor. Tima’s face turned to follow. There was no clicking or pinging, no whir or click. Her heart-spring was unwound, she was moving on her own. He had to get Belinda out of there. He lifted her, dragging her to the door. Tima turned with him, watching hungrily. Owen had to lean on the door, propping Belinda against the frame to pull at the old door. Tima took a step towards them.
Owen reached the door, fumbling behind him for the latch. Suddenly, Tima was there, standing before him, seeming to loom. How could she move with her spring wound down? She grabbed Owen, and twisted, throwing him across the room. She was incredibly strong, despite her short, delicate stature.
Owen fell to his knees, surprised. He thought she loved him. Why did she want his blood now? Or was he simply in the way? He turned to look, Tima was looming over him. Frantic, desperate, he kicked out at her delicate ankles, knocking her over. He scrambled backwards, trying to get behind the counter. With obscene grace, Tima rolled back to her feet and stalked towards him on her delicate dancer’s toes, death in her eyes.
She caught him behind the counter, lifting him by the neck, silent and beautiful. Owen gasped and struggled, pulling at her metal hands, grabbing for anything. His flailing hands found only his cashbox. She lifted Owen off his feet, choking him, his feet kicking frantically. Owen hauled up on the box, lifting it above his head, and brought it smashing down on her with both hands. His box broke open, spilling coins and bank-notes everywhere.
Tima let go, one porcelain arm cracked and useless. She backhanded him with the other, sending him sprawling. Owen stood, wiping blood from his mouth, Tima again stalked towards him, one arm held out, fingers clawed. Owen grabbed the only thing he could find within reach. His little coal shovel. He hesitated, gripping his shovel with both hands. He still loved her. She was so beautiful, so perfect. He could fix her, make her better.
She reached for his neck. He swung with all his might, all his fear and rage. He struck Tima in her porcelain head, cracking her face. She spun about, staggered, but kept on coming, reaching for him again. Owen swung again, she raised her arm, taking the full brunt of his swing on her cracked porcelain. It shattered, leaving a jagged stump. She did not stop. With her good hand, she caught his next swing, grabbing the shovel in her iron strong grip and yanking the shovel from his hands. Tima swung back, the coal-shovel’s handle clipping Owen’s head. He reeled, dizzy, blinded with pain. His little clock-work ballerina dropped the shovel, and stepped toward him again, stabbing toward his heart with the jagged stump of her arm.
Suddenly, Belinda was in his arms. The force of Tima’s blow pressed them together and pushed Owen back a half step. Belinda’s eyes widened with pain and fright, she clutched at Owen’s shirt, desperate and scared. She twitched suddenly, blood spilling from her mouth. Owen looking into the eyes of his friend as she died. Her head slumped against his chest, as if she were simply resting in his arms.
Tima pulled her arm back, releasing the dead tinker girl. Owen let her slump to the ground. Tima stood there, unmoving, looking down at Belinda, blood dripping from her shattered arm. Belinda was dead. And Tima had killer her. Enough was enough. Owen’s soul wound tight. This would end now. He bent down, picking up the coal-shovel again. He would smash her to pieces. No more would that cursed doll thirst for blood. No more people would die to feed her lusts. He raised his arm, knuckles tight on the shovel.
Tima looked at him. Owen paused. Something was different. Her eyes were more alive, more expressive. Tima’s painted glass eyes were looking at him with emotion. Confusion and wonder. She looked down at her hand, at her bloody stump, at the body of Belinda. She was alive now. She had her third soul. She was Awake.
Owen again prepared to bring his shovel crashing down on her pretty, cracked head. Tima bent down, reaching for Belinda, and grabbed up the tinker girl’s hat. Tima stood, placing the large floppy hat on her porcelain head. She looked at Owen again, wearing Belinda’s hat.
Something in Owen hesitated. Tima was very different. This was not the doll any more.
“Bel?” His voice quivered.
The dancer nodded. Belinda looked at him through Tima’s painted eyes. Owen fell to the ground, knees weak. The third soul. Belinda was the third soul that Tima had drank. More than drunk, Tima had killed her, drinking her entire soul. And Belinda’s soul had moved into the doll. Owen raised his head, looking at the broken ballerina, at his friend. Broken, but still beautitul. He could still fix her. Make her pretty again. Owen stood and moved into his workroom, looking for his tools.

Toy Maker’s Apprentice first appeared in Dark Fiction Undergound, and is my first paying publishing credit.