Aetherwell

Dawn in Aetherwell always arrived as a technical apology. The sky, stained with the slow exhalations of the engine, took on the color of old brass when the first boilers of the central plant roused themselves and coughed a thin, oily cloud into the city throat. By the time the traders unrolled their awnings and the tram whistles began their hollow greetings, Rowan Hale had been awake long enough to know the precise temper of the morning — the way the smell of aquavit and machine oil braided at every junction, how the lamplighters tilted their wick-clamps to the north where the aether-venting chimneys painted the light with soot.

Rowan's shop was a narrow, stubborn thing wedged between a bakery that pumped hot dough through a steam-driven press and a locksmith whose bellows exhaled sideways with every satisfied lock. The shop's storefront was a window of warped glass, bulged by years of thermal expansion and etched by the tiny fingerprints of children who pressed to see the little mechanical people Rowan built. Inside, the walls were wood darkened by cigarette-litters and heat; shelves held half-made pistons, guillotined springs, and jars of small, labeled parts: whisper-washers, copper-tongued screws, mneme-brass filings that glinted like old teeth. Rowan worked with hands that understood how brass remembered stress and how a spring sang when it was free of rust.

He repaired things that people insisted were only sentimental. A clockwork fox whose tail had frozen; a wind-up lullaby that refused to stop humming a tune no one could finish; a child's wooden soldier whose arm had been taken as a keepsake and never returned. He called the job keeping time where others forgot it. The truth behind the joke sat with him like a cold coin in his pocket: in the Engine Mile, prosperity came with belts and pulleys and with the peculiar law that at the heart of much of their light and heat was a device that asked for a small, precise portion of what made a person a person. People spoke of it in polite phrases — "allocation," "stabilization," "the lattice" — and in alleys they used other words. Rowan kept his own channel of words for the matter: absence. He counted it like fuel.

There were mornings when Rowan could trace absence on the faces of his customers. A baker who forgot the name of his eldest son and then, having practiced for a long handful of breaths, gave the child a new nickname; an office clerk who forgot how his wife took her tea, though he walked past her each night and watched the way her hand tilted the cup. Folks were not always miserable. There were small, practical advantages to forgetting the weight of sorrow. The city was lighter in places, and some neighborhoods hummed with an almost manic cheer. But the light that came from those buoyant places was milked: someone, somewhere, felt the draught where their memory had been. Rowan never saw both sides of that ledger at once. He only felt the draft it left on his skin.

On a morning like any other, when the brass began to take on the thin patina of another day, Rowan was winding a child's automaton with fingers that had nursed many similar gears back to life. The automaton's mechanism was stubborn; its mneme-rotor, the tiny disc that stored a scrap of stored life like a locket, was jammed with filings of unknown origin. Rowan's bench lamp painted his hands and the little metal face with a circle of warm light. He could have let the piece sit as payment for a loaf of bread, traded its workings to someone more in need. Instead he let the little thing click and cough and, when it finally performed its first, halting bow, he heard in it a sound that was almost a syllable: a half-memory that wanted a next line. He listened as he always did, to the spaces between ticks, to the silence that promised a syllable if you wound it right.

The sound was not enough to name what he ached for. It was only a shape. Still, he listened because listening had the odd habit of answering in its own time.