Poppy Gearhart and the Singing Spring

Morning steam fogged the window of Gran Maud’s shop before the bells had even yawned awake. Poppy Gearhart wiped a circle clear with the sleeve of her brown jacket and peered out at Brassbridge Lane. Banners of laundry hung like slow clouds over the alley, and every pipe along the brickwork chuffed in its own rhythm. She could tell what time it was by those sounds, most days; today, the whistles were a beat off.

“Hand me the peppermint tins, poppet,” Gran Maud called, elbow deep in a toolbox. Her grey hair was tucked under a kerchief, and a pair of small screwdrivers lived behind her ear like chopsticks. The shop smelled of tea leaves and machine oil, a scent that always made Poppy’s chest feel brave.

Poppy set three tins on the counter and then nudged a small brass bird perched by the kettle. “Wake up, Brassfinch.” She wound the key at its tail, and gears inside ticked to life. Its bead-black eyes clicked open, wings giving a careful shuffle.

Brassfinch hopped to the kettle, pecked a valve, and a pale wisp of steam hissed from the spout. “Good bird,” Poppy said. Gran Maud chuckled.

Outside, the city of Fogfen creaked and sang. Walkways crisscrossed above canal water the color of tea, and tall houses wore iron braces like corsets. Far off, the Great Caldera hummed low, the giant boiler that warmed the city and kept it dry. Steam-lifts clanged, carrying crates and people between levels. Merchants rolled up their shutters and shouted warm hellos. A boy on a penny-farthing rattled by, his coat flapping like a crow.

Poppy loved it all. She loved the way sunlight glanced off rivets. She loved the soft chitter of ratchets rolling at the market and the thin silver music of wires strung between rooftops for kites. She even loved the soot—when it made pretty patterns on her hands.

But behind it all was today’s wrong note. The pipes along Brassbridge Lane sighed too long between beats, as if they had a story stuck in their throats.

Gran Maud set down her wrench and tapped the posted notices with a fingernail. “Curfew still on after dusk,” she muttered. “And the Guild of Regulators says no one goes below third grating without a permit. That means you too, Poppy.”

“I know.” Poppy folded the notices and slid them under the till. “I’m not going below. I’m just listening.”

Gran gave her a look. “Listening to pipes is what starts a tumble into places you shouldn’t be.” Then her gaze softened. “Your father had that same habit. The city sang to him, and he kept answering. That’s how we got you—half tea leaves, half cogs.”

Poppy smiled and leaned on the counter. “Just promise you won’t worry if I’m late from errands.”

“I always worry,” Gran said, but she ruffled Poppy’s hair. “Now, off you go. Take Brassfinch. And if a gauger asks, you’re getting bread.”