I should be sitting nicely by the door while the man repairs father's clock, instead my doll is charged with keeping watch as I look at the balding man mutter over gears and screws. He looks up suddenly, freezing me.

He makes to shoo me away, reconsiders. Pointing at a box of tiny tools near me, “Ballpin hammer.”

Heavy in my small hand, I walk closer with the tool, sitting cautiously next to him. He shows me the clock, exposed and fragile.

“Where is the problem?”

I point at a small piece of rusted metal and he smiles at me.

He uses such large words.

Pietro points enthusiastically at drawings of stars and moons and I nod false understanding. We have been here for over an hour.

Maybe the moon will be full tonight.

“The red moon was pretty.”

He stares at me and I realize I’ve spoken aloud.

Quick. Think. “Is that… normal?”

He is puzzled by the abrupt change, but moves smoothly on. I try to follow, as I do each lesson, but there are fewer pictures now and my mind wanders.

When can I go?

I think he hates me.

He rarely looks at me, and what words he speaks I can hardly understand for his accent. My own words catch in my throat from his icy gaze.

He approached me this morning as I sat spinning and I could hardly keep my fingers from shaking. Twice I broke the lead as he stood there watching before leaving without a word.

A servant enters the Household rooms bearing a small box. Recognizing his seal, I hesitantly open it to find three balls of heavy wool, its staples long and greasy. Yes, he must hate me.

The sun is warm today, it heats my skin as we run across the yard, hiding, seeking, tagging. My work is done for the day, I have learned two new letters, almost enough to spell my name, and father brings me his number books daily.

For now, however, I forget them. My skirts tucked high, I race after the other girls, shrieking and laughing.

A stern word from the door, we instantly freeze. My mother holds out her hand, and I know I have no choice. A small wave goodbye and I make my way inside.

“Today you learn embroidery.”

My belongings above rock with every jolt and I, cold and tired, set my fruitless embroidery down to look outside. I pull the curtain aside and there is nothing. Snow fell thick last night and today we move slowly. A wisp of wind brings my hand back and I pull the blanket, a present from my brother, tighter around me. Soon there will be color – snow will melt, rain will fall, the fields will bloom.

I dream of warm days and clear nights, of laughter and song, of fabric and steel. Slowly, steadily, reliably, I make my way home again.

I sat, defeated, as dress after dress was pulled from my trunk and presented. She smiled, the only sun I'd seen in weeks, at my expression.

"The pink one."

I gaped.

"Okay, the green one?"

"Remind me why?"

"You promised Jacob. The blue looks nice, why don’t you like these?"

"Too many bows. Why dinner?"

"I’ll take them off, and he likes you. I’ll get the brown sash and pearls, too."

I stared and shook my head.

“I’ll brush your hair.”

She stood, victorious, waving the dress before me.

“No ribbons.”

“No ribbons,” she promised and picked up the brush.

There was a moan, a shriek, a jolt, and a thump. I hit the soft dirt and rolled. In the distance, tiny bells jingled insistently. I moaned again as I pushed myself up, grass stains smearing my white shirt as I looked around. Or tried. Everything was stiff, painfully, and I fell back quickly. I remembered to blink as my eyes dried. My fingers bent, one, two, three, four, five, and my toes curled, right, left, right, left. My neck loosened and my head flopped to the side. The name plate told me what I already knew.

I was dead.

My ring twirls idly around my finger, nails running across the surface. I have been battling in my mind for some time now as I peer below through the tall glass window. Some idle, others rush by, bright colors catch my eye as a tailor sweeps down the lane. My nail catches a small chip in the gem. Pretty, yes, but cheap, mostly cheap, like so much I own. . I know that who I am and where I come from won’t get me far. The Bande marches loudly through the gates and I smile slightly. There are other ways.

Long forgotten clothes were pulled from my wardrobe and, with a nod from my mother, packed away. Yet my time would be spent with the machines and in less restrictive garments, not, as my mother believed, at social parties with the ladies. I could never have gone as a mechanic, no matter my skill, but as an official guest, that was different. I would have to find some way to repay Jacob for this. For now, I stared in anticipation at the sea as my mother plotted my inevitable engagement to one of the countless gentlemen guaranteed to be present.