Free A Clockwork Fairytale by Helen Scott Taylor

young ladies so she could watch them.
    “Oh, indeed.” Master Turk’s gaze flicked across her face, a hint of a frown creasing his brow. “You must watch them if you’re to learn how to behave like a young lady, Melba. I surely cannot explain or demonstrate how they go about. They’re as much a mystery to me as they seem to be to you.”
    He straightened and held out a demanding hand. Melba dug the stolen timepiece and doodad from her pocket and passed them over. Master Turk examined them and shook his head. “What a waste.” He tossed both items among the bundles of frayed fabric in the tailor’s trash barrel. “Don’t jeopardize your future and mine by being thoughtless.”
    “Sorry. I won’t do it again.” Melba hugged the box, which had somehow got squashed, and stared at her feet. She inhaled deeply, catching the addictive tang of his lemon-spice smell. A worm of pain wriggled through her at the thought she’d let him down.
    A musical chime cut through the background murmur of voices coming from the market square. “On the first Tuesday of every month the Royal Victualler gives alms to the poor,” Master Turk said, tapping his cane on the ground. “I want you to watch him carefully, watch the bluejackets in his guard, and watch the poor in need of charity. This is a good test of your observation skills, as things are not what they appear to be. Later we’ll discuss what you notice.”
    He strode back toward the square. Melba pulled the front of her hat down and hurried after him. The crowds between the stalls had thinned and everyone was heading for the shrine to the Great Earth Jinn at the eastern side of the marketplace.
    Master Turk directed Melba toward a shuttered shop, where she scrambled up some steps for a view over the crowd. Bluejackets lined each side of the narrow lane leading from the marketplace to Nob Hill. But these weren’t the scruffy bluejackets she’d seen in the taverns and brothels of the outer circle. These men wore clean jackets, their buttons gleaming gold, their boots polished.
    Then her eyes widened in amazement at the strangest sight she had ever beheld. She had seen nobs traveling in sedan chairs down to the docks, but never one like this. Instead of men carrying the conveyance, it was automated with a wooden wheel attached to each corner and metal arms that pumped back and forth, turning the wheels as if by magic. It must be driven by an engine, but not a dirty, belching steam engine like the ones that drove the heavy lifting gear at the docks. This engine made no noise.
    Once the conveyance stopped and the bluejackets stood to attention, a man who must be the Royal Victualler emerged from the curtained interior. His golden hair shone in the sun, bright blue gems the color of a summer sky sparkled at his ears, and a huge blue jewel set in a heavy gold chain hung around his neck. He wore black pants, tall black boots, and a blue jacket trimmed with gold, and most impressive of all, a pair of shiny brass aeronaut’s goggles that sat on his head like a crown. Melba’s breath caught in shocked disbelief that anyone could be so beautiful.
    He strode to the shrine and mounted the four steps to its array of sacred clay tubular bells. Stooping, he lifted a wooden hammer from its rest. With the light touch of an adept, he tapped out a traditional chime in honor of the Great Earth Jinn. “In the name of the Great Earth Jinn, the birther of all life, I humbly offer these alms to the poor and needy,” he intoned in a regal voice.
    Melba had been so entranced by the hypnotic melody and the fluid grace of the Royal Victualler as he moved to and fro before the tubular bells, she had failed to notice two handcarts loaded with baskets of fruit and vegetables arrive.
    Master Turk grumbled a few words under his breath that Melba didn’t catch. She glanced at him to find his jaw set hard, his expression stony with disapproval. Then his warning came back to her: Things are not what they