Silver hearts

 In the misty, dripping night, a girl walks the wet cobblestones. The wind hisses around her, whispering a feeble warning. Broken lamps line the street.

But she does not fear the dark; she welcomes it. Darkness has long become a familiar escort. In the night, and she moves among the mist like a shadow.

She is complete.

The dress billows out behind her. The fabric, darker than ebony, runs long down her arms, concealing the small blade pressing against her palm. A curtain of lace covers her face; none of her marble flesh is exposed.

If you look closely enough, you see her movements are slightly disjointed, not fluid enough. If they lift the veil, they see haunting eyes that stare ahead with absolute conviction.

But no one dares venture that close.

The shops line the street; odd, lumbering, silent figures of brick and wood. Lamps have long flickered to a close. Even the adults are dreaming.

All save for one.

The girl fears the light. It means life, and punishment. But tonight, she has nothing to fear.

Her skirts sweep up to the doorstep. The knock is lighter than a feather.

The door opens.

A face peers out. His hands are smudged with grease; wrinkles line his face. In the dim candlelight, she sees that his hair has stuck up, in messy tufts. The lone candle lights the small, cramped workshop.

The door closes behind them.

Tonight, his expression is tight, revealing nothing. He watches her carefully. His eyes slide down to her right hand. Slowly. she brings it up and lifts her palm to the light.

Blood tips the small steel blade. Beside the dagger lay a small, corked, empty vial.

His eyes dart up. His whisper is low, deadly. “Did you do it?”

She nods, once. “Yes.”

His warm fingers come up, takes them from her ice-cold hand. She looks up, imploring.

Outside, the wind howls and shrieks. The mist, no longer calm, is ripped into a thousand pieces.

She needs it. She needs it badly. Or else—it would be over by dawn. 

“Good,” he says. He reaches into his shirt and draws out a small, bright silver key. “Turn around.”

She obeys. She reaches back and lifts her veil.

Beneath her tightly pinned hair, in the nape of her snow-white neck, is a keyhole.

His hands are steady as he inserts the key. He turns the key.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Her body shudders through each click of the key. Inside, the gears silently whirl.

“Three turns,” her master says, drawing the key out. “You can life for three more days. You know what you have to do.”

She turns. And nods.

It's heard to have a heart when you've stopped so many others. 

But not when it's made of steel and silver.

Outside, the darkness watches them both.

-Christina