Criaturas | Pobres

A child laughed. An adult shushed him.

She smiled. It was not a natural smile. It was too wide, too symmetrical, too aware of its own mechanics. But it was, unmistakably, real. Pobres Criaturas

The crowd gasped. A jar of pickled beetroot toppled and rolled across the floor. A child laughed

And every Tuesday, at the hour of her strange arrival, Miss Marjorie Finch would stand beneath the clock tower, wind a small key embedded in her left wrist, and listen to the gears inside her sing. Pobres Criaturas

Sir Reginald Hoax opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out.