Gears, Grease, and a Little Bit of Magic

He wanted me to fix this?

I stared down at the object on the wooden counter, fingering the feathered end of my braid. It looked like an over-sized pocket-watch, carved concentric circles covering the outer shell and a knot at one end, but there was no discernible way it opened.

I glanced up at my customer. The white-haired man leaned on his cane, his waxed mustache-ends quivering as he watched me. 

I muttered a polite, "Hmmmm," and pulled my magnifying goggles over my eyes. 

"Well? Can you fix it?"

I looked up and could have counted the number of long white hairs protruding from the man's left ear. I pushed the glasses on top of my head, twitched my skirt and apron straight, and let my eyes wander away from the gentleman's gaze.

There were a hundred things to do rather than take on a new customer. I could clean those piles of junk stacked on the floor. Take a few failed projects to the dustbin. Organize my shelves of textbooks. Clean my desk of gears, springs, and paraphernalia. 

"Can you fix it?" he repeated.

"Sure I can," I said, infusing my voice with confidence. I couldn't very well tell him that I had no idea of what it was, now could I? I'd be the laughingstock of the Gadget Guild—er, the Repairmen's Guild.

Except I wasn't a repairman. More like a repairwoman—which was unusual and, according to the Guild, unseemly. They hadn't complained when I'd offered my Guild membership as straight up, on the spot cash, but I knew they were just waiting for a chance to kick me out.

I brushed my bangs out of my eyes. "When do you want it back?"

The man pulled a real pocket-watch out of his waistcoat and popped it open. "I'm leaving on an airship cruise tomorrow morning, so I'll be by the shop by nine of the clock to pick it up. Is that acceptable?"

I nodded and gulped. One night? What was I thinking? 

The man tipped his hat and stepped out the door of my shop.

I half-stood, my mind yelling at me to run after him. But the man's white suit was lost in the press of the crowd outside. 

I thumped back down and glared at the round disk.

#

I hurried through the rest of my to-do list, but it still took me several hours. By the time I finished, it was dusk. I poked my head out of the doorway and saw the lamplighters moving along the streets, their lighters clicking and sparking away.

I harrumphed and banged my shop door harder than necessary. There was really no reason—nor time—to delay the task I'd dreaded all day.

I pulled the shades, turned on the gaslights, and sat down at my desk, sweeping clear all the half-finished personal projects and loose bits that had piled up over the last couple of weeks. The disk sat alone on the dark wood, gleaming in the light. 

I clicked the button that, if it had been a giant pocket-watch, would have popped it open. Nothing. I turned the thing over and over, searching for screws, nuts, anything that would give me an indication of where to begin taking it apart. There was a fine seam running between the two disks that met at the knob, so I pushed the knob again.

Still nothing.

I tried twisting it. There, that worked at least. The knob screwed off. I placed it aside and took off the top disk.

The inside was filled with gears, wires, and more brass, all folded into a strange pattern that I couldn't even begin to recognize. I leaned my elbows on the desk and stared at it.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring into the depths of the piece. What I do remember is waking up to the pounding on the door.

I sat up and blinked. Through the opaque shades I could see the outline of someone waiting at the door of my shop—someone who looked vaguely familiar…

"Oh, smashing!" 

It was him. My customer with the weird doohickey. I looked down at my desk. There it sat, still displaying its innards to the world. 

I blew out a long breath and put my hands on it. I hated using my magic, but it would seem there was no other choice.

I closed my eyes and let my fingers run over the piece. I could feel my fingertips tingling. My grandfather had been able to do this—he called it 'reading'. It was a bit of luck, a bit of talent, and a bit of magic all mashed together. I couldn't us the magic to mend the piece—grandfather had taught me that magic was too fickle for that—but at least I could figure out what was wrong.

"Where are you broken?" I muttered.

Then I felt it, under my right pinkie. I opened my eyes and looked down as the man pounded on the door again. My pinkie rested on a metal gear. I grabbed a screwdriver and pried the gear loose. Underneath was—of all things—a simple loose wire. I tightened the screw holding the wire in place, replaced the gear, dabbed some grease in strategic spots, and replaced the top's disk. 

Holding my breath, I pushed the knob. 

The thing whirred to life, popping open. Legs extended, a head formed, and before I knew it, a hand-high robotic dog was standing on the desk in front of me. It cocked its head one way, then another, the mechanical eyes blinking and whirring.

"Ah, so you did fix him. I was beginning to wonder."

I whirled around. The old man was standing in my shop, leaning on his cane, dressed in a white suit identical to the one he'd worn yesterday.

"How did you get in?" I sputtered.

"Oh, I used just the littlest bit of magic." He smiled and snapped his fingers. "Come, Penrod. Over here."

The mechanical dog jumped from my desk to the counter, then leaped into his master's outstretched hand. It gave a tinny woof, the tail wagging furiously.

The gentleman looked up at me, his eyes twinkling. "Not many people have ever seen one of these automatons. How did you fix him?"

"Gears and grease, sir," I answered, grinning. "And maybe the littlest bit of magic."