Leila

Her favourite flower is a jasmine. Beautiful and exotic, its white petals are a breath of fresh air in her world of smog and darkness. Leila Farahat has never seen one before. She has no idea what they smell like, or how the individual leaves will feel against her skin. But she remembers. Even after so many years have passed since her parent's passing, she can still recall the tales her lascar father spun about a world she has never seen before. A world where jasmines blossom under the crescent moon, infusing the air with a rich scent that leaves one calm and at peace.

A world where sand blows across the dunes, gilded and soft, bathed in the suns of the East.

A world where she might finally belong.

She sighs.

Seated on her bed by the open window, she traces her hand against the wood of an old mahogany box–the last of her twin sister's belongings. The jasmine is as clear as day, coloured with an emerald stem and golden bud, engraved at the base of the box's top.

She reclines back against the wall, lifting her legs fully onto the mattress. One hand holding the treasury, she lifts the curtains so that the moonlight might spill onto the tarnished brass clasp. The lock that needs a key. She has seen her sister use one, engraved on her silver pendant, but where is it?

Her eyes trail up and across the servant quarters to the meagre drawer they have once used. No, she has already checked it. Twice, actually. Her gaze falls back down to the box, just as the door crashes open and Sylvia Porter, Madam Porter's daughter and her only friend, appears at the foot of the room. Her golden hair is a nest of waves and knots, a contrast to her usual French plait scraped to the nape of her neck. She holds onto the door panelling with both hands, attempting to catch her breath, but her eyes remain wide and her ivory skin only grows more flushed.

Leila rests the box down by her side, more confused than anything. "Are you all right, Sylvia?"

Her knuckles turning white, Sylvia pants, but is unable to gain much from her intakes of air. Instead, her face becomes paler and she shoots a palm to her chest. "Father has just bought home another automaton and Mel has gone bonkers in the kitchens!"

Leila furrows her eyebrows as the words register, then leaps onto her feet, darting out and into the corridors. Sylvia follows at her heels. Leila hikes up her skirts and runs down the attic staircase, her feet thundering against the wooden floorboards. She makes it to the main hall and goes further down to the kitchens. Once there, she crashes through the door.

Flour plumes in the air, coating the cupboards and the asphalt ground. Eggs are smattered against the wallpaper, and last dinner's leftovers cake the open pantry. In the centre of it all, a sulking Mel drops to the floor, the clang of her broken cogs ringing in the air. She hugs her legs closer to her chest and brings one arm to rest at her knees, not caring for the other thats springs are flying out of place.

Leila sighs, trying not to think of the amount of cleaning she will have to do later.

"I told you, I despise this bloody robot!" Sylvia shouts from behind her. She waves her arm in the air and storms out of view.

Leila circles past the table and sits down beside Mel under the window, ignoring the restricting pains of her corset. Splaying her legs out, she rests herself against the wall, careful to avoid the dripping of egg yolk a few inches from her right shoulder. "Mel, I'm sorry. Mister Porter needed a new set of hands to help out. You've been tiring yourself out, and it's showing." She raises her eyebrow at the dilapidated limb. "Don't blame them for bringing you help."

Mel's ruby eyepiece twitches as she almost seems to glare at her. "I do not need any help, Miss," she says, her velvety voice choked with emotion. She turns her ahead away from Leila and stares at the vase of hyacinths ahead. "I am perfectly capable of running the kitchens alone."

Leila smiles. "I know, but an extra pair of hands might make the job easier," she says, resting a hand on the automaton's steel shoulder. "You also get the opportunity to demand the new one to do all the menial work."

Mel's lips curl up into a mischievous grin. "I suppose so."

Leila stands up and holds out a hand to her friend. "Come on, let me get your arm fixed."

"No, it shall be painful." Recoiling back into her ball, Mel shakes her head vehemently.

"You cannot feel pain, and you know it," Leila replies. "Now, stop fussing and let me get to it. You're more stubborn than Mister Porter with his medicine."

Mel does as she's told. She lifts herself up and trails Leila out of the kitchens.

Years of sitting by Father's side, watching him as he fit the nails and clockwork in various machinery have resulted in her knowing a thing or two about Smithing. She very soon took an interest in the field, but after his death, she found the hobby only ever brought her pain alongside the memories. Though she is most certainly not the best Smith in the the British Empire, she's the only one in the house capable of keeping Mel's gears greased and her limbs intact. Which is exactly why Madam Porter had hired her and her sister three years ago, plucking them straight out of the workhouses and into a lavish two-storey-and-an-attic home in Mayfair.

Leila just wished Mel wouldn't keep breaking.

Before either of them makes it halfway up the staircase, Mrs. Porter's sonorous laughter pierces the air and the beeps of the new automaton stream out from the drawing-room. Leila swears she can see Mel's eyes glow even redder, a stark crimson against her glinting silver skin. "Oh, no." Just as she reaches out to grab onto Mel's arm, the automaton turns on her roller wheels and bounds down the remaining steps, vanishing in the archway of the drawing-room.

Bloomin' hell. Leila curses in between her teeth as she follows Mel back down again. The moment she enters the room, a heavy leather-bound book shoots in her direction. She ducks just in time to watch it fly over head and fall with a reverberating thud on the wooden floorboards. Leila returns her gaze back to the scene in front of her and finds Mel in a struggle with the new automaton, its pristine coat of gilded metal shining under the gasolier. Unlike Mel, however, the new automaton has a deep scratch on its shoulder. Little bits of steel fray where the metal sinks in.

Beside the two, Mrs. Porter fans her berry face, her blue eyes wide and disbelieving.

For a second, Leila hesitates, unsure of what to do. But just as she sees the set of golden keys lying on the desk, near Mr. Porter's decanter, her schemes cement. She leaps toward it and finds the key with the letters SD engraved on its base. She fires herself between the two automatons and slides the key into the nape of Mel's neck. Her eyes dim to a burgundy and her limbs splay out, fainting right into Leila's arms.

The other automaton puffs and dusts its unblemished shoulders, snooty nose held high while its lips are twisted in disdain.

Leila shifts to better carry Mel, then drops her to the nearest armchair, relieved when the weight falls off her shoulders.

"Thank you, child," Mrs. Porter exclaims a little bit later, coming up to stand next to her while shaking her head at Mel. She places her knuckles on her large hips, her eyebrows knitted. "Who would have thought a seemingly peaceful young robot could be so violent?!"

Leila says nothing, but one glance at the smirking new automaton and her rage boils beyond control. She grits her teeth then blurts out, "My apologies, Mrs. Porter, but are you sure it was Mel to blame?" She gestures to the fallen automaton. "The poor girl wasn't expecting to be replaced so soon."

Mrs. Porter narrows her eyes. "The thing is breaking apart. You've mended it almost ten times in the last month."

Leila inwardly fumes. Mel isn't an it. She's gained a personality over the past six months. No matter how much Mr and Mrs. Porter wish to oversee the matter, the automaton was just as human now as her or Sarah. Leila bit her tongue.

"Right, now, I need you to clean up this mess and off to bed with you. It is already well past eleven," Mrs. Porter says, before gesturing with her finger to the new automaton and they both flee out into the darkness.

Leila sighs, surveying the depreciation. The once organized set of books are now strewn all over the room. Dip pens, ink pots, and ledgers are littering the surface of every desk and side-table. The furniture has also been moved away from the fireplace and closer to the corners of the room. With an angry stomp of her heel, she sets to work.

By the time the room looks half decent, her forehead is already glistening with a fresh sheen of sweat and her legs feel like lead beneath her. She huffs and drops herself down on the settee farthest from the raging hearth.

The grandfather clock chimes midnight, a singsong tune. At the third note of the ballad, the flickering flames of the fireplace are interrupted by waltzing shadows—and the doorbell rings.

At the doorstep, she finds a poster inviting the town to a traveling circus show, parked right in Regent Park.

Beside it, her sister's silver pendant stained in blood.