The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato

together of various parts—meditated in a perfect Al Cala pose. Tears filled Octavia’s eyes as she pressed a hand to the gremlin’s back, just as Miss Percival once soothed her.
    Do you grieve for those who died? Are you afraid to be caged within these walls, the way I feel amongst city streets?
    It would be impossible to keep the creature hidden the entire trip. She knew that, and yet she couldn’t withhold her fondness for this little gremlin the same color as spring leaves. Leaf. The perfect name for a gremlin. Mrs. Stout would never approve of the attachment it implied, so Octavia kept it to herself. Her fingers trailed down Leaf’s spine to the small nub of his tail.
    A bell rang out in the hall. “Come now, little one, and try out the cage,” Octavia said.
    To her shock, the gremlin flew right inside the silver-barred cube. Mrs. Stout did the latch. Leaf had barely enough room to spread his wings, but he didn’t seem perturbed by his new confines.
    â€œWell! The creature learned what a cage was right away,” said Mrs. Stout. “My oh my. I wonder what else we could teach him?”
    â€œYes. There’s something special about him.” Leaf. The name fit the chimera well. He was an aberration without a true place in this world, just like her.
    â€œI SUSPECT THIS MAY be horse, not beef, but it’s cooked too long to tell.” Mrs. Stout’s nostrils flared as she sniffed at her supper stew. “Well, meat is meat!”
    I couldn’t eat flame-cooked meat for years after I moved to the academy. Couldn’t even be in its presence without retching.
    Octavia let a lump of gristle roll over the back of her spoon. “I suppose.” The afternoon had passed in blissful peace as they taught Leaf the names of some twenty objects, but now darkness had fallen beyond the promenade’s windows.
    â€œYou’re fussing, not eating.” Mrs. Stout pointed her spoon accusingly. “Our gremlin is caged and safe. Soon enough he’ll be free, and you will have nothing to worry about!”
    Today has been one new worry after another.
    â€œOh.” Mrs. Stout’s eyes widened as she looked across the room. She reached to her lap and, to Octavia’s surprise, pulled out a small notebook and nubby pencil. She began to scribble, her tongue jabbing at her red-painted lip.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Mrs. Stout?”
    â€œI am a keen observer of humanity. That woman over there, her dress is coarse, like a pony in winter. I must record that imagery. It’s perfect.”
    â€œYou’re a poet?” Octavia leaned forward with eagerness. The mechanical band played softly in the background, the sound of the mandolin soothing like a body in good health.
    Mrs. Stout tilted her head, her expression mildly aghast. “Goodness, no. Though I do write. On occasion.” Her scrutinizing gaze traveled elsewhere, and her pencil scratched more words on paper. Octavia noted their fellow diners made no move to socialize. Apparently, one doesn’t make friends by assaulting fellow passengers with a serving tray.
    Their soup bowls were empty when Mr. Garret approached and leaned over the table, his hands hovering near their dishes.
    â€œThere has been a disturbance in your room,” he said, his voice low. “People complained of noise. I had seen you both at supper, so I unlocked the door, expecting a burglar.”
    The two women shared an expression of white-faced dread.
    â€œMr. Garret, I can explain—” Octavia began.
    â€œI know what happened earlier and I can guess what happened now.” His tone was mild, not indignant as she expected. “How long did you plan to keep the beastie?”
    â€œOnly until tonight,” Mrs. Stout said. Octavia felt a wave of sadness at the words.
    â€œIf people already suspect something about our room, is there someplace where no one will find him?” Octavia asked. “Until we can