Arachnodactyl by Danny Knestaut

small screw held a shilling-sized, brass plate to the center. A tiny hook stuck out from the edge of the disk. Otherwise, the device had disintegrated and offered no hints or clues as to how it came apart or ever went together.
    Ikey glanced to the open door again. Cross would appear at any moment, dip his head as he passed under the doorway, then stand with his hands on his hips as he took in the wreckage and Ikey’s blunt ignorance.
    The doorway remained empty as Ikey slipped from the stool. He sank to his knees at the thought of Cross’s fists flying. The long arms. The incredible reach that would bloody him to a pulp before he could think to cover his head.
    Ikey gritted his teeth as his fingertips brushed over the parts and spread the damage out so he could get a good look at the sum of the parts. He found bits of tin and copper and brass rolled into thin chimes. Little bells appeared sporadically through the mess like tiny, metallic flowers poking out of mechanical loam. Slivers of broken glass hid among the wreckage, tethered by wire to rods or gears or other bits of glass. Small hammers of wood and metal and rubber lay in the debris. Everywhere sat gears and rods that offered no hints of how it all worked together.
    Heat flooded his cheeks and leaked out with his breath. There was no hope of reassembling the thing. A scrap of paper caught his eye. He plucked it from underneath a thin plate of copper. The paper was yellowed, folded into a cube, and judging by the lines printed on it, torn from a ledger book. Ikey flicked the edge of his fingernail against the cube.
    Tick.
    He unfolded the cube of paper. Rows of penciled numbers stared back.
    Ikey sat on his heels. His shoulders drooped while he surveyed the fifty or sixty music boxes sitting on the shelves in various states of disrepair or abandon. Inside? He shook his head at the thought of the numbers in the front parlor and the dining parlor alone. A hundred? More. Two hundred?
    How long might it take to assemble one working music box? They were fussy beyond belief. Unfathomable and intricate. And where did Cross get the money? The miniature mallets and chimes were delicate pieces. The gears were tiny, thin pieces manufactured with a precision usually reserved for watches and small clocks.
    Surely Cross sold the music boxes. They were amazing. Who wouldn’t want one? Who wouldn’t marvel at the craftsmanship, the novelty of a music box powered by the slightest vibrations? And the money Cross could demand for one would stagger most. The parts were costly. And how to replicate one eluded Ikey, so how could anyone figure out a process to churn them out in a Manchester factory? They were jewels. Mechanical jewels of noise and song.
    If Ikey could figure out how to make one, then he could command a fortune for them as well.
    He looked out the door. The dirt path disappeared into the night on its way to Cross’s dark house and Rose, the most amazing thing he’d seen. If Ikey learned how to replicate Rose…
    His heart quickened at the thought. His own Rose. A creature incapable of experiencing pain or facing a harm that could not be mended. One designed to understand all there was to know of him and accept him regardless. His fingers traced through the shrapnel.
    A creature that could forgive him.
    In the pile of junk in the corner of the workshop, Ikey found an empty can into which he deposited the shattered music box. He returned the can to the junk pile and concealed it under a few random pieces of detritus. He then arranged the music boxes on the shelf to hide the gap where he had removed one. With the toe of his boot, he rubbed the divot in the floor. His efforts smoothed it out some, but a crescent-shaped indentation remained. Hardly noticeable. Almost anything could have made the mark. Finally, Ikey returned the borrowed tools, blew out the bright lantern, picked up the other one, and passed over to the exit. He gave the room another examination, and seeing no