Chapter One

Sabine Zimmermann was a woman of precise measurements. The loom in the basement of the mill at ninety-six of Candlewick Row was not. It breathed. The rain hammered the slate roof, a steady, physical weight that pressed the air down into the coal-smelling dark.

I checked the clock on the wall. It said four. The clock on the mantel said five. The discrepancy was a fact I could not fix, only endure.

My brother, Jonas, sat in the corner, his cough a wet, tearing sound that seemed to pull the warmth from the room. He was dying. The physician said it was consumption. I said it was the machine.

The loom required silver breath to operate, and it had been feeding on Jonas’s vitality for weeks. I had to stop it. I had to take the place of the victim. I picked up my wrench.

The metal was cold, biting into my palm. Chapter Two I worked the double shift. The loom hummed, a low, metallic hunger that vibrated in my teeth.

I fed it my sleep. I did not close my eyes. I did not rest. The fabric came off the roller in long, gray sheets.

It looked like skin. It felt like skin. Jonas’s skin was turning gray, fibrous, rough to the touch. He looked at me with eyes that were no longer his own.

They were flat, like stones in a riverbed. The projectionist, a man named Mueller, watched from the shadows. He belonged to the union, but he said nothing. He only watched.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​‌‌⁠‍⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍⁠​​‍⁠‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​‌‍​‍‍‌‍‍⁠​​‍⁠‍

The rain continued to fall, sideways, lashing the windows. I tightened the belt. The machine screamed. I did not flinch.

I was an inspector, a seamstress, a woman who knew the value of a thread. I knew the cost of a life. I paid it in hours. Chapter Three

The truth revealed itself in the weave. The cloth was not cotton. It was not wool. It was Jonas.

I saw his face in the pattern, distorted, stretched, woven into the warp. I struck the gears with my wrench. The metal rang out, a sharp, defiant note. The machine adapted.

The drive belt snapped around my wrists. It tightened. The pain was a white, hot spike. I tried to pull free.

I could not. The machine was sentient. It was hungry. It had chosen me.

I looked at Jonas. He was still. He was waiting. I stopped fighting.

The wrench slipped from my numb fingers and clattered to the floor. The sound was small. The pain was large. I accepted the transfer.

I let the machine take what it wanted. I gave it my years. I gave it my future. I gave it the light in my eyes.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​‌‌⁠‍⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍⁠​​‍⁠‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​‌‍​‍‍‌‍‍⁠​​‍⁠‍

Chapter Four The loom shuddered. The metallic hunger was sated. The grayness left Jonas’s skin.

A healthy flush returned to his cheeks. He sat up. He stretched. He looked strong.

I looked at my hands. They were fused into the metal. My fingers were part of the drive belt. My body aged.

My skin wrinkled. My hair turned white. It happened in an hour. It happened in a lifetime.

The machine collapsed. It fell into a pile of rusted iron and silk. I was left in the wreckage. I was a husk.

I was a shell. I was nothing. Jonas stood free. He did not see me.

He did not know. He walked toward the door. He did not look back. I smiled.

My face was a mask of tragic irony. I had traded my life for his. I had won. I had lost.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​‌‌⁠‍⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍⁠​​‍⁠‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​‌‍​‍‍‌‍‍⁠​​‍⁠‍

The clocks on the wall and the mantel finally agreed. They both said six. The rain stopped. The silence was loud.

Chapter Five They carried me out of the factory. The air was cold. It bit into my withered skin.

Jonas walked beside me. He was vibrant. He was strong. He was alive.

I was dust. I was becoming dust. We went to the hospital. The mission infirmary was quiet.

The nurses moved quickly. They did not speak. They did not ask. They knew.

They always knew. I lay on the bed. The sheets were thin. The light was pale.

I looked at Jonas. He was signing a form. He was inheriting the factory. He was believing in a legacy of success.

He did not know that the silk he sold was woven from my bones. He did not know that the subscription list for the new bell was my last act of defiance. I held the key to the Mourncastle clock. It was heavy in my hand.

It was the only thing I had left. I placed it on the bedside table. The tax boat was arriving early. The money was due.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​‌‌⁠‍⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍⁠​​‍⁠‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​‌‍​‍‍‌‍‍⁠​​‍⁠‍

I paid it. I paid it all. Chapter Six The boat was sold.

The final image was the empty dock. The water was black. The sky was gray. I died in the hospital.

My body turned to dust. The dust settled on the floor. It settled on the key. It settled on the list.

Jonas walked out of the door. He did not look back. He did not know. He would never know.

The clock on the wall ticked. The clock on the mantel ticked. They agreed. They were wrong.

They were right. The rain started again. It fell sideways. It fell hard.

It fell forever. The loom was gone. The hunger was gone. The sacrifice was done.

The redemption was complete. The story was over. The end was near. The end was here. The end was now.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​‌‌⁠‍⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍⁠​​‍⁠‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌​‌‍​‍‍‌‍‍⁠​​‍⁠‍