his face to push up his glasses.
'Do they really fly?'
'Let me see your shoulder. The cut might not bother you now, but your harness will irritate it.'
'I don't think it's too bad.' She tried to crane her neck around to see it. 'It stings, but it doesn't hurt much.'
'Let me see,' he repeated, impatiently.
She made a face, then unbuttoned the flight suit's high collar, down to the top of her breasts. A clock repairman wouldn't be her first choice of physician, but she supposed he was better than nothing.
'This may sting.' Cristof lifted the suit away from her bare shoulder. The suit's cotton padding stuck to the coagulating blood as it peeled away, and Taya winced. Cristof pressed a wet towel between her suit and skin.
Taya shivered as cold water dripped down her back. The outcaste's fingers were cold, too, as he touched the edges of the cut.
'You're right. It's shallow. Have a physician look at it tomorrow. It shouldn't impair your flight tonight.' Cristof's voice was as detached as it had been when he'd reported on the status of her wings. She remembered Decatur Forlore's quip about the repairman's way with machines and felt a flash of amusement. He had worried about her armature first and her wounds second, hadn't he? She imagined the exalted touched his broken clocks with exactly the same care and dispassion with which he'd touched her bare shoulder.
He laid the bloodstained towel on the table and picked up a clean one, pressing it over the cut. 'That will be enough of a bandage for the flight to your eyrie.'
'Thank you.' She buttoned her suit back up and reached for the floating harness.
'Give the cuts on your hand a few more minutes to clot.' He pushed up his spectacles, turning away. 'Do you want to see them fly?'
Taya studied his back, confused by the sudden change of subject. Then she remembered the toy birds.
'Please. If you don't mind.'
He untied one of the birds, holding it gently and turning toward her once more as he wound the key. For a moment the lamplight flashed on his glasses again.
'My mother gave these to my brother and me, when we were little.' He held the bird up with both hands and spread his fingers, releasing the bird.
The clockwork wings beat and the little bird took off, darting across the room and hitting the opposite wall. It floated there, its beak pressed against the wall, its wings still flapping uselessly.
Cristof walked across the room and turned it with one finger. The bird flew away again, coming to an abrupt stop at the next wall.
'They're meant to be used outside,' he said. 'Or in a very long hallway, preferably with an unsuspecting adult at the other end.'
Taya laughed, and for a brief moment Cristof's thin lips twisted upward in response. He retrieved the bird. Its wings were winding down, their beating slowing, but its ondium core kept it aloft. It floated between his hands.
'My brother broke this one and threw it away. I decided to fix it for him. It took me six years to learn how, but now it flies as well as ever.' Pride shone in his pale eyes as he regarded the tiny mechanism. 'They aren't made anymore. Using ondium in a children's toy is considered too much of an extravagance now that the main veins have been tapped out.'
'I think they're wonderful.' Taya smiled. 'Did you ever give the bird back to your brother?'
'No. By the time I'd fixed it, he'd moved on to other toys and didn't want it anymore.'
'Oh. That's too bad.'
'It's typical.' He turned and tied the bird back to the shelf. 'Alister adores his toys until they disappoint him. Then he throws them away.' For a moment his voice turned sour.
'Alister?' Taya felt a jolt of recognition. She'd already heard Cristof use that name today. 'You don't mean —' But of course he did. It made perfect sense. 'Decatur Forlore is your brother?'
Cristof's hands stopped.
'I thought you knew.'
'No, I didn't.' She faltered. 'But, if he's your brother, why are you living down here?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, he's a decatur, and he's still speaking with you. So why doesn't he bring you back to Primus?'
'I have no interest in going back to Primus.' His voice had turned cold, but Taya forged on.
'But you don't want to be outcaste, do you?'
Face twisting in rage, Cristof turned and slammed a hand down on the table.
'My brother and my caste are none of your business, icarus!'
Taya flinched, then slid off the chair and dropped to one knee, pressing her palm against her forehead.
'I'm sorry, exalted,' she said, furious at herself. How could she have forgotten her manners around an exalted, even an exalted in exile?
Some future diplomat!
'Stand up.' Cristof's voice was tight.
She glanced at him. His face was pale with anger. She bowed again, feeling sick.
'I'm sorry, exalted,' she repeated.
'Dammit, icarus, stand up!'
She scrambled to her feet, bracing herself for a slap.
'Look at me!'
She risked another glance and saw him glaring at her. She dropped her eyes again, not daring to anger him any further.
'You see?' he asked bitterly. 'That's exactly what I hate about my caste. You're brave enough to stab a Demican who's twice as tall and as strong as you are, but all an exalted has to do is raise his voice and you're on your knees.'
'I apologize,' she said. 'I was out of line.'
'Look at me when you talk. You're not a slave.'
She swallowed and looked up.
He started to say something, then closed his mouth and scowled. For a second the only sound in the shop was the ticking and whirring of the clockwork around them. They stared at each other.
'What's your name?'
'Taya Icarus, exalted.'
'Icarii stand outside the caste hierarchy. The next time an exalted shouts at you, stay on your feet and answer him like an equal.'
'I can't do that, Exalted Forlore.'
'Why not?' His voice was sharp.
'It wouldn't be respectful. An exalted could take away my wings, if he wanted.' She shivered at the thought. 'I'm sorry I made you angry.'
'I'm not going to take away your wings, icarus. I'm barely an exalted now, anyway.'
'You still wear the castemarks.'
He touched his copper-skinned cheek, his scowl deepening.
'Do you think wearing them makes me a coward? Do you think I should burn them away, or ink them over?'
'No,' she protested, sensing she was on dangerous ground again.
This man is a test in diplomacy all by himself.
She reached for her armature, pulling it toward her and untying it from the table. The sooner she could get
