Now we lead the congregation down the very path that the stiltwalker carried us that night. It is not far but we are in no hurry, the dance must take its time. Guttering streetlights reinforce the shadows of the dancers, but no enhancement is needed to bring out the stark grotesquery of them. All their sorrows and yearnings, great and small, finding release after years in prison. Wilting coiffures, sweat-stained shirt fronts, gown hems soiled beyond salvation, shoe lacquer scratched... all offered up in sacrifice to unbridled emotion.

Closing in on the spot now. There, right there I stood dazed, looking down on my old, discarded body. Violin and bow still in its firm grip. The professor stomping and wailing.

Then coming to his senses. The body would be easily dispatched, the river was handy and no one would miss an old, homeless drunkard. The automaton that was us didn't listen nor care, but bent down and recovered the precious instrument, prudently with its ungainly fingers.

Those were easy for the professor to replace with more nimble ones, able to caress the entrancing tones out of my Silversong. You and I were in wordless agreement from the first. None of us had asked for this, but here we were now, this was us. What we had been was no more and would never be again.

So now we lead the dance - you direct the legs, I handle the fingers and in between, where the cogwheels hum and whir, engaging each other in their own version of the dance, that is where we meet to form a whole. Human, machine and fairy in one.

Was it less than a year ago? The professor buckled down to it and made things happen without delay. The grand opening at the Grandoper was broadly publicised. A playing and dancing wonder of the world - see the fairy tales come to life!

People have forgotten the old grim fairytales, sneered or laughed at them, mollified them and banished them to the nurseries. Now they are all part of one.

We do not stop at the quayside. Your kin await us there, the mists as dense as ever, their tones echoing the voice of Silversong as strongly. The fog comes together to form a footbridge, carrying our body, surprisingly light for a metal construct, as we dance across the river.

Behind us, splash after splash is heard as the dancers pass over the edge, too heavy for our misty path. I can hear no cries, but maybe the fairy song drowns them in our ears. Perhaps some survive. Perhaps none. That is for storytellers to come to reveal.

We reach the far shore and continue dancing, playing, alone now and for as long as this body can last. That may be a long time yet, the professor was a skilled constructor.

I don't mind at all and, I think, neither do you. The glow is blazing hot in me, no bodily distractions can bring me to fall anymore. And we will always have each other. Happy together.

For ever after.