I woke up, cold and wet from the morning dew brushing off each intricate blade of glass like a fine brush against my cheek. Slowly, I sat up, rubbing my eyes as I stretched my hands up towards the smog-coated sky. I looked around, when I noticed something was off.

Where's Oliver?

"Oliver?" I shouted, drawing myself up to standing. "Oliver!" This time it came with a tone of worry as I looked frantically around the horizons of dusty grass, only decorated with the smallest patches of trees.

"Oi!" came a response, if it could even be called that. Relieved, I turned around to find him far off in the edges of my line of sight. Skinny as he was, he must have had quite the set of lungs to call out from that distance. I decided to wait patiently for him to come closer, each step allowing me to make out more detail, until finally I could tell he had something in hand.

"Whatever is that?" I inquired once he was close enough to hear me speak at a normal volume.

A small smirk flashed across his freckled features. "Breakfast!"

"Stolen, I presume," I mentioned with raised eyebrows.

"Hm, I suppose you could call it that." He held the stained brown bag close to his squinted eyes, inspecting it. "But I like to call it an equal trade. After all, it's from a factory whose workers are entirely composed of small children. Since I spend more than enough time caring for those children later, when they decide they're no longer useful, I think a free breakfast now and then is more than fair."

I sighed. It was hard to argue with that. Though I had only seen them out and about in my hometown, it was hard to miss them whenever they ran past me. Children with missing fingers, crutches to support their weight, or those that had a hard time thinking of anything other than small thoughts, their minds so deteriorated. Father had always said it was because of the chemicals they worked with. It was why he had always tried to wear a mask whenever he dealt with his patients. I frowned for a moment, finding myself rather unlucky to have none on me for my own procedure tonight.

"Fine then. I hope it's at least something I'll be able to eat."

"I'm sorry. They were fresh out of tea and cakes for her majesty when I slinked over there. I made the best of efforts though," he joked, even though I was none too appreciative. I begrudgingly took the can he handed me from the bag, using my knife to slice a small hole into both the top and bottom. It contained beans, drenched in molasses with small bites of sheep mutton for a change of pace in an otherwise very mundane meal. With neither a spoon nor a fork, I sat there, wondering how I was ever supposed to eat it, when I turned to find Oliver pouring the contents into his mouth as though it were water from a glass.

"Are you going to sit there and stare at the beans all day, or are you actually going to eat them?"

I turned my face away, feeling my face begin to flush with embarrassment. Though my features wouldn't give it away as easily as Oliver's fair skin, I would hate for him to see how much it bothered me.

Especially after he had to do so much to get it for me. I should be more grateful he got anything at all.

Taking a bite, I felt my eyes darting to the side, catching a glimpse of him sitting there, already finished. He was just staring blankly at the sky now, the bits of sun able to make it through the choking clouds lighting his hair like thin strands of copper and setting his eyes aglow. He seemed so distant, so mysterious.

For no particular reason, my thoughts drifted back to when we danced at the Rusty Spigot, only last night. He had seemed so carefree then. It struck me as odd that he could shift from someone never able to take life seriously, to someone so quiet and thoughtful. It almost made me want to pry into him like a clock, to open up his thoughts and learn about them and how they worked.

Truth be told, I only knew two things about him, if one wasn't to count that he was an obvious ragamuffin. That he came from a place in England called Liverpool, and that he cared a lot about young children, most likely because of the connection he'd had with his sister.

And the only things he knows about me is that I'm the Heartsmith's daughter, and none too pleasant of a person, with the way I've acted. Perhaps I can change that.

I stood. We had a long journey ahead of us to the twentieth district, which left plenty of otherwise empty time.

"If you're ready to get going, I think now would be a good time, before the sun grows too hot," I began.

With no answer, he rose too, the can still in hand, and he began to walk, almost seeming to keep a little distance from me, most likely due to my temper last night. I hoped to close that distance, and if he wasn't about to start, then that left myself.

"I wanted to ask you..." I stopped as he turned around to make eye contact. "You claimed that you used to live in England. How did someone as young as yourself manage to make their way to America? Was your family well off enough to get a ride on a boat?"

He slowed down his pace slightly to walk a bit closer, if only to make it easier to talk. "I wouldn't say that, exactly," he began to answer. "Though I suppose a sort of boat was used to bring me over."

"Whatever is that supposed to mean?" I prompted, hoping he would continue.

"Once I was... on my own, I had no money to ride a boat to America, and I couldn't remain in Britain any longer. I was too well known."

"So you were a thief over there too," I interrupted before I could stop myself. I really needed to work on that habit. Nothing good ever came from it.

"I- Yes, I was," he admitted. "Although it wasn't like I chose to be one willingly. I had heard America was supposed to be this golden land of opportunity and second chances. The issue was, I had no way of making it here. You might not know much about England, but our navy is by far the greatest in the world, and because of that, ocean security is the tightest around. I needed to be a stowaway, but I knew I had no chance on a boat for the water. So-"

"So you took an airship?" I asked incredulously. He nodded sheepishly.

"I had to. They were being made in Germany, and once I made it there, it was much easier to sneak onto one of their zeppelins."

"But they're so new. They were only invented, what was it? Three years ago? I wouldn't ride one until they've existed for at least a good twenty years."

He laughed. "You say this as if I only left last year. I left three years ago. I was sixteen."

I stopped walking for a moment. "You don't mean... You were on the Airstorm! The first one they ever created?"

"Well, they called it Der Luftsturm, but yes. The first one. All I cared about was that it was heading to America in hopes of convincing the president of its commercial use. I made it here, in one piece, in the state of New York. An absolutely wretched place. They don't like the Irish or British there, and told me to move out to the Midwest. So, here I am."

"Wow. That was incredibly brave of you. I can't imagine doing anything like that." I looked down at my feet, watching as my shoes began to kick up more dirt and dust as we left the empty farmland behind and drew closer to the next district.

"I just did what I had to. I'm sure you've done much more exciting and daring things, being the daughter of a heartsmith."

I bit my lip. I had done nothing of the sort. My story wasn't impressive in the least, having stayed at home from a very young age. "No, I was never allowed to dabble in my father's work. I do know a few things from overhearing conversations, but most everything I know comes from reading whatever books I could get my hands on. My favorites were always things I knew nothing of, be it building mechanisms, science, or even a few romance novels. I was always taking things apart around the shop, trying to figure out how they worked, and put them back together. Of course, Father always wanted me to take up embroidery and mending like other young girls, but I never had much of an interest in those skills. I remember one of my favorite creations was a tiny little thing. Father had left the door to his workshop open when he was out, so I had access to many different things. I had taken the strips of copper wire that he used to help make hearts tick, because I knew it would be tightly wound, and I attached it to a thin sheet of gold as the base. After that, it was easy to attach little legs and use a few gears to connect them to the center, and when you wound it up with a key, it was a little walking metal spider. I played with it for the whole week, until Father found it and dismantled the thing." I sighed happily, relishing in the memory.

"He did what?" Oliver broke in, seeming concerned.

"H-he took apart the spider. Why?" I asked, wondering why he seemed to care so much.

"That's awful. I couldn't follow how you said you made it, since I can't visualize much of anything, but I can tell that building it meant a lot to you. And if you made it when you were younger, that's extremely impressive. He should have let you continue working on it. I've never seen you build much, but you know so much about it. Really, you should've been his apprentice, or something."

"That's not very lady-like," I informed him.

"Who cares for that? It's very... you-like. If you have a talent and passion for something, you shouldn't feel held back by something like that. You should be allowed to work on what you love!" He was very close to me now, staring intently at me. I pulled back slightly.

"Like I said before, it's really nothing amazing. Whereas you dealt with several misfortunes. You went on the types of adventures that people only dare to write about, and you came to America, and have been striving to live here, and take in every child you find. Of course, your background is criminal, but continuing to push through it? You're nothing short of amazing-" I cut myself off. Why did I have to phrase it like that? Respect was meant to be shown, not voiced. I had only started talking to find out more about him, and now it had simply become awkward, for myself, at the very least.

The open fields had now completely been left behind, as well entered the outskirts of a more lively district. A rusted sign labelled it as M-18. So we weren't traveling exactly straight towards the Gadgeteer. That meant we would have to pass through this district, and one other to finally make it to our destination. By now, it was already becoming dark, dashing any hopes of making it on time.

"Anyways-" I tried to continue, despite the minute of silence between us. "I think we should try to rest now. It's getting too late to continue, and besides that, I'm tired."

"Well, I think we should avoid any hotels from here on out. I'd hate to put us through another fire incident," he mentioned solemnly.

"What do you propose then?" I prompted. It was no longer meant as a way to hint that I was deserving of something better, but simply that I had no other ideas in mind.

"Just a quiet alley. We'll draw less attention that way. It will be cold, but if the buildings are close enough together, it will at least block the wind."

"I'll leave it to the experienced one then." I shrugged, following him as he wove around the town, which was silent at this hour. As houses gave way to factories that hugged to the next closer and closer, he finally ducked between two into a small little area.

"Aha! I found it!"

"Found what? Do you know the area?" I tilted my head, trying to see him around the grey box he had walked around.

"No, but it was why I was looking by the factories." Standing next to him now, I saw that the grey box had several slits in it, an aluminum pipe coughing smog into the air. "This removes heat from the building. It smells terrible, but it should keep you warm even in those thin clothes." He smiled, beginning to lie next to the box. I joined him, lying only a few feet away. Minutes passed, and tiredness from the day's strain began to sink in. I was about to fall asleep, when I heard one word.

"Eva?"

"Yes?" I mumbled sleepily, too exhausted to even turn to look at him.

"Thank you. For respecting me, and for finding me brave, and interesting. I used to read books like those too, when I was younger. It means a lot that you see me that way."

"I simply thought you didn't give yourself enough credit. That is all," was the last thing I remembered saying, before I truly did fall asleep.