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[Aremu Ediwo]

Early Afternoon, 23rd Yaris, 2719
Black Cat Smithy, Kingsway Market

Aremu made his way through the streets of Kingsway Market, aware at all times of the overlapping echoes of the crowds all around. There were so many people – humans, most of them, some wicks, and galdori as well, all with pale skin, overdressed in what Anaxi called the Yaris heat. Aremu kept to himself; he walked swiftly and did his best to make no eye contact, his gaze fixed firmly forward. He knew himself for a fool; there was a bird, that lived in the deserts of Mugroba, which was said to believe that if it buried its head in the sand, its predators could not see it. If only, Aremu thought, if only. And yet he understood that bird all too well, for to look directly at all of them was more than he could bear – and might call their attention. Whatever chance he had to escape unnoticed – whatever little thing he might do to keep from drawing their attention – he would, without hesitation.

The Mugrobi’s right arm was tucked close to his side, his wrist resting against the edges of the linen pocket, the prosthetic hand giving the pocket the right sort of bulge, one that wouldn’t catch the eye. He could feel the band squeezing at his wrist, digging into the sensitive skin there, and he longed to stop and scratch the itch, but that – no, that, surely, he could not dare. His light-colored trousers were loose and comfortable, at least, though the shirt and jacket he wore over them seemed to strain over his skin, the high collar of the Anaxi-made garments stifling against his throat.

Over his left shoulder, Aremu carried a rucksack, and he could feel the jangling of it against his back, the thumping of the bits of metal inside. He thought, not for the first time, that he would have done well to stay in the Soot District – to find a smith in Hollow Street, where there were not so many Seventen in their green uniforms, where there might even be a few others like him, doing their best to hide in plain sight, to stay out of field range, to keep their eyes straight ahead and their secrets hidden beneath their skin. And yet he could not trust just any smith with his designs, and he did not know when again he might return to Thul Ka – and so he hoped, very much, that the challenges of Anaxas would not be too much to overcome.

Aremu knew better, too, than to ask Niccolette to do this for him. She would have agreed to try, and that might have been the worst of it. He felt some days as if he could not look at her without seeing the ghost of Uzoji, and he thought, too, that she could not look at herself without feeling the same. He had seen her, glancing sideways at the mirror, and he had wondered – but, then, he was glad not to know. He could not help to shoulder the burden of her pain, and he could not share his own; there was no space in either of them for it. As he edged past the sort of stall that sold the weak, bland stuff Anaxi called tea, as he walked a little faster at the feeling of a glance against the back of his neck, Aremu missed Uzoji terribly; he missed the knowledge of his best friend at his back.

But Aremu did not dwell. If he had been the dwelling sort, he might never have left his bed in the last eighteen years, and he had never had the luxury of being so idle. He thought perhaps there was a lesson for Niccolette in that, but it was not one that he could share with her. She would learn it in time, he hoped; he thought perhaps she was learning it already.

It was a strange mirror of Thul Ka here, Aremu felt. This market would be a drop in the corner of even Windward Market, and even the Liars Market dwarfed it. And yet in such a small corner one could hardly tell; the little bits and pieces of life seemed to be the same everywhere. Even pale-skinned and weak-tea’d, with an odd, harsh sort of Estuan lingering in the air, Aremu could see the same bustling haggling, the same life teeming all around him. It was a connection of which he would have preferred to be unaware.

And, finally, there it was – the smithy he had heard of, the Black Cat Smithy. A human smith, not a galdor; he had hoped it might be easier that way. Aremu came to a stop at the edge of it, shoved his right arm a little more firmly into his pocket, and glanced around.

Aremu swallowed, once, and cleared his throat against the dust of the streets. “Good afternoon,” The passive called, his Estuan lilting in a distinctly Mugrobi accent, a slight frown etched onto his face. “Is anyone here?”

[Catriona Fraser]

on the 23rd of Yaris, 2719 • early afternoon

She had practically followed him, coming from Kingsway market herself. The mugrobi galdor caught her eye for some reason, but she couldn’t place why. When he’d gone in the same direction as her forge, she’d naturally followed, clutching the strap of her own burlap bag on her shoulder. Strong as she was, the bag was very heavy and took every bit that she had to keep it from digging into her shoulder. She briefly considered using some of her newfound riches on a wagon or a cart of some kind. If the man had passed her shop, she certainly would not have pursued him. They were simply strangers, walking in the same direction. But as coincidence happened, he did stop in her forge, calling out to inquire if anyone was there.

Cat stopped a few yards away, taking him in. He did not dress as most Anaxi galdori did. But she knew enough to know he was not Anaxi. As she got closer, she also realized that he was not, in fact, galdori either. A passive.

The very idea of passives always confused Cat. The Anaxi took members of their own families, and if they couldn’t converse properly with the mona, told them they weren’t galdori anymore and then locked them away. But then Cat knew from her Vitanism teachings that they were all humans. Galdori were simply humans chosen to converse with the mona and therefore thought they were better. So it only made sense they would shun the sons and daughters who could not also converse with the mona. Cat used to play at monite with her friends. They would mimic the gibberish sounding language and then fall over as though they’d been hit. And then they would ‘heal’ one another. But Cat had been on the receiving end of that monite before and it was no play. Too, she had also witnessed a diablerie before. In the middle of the streets of Vienda, no less. The Seventen had harshly fined the passive’s...owner? Guardian? for the damages caused. It was completely out of the ordinary for Cat to see a passive just walking around on their own as this young man seemed to be doing.

Cat squared her shoulders and put on her most businesslike face. She was wearing her standard cotton dress covered by the heavy smith’s apron. Her hair was pulled up behind her to keep back and wrapped with what looked to be the same material as her bag, an attempt at keeping the Anaxi heat at bay. But as professional as she acted, she couldn’t hide how she struggled with her load. She came up behind the man and walked past him, giving him the universal ‘just a minute’ sign, before disappearing into her workshop. Her bag clinked heavily with sound of large metal pieces. She placed it gently on one of her workshop tables, now completely cleared of the mess from the altercation a week prior. She’d happily spent the, (how had Aodh put it?), jent’s, money the way she saw fit. She’d spoken with Raynarus and he’d agreed to let her expand on the space so that she could furnish a proper apartment for herself.

Cat reappeared at the door to her workshop with her notepad handy. Already written was her usual introduction.

Welcome to the Black Cat Smithy. I’m Cat, how may I help you?

She handed it to the mugrobi man and smiled warmly, giving no trace of the past week’s drama on her face.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Early Afternoon, 23rd Yaris, 2719
Black Cat Smithy, Kingsway Market

The rucksack pulled on his shoulder, and Aremu shifted, taking hold of the strap with his left hand to steady it. He glanced around, once, and jerked faintly to the side, taking a reflexive step out of the way as a young woman in a heavy smith’s apron stumbled past him, carrying a too-heavy bag and gesturing at him to wait.

Aremu tensed, his hand tightening on his strap, and fought the urge to offer her help, nodding slightly instead and holding still. She looked as if – but he had a bag of his own, and he couldn’t be sure whether she had come close enough, whether she had paid enough attention, to realize what he was. Better, he thought, to wait; better not to embarrass himself if, in the end, he was unable to help. He shifted his rucksack again, and stood outside the smithy, and cleared his throat again, quietly.

After a moment, the smith re-appeared. Aremu could see her properly, now – almost too thin for good health, but he had seen her carrying that bag, and he wouldn’t have doubted her strength, not for a moment. She looked thoroughly Anaxi, but she smiled at him, and stepped close enough that he was sure she must realize – if, the imbala thought, she knew enough about Mugroba to guess, or perhaps to know – and she extended a notepad at him.

Aremu glanced down at it, then back up at the smith, and his gaze caught the wicked scar that ran along her face. He shifted his weight, letting go of the strap of his bag; it clanked against his back, and he reached out with his left hand to take the notepad, his right arm still against his side. He read the message, and was left holding the notepad, not entirely sure what to do with it. Should he hand it back? After a moment, he extended his hand to her, well aware of the lack of space between them – but she was the one who had stepped close to him, and if she meant to pass the notepad back and forth, Aremu was not sure how else he could arrange himself.

“I would like to commission some custom mechanical tools,” Aremu said. The specifications – some similar samples – were in the bag on his back, but he didn’t put it down, didn’t bring them out – didn’t jump, yet, into the details. He kept his right arm at his side and his wrist against the edge of his pocket, and he tried not to look around in the market, not to flinch at the sound of voices behind them, a distant noise that it took him a moment to realize was laughter, not shouting.

He thought of bowing – he thought of giving her his name – he thought of explaining a little further. He did none of those things, not yet, because he was not sure; he could not be sure. Better to ask outright; better to let her send him away, if he wished, rather than forcing his presence upon her. Better not to risk her fear – better not to risk that she might call the Seventen, if he made her afraid. Better to be direct; it was not the Mugrobi way, but then, that had been lost to him a long time ago.

Aremu hesitated a moment longer, looking at the Anaxi human smith – Cat, she had called herself – and asked, his voice a little softer now, “Is that something you would be willing to do?” He knew that there was tension in him, in the lines of his shoulders, in the frown that seemed these days etched onto his brow, but he had tried to make his voice as gentle as he could manage; he had tried, as best as he could, not to seem threatening.

[Catriona Fraser]

on the 23rd of Yaris, 2719 • early afternoon

Cat took in the mugrobi man now with a closer eye. Not that there was much to scrutinize. He didn’t appear threatening, just a bit shifty. Just another person looking to commission her to make something. This was not her first passive. Cat wasn’t famous by any means but she was known well enough in quieter circles in Vienda for selling to passives at cost. In her mind, everyone deserved to defend themselves, regardless of where they came from or who they ‘belonged to’. Diableries worried her only in the way that the possibility of a thunderstorm in the dry season worried her. It could happen, but it was also unlikely. She knew better than all that protection crap. It was slavery, pure and simple, and it made her angrier than anything else.

She took the notepad back from him and nodded when he said he wanted something mechanical made. Of course that description could encompass a world of items. Shears, for instance, could be considered mechanical. And they were easy to make, but she imagined he was thinking of something a bit more complex. Cat knew she was capable of mechanisms, maybe not like the ones she’d seen at the Gala. That other smith had created something crazy! But she hoped she could provide what this man required. She wrote again on the notepad,

“That entirely depends on the nature of your request. I can do a lot but I would not presume to make something if I know it is beyond my capabilities. What do you have in mind?”

She waited for him to read her words and then her manners kicked in. She opened the door to the workshop and beckoned him to follow her inside. Already, there were small differences in her workshop. The humble beginnings of getting ready to build an addition onto the workshop. The shop wasn’t going to be anything more than another four walls at first. But she planned on doing all the building herself as the galdor contractor had been outrageous in his quotes. She had plans for something that looked nice, something that would draw the eye to her forge.

Hoping, the passive would follow her inside, she quickly sat out the two wooden folding chairs. With even one table out of the way there was considerably more room in the small workshop. She sat down and motioned for him to do so as well.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Early Afternoon, 23rd Yaris, 2719
Black Cat Smithy, Kingsway Market

The smith had looked at him for a long moment, and Aremu had met her gaze and waited. She took the notebook back from him and wrote for what felt like a long time and handed it back. Aremu took it again, lowering his gaze to it, and read carefully. He nodded, appreciating the depth of the response, and took a deep breath.

It was not the first time he had explained; she would not be the first such person he had shown. He had years of experience now, and he had seen a range of responses. Pity was always the worst, the sharp shock of it in someone’s eyes, the way they looked from his wrist to his face and back again. Disgust was almost easier; at least he could feel indignant about disgust. Some people accepted it with equanimity, and that, too, was what Aremu strove for when he caught a glimpse of himself. Equanimity. He had made his choices, and he had accepted their consequences, although there was acceptance and there was acceptance.

He wondered, idly, what the smith thought of her face; he did not linger on it, because he had no right to know, and he did not wish to.

“Thank you,” Aremu said, politely, when she invited him inside; he followed her into the workshop, glancing around. She set out a wooden chair, and Aremu set his rucksack on the ground next to it, slid the sleek hand of dark wood from his pocket, and sat, settling the prosthetic lightly onto his leg.

“I am a mechanic by trade,” Aremu said, looking at the smith. Better not to explain; better just to show. The words never quite seemed to come out right, no matter how long he thought about them. Carefully, he folded back the sleeve around his right wrist – once, twice, and a third time, revealing the straps that dug into his forearm to hold the hand in place. He did not take it off, not yet, and nor did he yield to the impulse to scratch the aching skin beneath the leather.

Aremu opened the bag one-handed, and did not need to fumble with the clasp. He pulled out another prosthetic – this one looked nothing like a hand, although it had hooks for straps like the one he wore. It seemed almost more like a base, with a threaded hole extending into the center of it. Carefully, he set it on his lap, and took out a screwdriver, a normal enough tool, but that where a handle should have been, there was a large screw. He rested the wooden hand on top of the second prosthetic, pressing down and holding it in place against his leg, and carefully screwed the screwdriver into the base with his left hand.

“There are other tools I’d like made along similar lines,” Aremu explained, lifting his dark gaze from his work to the smith. “I have the specifications with me.” He held there and waited again, his left hand resting lightly on the spot where the screwdriver met the base, and his right resting once more against the leg of his pants.

[Catriona Fraser]

on the 23rd of Yaris, 2719 • early afternoon

When he revealed the wooden hand, she’d only nodded in understanding. His disfigurement could hardly surprise or bother Cat. Did she not also have her own? If it were not immediately obvious that she could not speak, the evidence of her own trauma was literally written on her face. The scar had hardly been something people cared about but she could also tell when they weren’t making eye contact, focusing instead on her cheek. And even worse so, when they tore their gaze away to look down, as if they couldn’t bear to look any longer. She too, had received her share of pity and she’d give no such expressions to the man in front of her. Also, she was practicing her stoicism. There had been too much raw emotion in the past days and she needed to find her cool. Some calm demeanor where she could appear every bit as put together as- well...anyone else.

Cat slowly picked up the contraption he presented, not wanting to presume but also fascinated with this level of ingenuity. She’d seen prosthetics in some fashion or another. A wooden leg, wooden hands like his, but never something quite so functional. Of course even this, she imagined, left much to be desired, hence the need for more tools to set into it. As she turned it over in her hands she nodded in appreciation. It was well crafted. Obviously fitted to his own arm, and looked like it had seen some use. This was going to be interesting, if not impossible for her. But she didn’t want to say no. This challenge, however great it would be, could be exactly the thing Cat needed to throw herself into. The spark of creation was already in her eyes without even knowing what he might want for it. Still, she gave the piece back so that she could write.

”I believe this can be done. Mechanically, it still depends on what sort of tools you would like for attachments but I’d be interested in helping. I think that the first go will be more expensive but once I have everything I need, repeating the process should prove simple.”

Cat’s mind moved to the banjo she was supposed to be making. Not to mention her galdor waiting list. To her mental checklist, Cat added that she should make a checklist. An actual one. But the piling up jobs did not deter her from wanting to take this one. Orders for rings and swords came up all the time. Banjos and prosthetics? That was what Cat got out of bed for.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Early Afternoon, 23rd Yaris, 2719
Black Cat Smithy, Kingsway Market

Aremu had not extended the prosthetic to Cat at first. When she reached out, though, he lifted it willingly enough and let her take it. She turned it over in her hands, and he thought it was curiosity on her face.

It had been hard to pull himself out of the well of self-pity. It had been the Eqe Aqawe - of course it had been the Eqe Aqawe. Not in the Rose; he had been too weak, then, but in the Islands, when he’d had his strength back and they had docked.

Uzoji, Aremu knew, had made a conscious choice not to speak differently to him. He had always appreciated that - and appreciated too, in a different way, Niccolette’s worried looks on his behalf, and the way she had scowled at her husband for his frankness.

And so it had come about that Uzoji had mentioned something of their troubles finding a mechanic - something about the propeller - and in the middle of the night Aremu had gone to the ship and sat with the sleek curve of it between him and the stars, pushing gently on the wound to see how badly it ached.

It had not been as bad as he expected, and so he had thrown the ladder up and climbed one-handed, and gone to see the propeller. And his left hand was clumsy, and he had not known his way, and finally, frustrated beyond measure - not that night but the next, because the ship had always called to him - he had strapped a screwdriver to his right wrist and set about repairing it.

Aremu took the prosthetic back when Cat offered it, and set it on his leg. He waited for her to write, and took the notepad when she offered it and read, carefully.

“Thank you,” Aremu said, looking back up at her. “The base is still in good shape. What I need are more attachments. I have a wrench as well,” he was unbending, slowly, thawing, a little warmth in his voice. He handed the notebook back to her, and reached into the bag, taking out a wrench with a similar screw base, showing it to her and setting it down.

“There are so many tools,” Aremu said, wistfully. He took a folded sheaf of paper from the bag next, and held it down with the prosthetic, unfolding it. “If you -“ he hesitated, almost shy, and then extended it to Cat, slowly.

He had made diagrams of the tools he wanted - measured to specification, even traced copies of the threading the screw bases would need. There was a solid range of them, different shapes and sizes.

“I’m not sure -“ Aremu began, and then fell silent, taking a moment. When he spoke again, it was without hesitation. “Some of the tools need to be smaller, and it seems unsound to have too much of a taper. I thought of either a second attachment, or a second tapped hole that fits into the first. What do you think?” He settled his arms onto his legs, and leaned forward, looking at Cat and waiting for her answer.

[Catriona Fraser]

on the 23rd of Yaris, 2719 • early afternoon

C The shyness with which he passed her the paper made Cat smile. It was as if he was unsure of himself, but looking at the paper, Cat could tell he didn’t need to be. Everything was written and drawn precisely. She could replicate the work time and again with these drawings.

She quickly wrote to him, “This is all amazing. Truly, it is evident you care very much about your work.”

As she looked over the details, she also listened to him talk about the necessity for smaller tools and she nodded her understanding. His second suggestion was an interesting one and would be very challenging but it would work so much better than the first.

She began sketching herself, drawing what looked like a screw that would fit into the original with a flat head and a second, smaller, screw thread inside it. It looked good, but then she considered the time it would take, screwing in that piece and then screwing in the smaller tool and then having to inscrew both pieces when he wanted to use a larger tool and then having to possibly switch between those more than several times during a job. As a mechanic, she was sure he valued efficiency. She sat there, pencil in hand for a good three minutes staring at the paper. If he said anything she only held up a finger. Her brain was working. Finally, the lightbulb went off and she smiled. She then wrote on another sheet of paper, “Have you considered a locking socket as opposed to a screw? If you used that, the time it would take to switch tools would a fraction of that with the screw. Also, the mechanism for a socket is, although slightly more expensive, much more reliable, less worry about stripping.”

Cat was completely in her element right now. Her brain was running a mile a minute, thinking of all the different mechanisms they might could try. She was also considering a better way to attach it to his arm but she wouldn’t say anything until she ran some tests.

She got up after handing him the paper and ran over to one of the remaining tables in the workshop. She rummaged through a box of clanking metal pieces. Cat rarely had requests for mechanical type pieces. So much jewelry and weaponry! But anything of that nature certainly intrigued her and one of her experiments had been playing with sockets and the attachments. She grabbed several pieces and brought them back to the passive. It was a screwdriver handle, nothing special except for the square shaped hole in the center. She then had two, only two attachments. One was a knife, and the other was a simple flat head screwdriver. Instead of a handle, they each extended into a rectangular prism of metal. A hidden button inside the main handle locked into place when fitted with one of the attachments. She demonstrated their uses and then handed them to him as she wrote on her paper. “I put this together a while ago. But it seemed silly at the time, because you could just have two tools. But it seems here is its purpose.”

She couldn’t help the smile as she presented to him this idea. She knew there were complications. It would mean essentially making a whole new contraption. It would mean making all new tools so the ones he’d made already would be useless. It may be a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Early Afternoon, 23rd Yaris, 2719
Black Cat Smithy, Kingsway Market

She didn’t speak. Of course, she didn’t – she couldn’t speak. But there was still a lengthy moment in which she was looking at the diagrams, and Aremu was not quite sure what she thought. He had trained in mechanical engineering, and worked for years as a mechanic; he knew the diagrams were accurate enough to follow.

The hand had come from Uzoji. Aremu glanced down at it on his lap – the fine, delicate carving of the wood, the way the dark color was almost a perfect match for his skin, as close as such things could be. Close enough to pass from a distance, if one did not notice the shine of it too much – the stiffness – it was as fine as one could imagine.

Uzoji had not made a big presentation of giving it to him; in fact, he had not presented it at all. It was not his way; it had never been his way. He had not given it to Aremu in the hopes of Aremu’s gratitude (or forgiveness, Aremu knew) but rather he had tucked it away into a drawer before leaving the islands, and had let Aremu find it on his own time, in private, with no expectation. He had never asked; he had held back even from the sort of gentle questions about fit or comfort which would have imposed so little. He had never even mentioned it, not even when Aremu had worn it before him, and Aremu had never brought it up either, because he felt it was best not to.

Now, of course, Uzoji was gone, and Aremu had never asked, and he did not know where the other man had had it made. He was sorry, for surely in time he would need a replacement. He was sorry, for although he knew Uzoji understood, he should still have thanked him. But regrets meant nothing, now, and those were the least of them anyway.

The first smith he had approached designing his own prosthetics had been a Thul Ka imbala. A traditionalist, he had learned later – too late. It had not taken much, then, to steer him away. Aremu still felt that prickle of unease even today – even though he had, eventually, found a man to take it on.

His face eased slightly at Cat’s written encouragement, the frown between his brows smoothing away into nothing. He did not make the slightest attempt to interrupt her, but sat quiet and patient, watching her as she thought and stared. When she smiled, he lifted up slightly, and leaned forward, and he took the paper she offered, frowning again as he studied it.

Slowly, then, his face lit up; he stared at the words a little longer, and then lifted his gaze to the smith and grinned. It transformed his whole face; there was a boyish lightness to him, suddenly. “I hadn’t thought of it,” Aremu said, and he sounded delighted. “Yes, that would – it takes a long time to – and the stripping is an issue, and – ” he looked back down at the words on the paper again.

Cat came back with the tools and the handle, and Aremu took them wide-eyed, examining the mechanics carefully. He found the button and probed it with gentle fingers, studying the tools with his eyes and fingertips both. “Yes,” he agreed, softly, when he saw Cat’s words. “Here is its purpose,” the brilliant grin he had offered her had faded, somewhat, but there was a surprisingly easy smile on his face still, and he stroked his fingers gently over the tool, and – almost reluctantly – offered it back to Cat.

“I am glad I came here today,” Aremu said, simply, looking at the smith. He would find the coin; if he needed to borrow from Niccolette, he would ask, and godsdamn his pride. “I should very much like to try the locking socket. What next?"

[Catriona Fraser]

on the 23rd of Yaris, 2719 • early afternoon

At his response, Cat also grinned. She couldn’t believe a simple little thing she had toyed at making could now become as big of a deal as this.

His excitement bolstered her. It made her excited to begin working on this...and of course, a banjo frame. She’d already begun working on the design for it and had originally begun a fanciful sketch. But after the reaction she received for a certain pair of shears she came back to her forge thinking better of it and sketched a much more plain version.

But a prosthetic was different. This was something he would need to wear nearly all the time and he would also need to carry attachments with him. Cat was envisioning a case that he could carry, perhaps even across his body over the shoulder rather than a sack.

Much of this was going to require work that she was less experienced in. Metal turning, something only very wealthy smiths could even afford to do, and carpentry, and leatherwork as well. But she was up for the challenge, was glad for it even. It would certainly keep her busy.

More than anything, though, Cat couldn’t help feel the draw of helping someone with an impairment like herself. Anything that could allow someone to live as normally as possible, despite all the odds saying they wouldn’t, was something Cat wanted.

What next, indeed? When confronted with a somewhat experimental project such as this, Cat often preferred to make it first and then decide on the price, but she knew how expensive this was going to be. Borrowing a metal turning lathe alone was going to be an expense that she could not afford to do overhead. Too, she certainly was not interested in another debacle like she’d had most recently with a certain draper. She would inform the passive exactly how much she needed up front. And it wasn’t going to be shills. They were talking concords. Perhaps not many concords but that was just for making the item. She hadn’t even factored in labor yet.

Cat sat down again, this time drawing a sketch of a locking socket attachment. But in her head she was also working on a better prosthesis with fewer straps involved. She tilted her head for a moment and then thought, ‘why not?’ and began sketching thoughts for an arm attachment that relied on hardened leather and lacing to attach to his arm, but that also had softened hide on the inside that would allow for a more comfortable fit. It would still have some straps but not nearly as many as the one he was currently wearing. She wrote a little note next to it that read, ”This is simply an idea I have and would not affect the overall cost as far as I know.”

As for the rest of the sketch, she laid the other paper she’d been handed underneath a thinner sheet of paper that allowed for tracing. She traced the tools themselves but instead of the threading for screws she drew the long metal inserts for what would be the socket attachment. It was all very complicated and wonderful in that way. After likely an uncomfortable fifteen minutes, Cat handed back the paper with the sketch for the prosthesis, and the tools that would attach to it. Underneath each separate item she’d written an estimated cost.

This was a steep price, she knew. But the amount of renting a metal turner alone was going to be a big part of the price.

On a separate paper, she’d written. “This is uncommon work to be sure. And while it should be more common, there just aren’t that many people out there who do it. The only other prosthesis I’ve done is a wooden leg and I can assure you it was not nearly as complicated as this one will be. I am excited to see it through but I’ll understand if you need time to think about it.”