Prudence and the Leeds Devil III

	Grumbling the man rolled awake, slipping sideways to the wooden floor. Yelping he pulled himself up, hand slapping about for the tiny contraption chirping repeatedly to wake him up. Twisting it to sleep he yawned and stretched, scratching idly as he dressed. Wiping the crud from his eyes he wondered what magnificent waste of time he’d indulge in today, strolling through his cramped dwelling. Entering his dim workshop he sighed, the immobile little construct sat staring back at him, idle and silent as before. He’d redressed her before bed the previous night, hands folded modestly in her lap. Frowning he approached her lifeless form, eyes frozen shut in some drifting, slumbering contemplation.
	“I’m sorry dear.” Her soft, smooth face stirred not, the button nose unmoved by the humid wind fluttering in. “I’ll keep trying but I… I think I’ve failed you.” Plucking the key he’d fashioned from her chest with a click and meager ticking he retreated from the room. Gathering the myriad things he’d need downstairs he stepped weak, defeated down the stairs.
	“Morning Master Franklin, are you well today?”
	“No, Thomas, not today.”
	“Is there anything I could help you with?”
	“Any word from Leeds?”
	“...No, sir. No word at all from him.” Franklin sighed, onerous. ‘Working’ with the Jerseyman had been proving more trouble than it was worth.
	“Thomas I want you to draft up a letter to his printing house, and deliver it in person.”
	“Well, about that sir-”
	“It’s no issue Thomas, I can pay the fare and more. So-”
	“Master Franklin, there is another letter.”
	“O-Oh! Well give it here boy!” Settling himself on one of the sturdy stools Franklin took up the slip of parchment, a finely looped and swirling script addressing the man himself. Straightening the parchment in his hands he pored over it, head twisting over the paper as his eyes widened.
	“They haven’t heard from him in weeks.”
	“Sir?” Franklin took the spectacles from his nose, folding them neatly on the press.
	“This isn’t good Thomas, I can’t hold the almanac any longer-”
	“*Sir?*”
	“Hold on a moment, Tom, we need-”
	“Sir!” The young man pointed behind him to the narrow stair. Spinning around on the stool Franklin locked eyes with the pale saucer glaring back at him, cheeks flushed beet-red where he’d repainted them. Her face was still, nervous, eyes darting between the men conversing.
	“How in the…” Dashing down the step she seized up an idle broom, holding it aloft and to Franklin’s neck, his hands splayed upwards.
	“Who are you people? And where am I? I’ll have you know I’ve see- do- *fought* some things,” she stammered, hopelessly swinging the broom between the surrendering man and his chief apprentice. “Things worse than you!” Nestling his spectacles back onto his nose Franklin pressed the broom away.
	“Dear, I-”
	“Don’t dear me,” she snapped. “Answer.”
	“My name’s Benjamin, and this is Thomas.” The apprentice waved meekly. “You’re in the city of Philadelphia.” Philadelphia. That was a name she’d heard in passing, vaguely from her maker, the stocky man talking of his time working the land to the warmer west, preaching among the Lenape. All manner of stories from the time before he wandered to the Massachusetts Bay.
	“Why am I here?”
	“I brought you here, now- full disclosure- your former owner handed you to me to repair you. That was only a few-”
	“Wait, owner,” she peeped, eyes alight. If she could make it home to the meager hamlet then he’d be there, waiting, unharmed and exonerated for her and waiting.
	“Yes, er, his name was… Josephion, nice man! Well, he wasn’t the original owner, no, he mentioned he’d passed.” The robot’s eyes faded, light disappearing from her face as he continued. “And that’s how you wound up in his hands, then mine, but- my God! What a miracle!” She lowered the broom, stepping backwards to the vacant stair. Taking a seat she sent the broom clattering to the floor, holding her face in her hands.
	“*When* is it?”
	“Dear, it’s the year of our lord 1735.” She huddled into a pitiful, sobbing ball, scrunching up her dress in her shaking fists.
	“I want to go home.”
	“Well, home is-”
	“I said I want to go!”
	“Sir,” the apprentice whispered. “I could take her part way with me.”
	“Right, right.” He approached the little machine, lending a hand to her shivering shoulder. “I’m… sorry that this couldn’t have been smoother for you. Thomas there is going to take you east, *home*, okay? He just needs help on his trip there.” She glared up at him, wary of the tricks of men since they’d been pulled on her own maker, forcing her from her home for the pastor that condemned her gentle master to death. But there was no other choice, at the least she could find her way home on her own so long as she had her key, pressed immediately into her hands by the somber printmaster.
	“Thank you,” she whispered, hauling herself up.
	“You’ll be going soon enough, shouldn’t be more than two days to Jersey and another to your home, as I remember it.”
	“Are you going to be okay,” the apprentice chimed in, taking a scrunched seat beside her on the staircase.
	“I believe so, yes.”
	“All I needed to hear. We can get to know each other on the way, okay?”
	“O-Okay…”