(A/N): Partly inspired by Abney Park's "Herr Drosselmeyer's Doll" and a truly random moment/train of thought at work.

Playthings

Clara jerked her body up out of its slump as the closet door was thrown open, blinking at the sudden light as the cobwebs that had settled over her ripped away from their fragile moorings and feathered across her cheeks. Father stood in the doorway, stout body backlit by the oil lamp resting on his worktable. “What is that expression?” he demanded. “Smile!”

Though her gears were rusted from months of disuse, Clara forced her lips upwards, hoping the result would be pleasing to him. If not, Father would fetch the key and wind the springs himself, so tight she wouldn’t be able to speak or move her lips for hours.

She had no breath to hold as he stroked his beard in contemplation. “Good,” he said at last, nodding his head. “Come out of there now.”

She pulled herself to her feet in fits and jerks, movements graceless and irregular as she stumbled her way past Father and into the comparative brightness of the workroom. One of her sisters lay spread-eagled across one of the benches, her empty chest cavity yawning in the flickering light. The crumpled form of one of her brothers was sprawled against the far wall, oil dripping through his cracked casing in a half a dozen places.

Father laid a hand on her arm. “Useless junk,” he said, sour breath washing over her skin. “They break too easily. I made them poorly – not like you, Clara.” He patted her shoulder before pointing to the wash basin in the corner. “Go, make yourself clean.” He grabbed up the lamp as she moved to obey and the light swung wildly across the worktables flanking the walls, their surfaces littered with spare cogs, jointed limbs and eyeless heads.

The cracked mirror was caked with dust and grime, and a layer of detritus swirled up from the bottom of the basin when she dipped the dirty rag into the water; Clara dragged the cloth mechanically along her skin, heedless of the muddy water that splashed to the sawdust-covered floor. Father stood behind her, pulling a brush through her tangled hair and muttering under his breath, occasionally sneezing at the dust.

The water in the basin had turned a filthy gray by the time she let the rag drop. Father immediately set the brush down and turned her to face him, wiping her down with a clean towel. “There now,” he said, flicking a dark curl back over her shoulder. “That is better, yes?” Clara nodded, because it was what Father expected. “Good girl. Here.” He pressed a bundle of cloth into her hands. “Get dressed. We are going upstairs.”

Clara shook the fabric out to reveal a dark blue dress. There was no corset, no undergarments. Silently, she slipped the material over her head, movements still somewhat stiff and awkward. Her hand caught in one of the sleeves, and Father made a sound of impatience as he tugged her free. She held her hair out of the way as he fastened the buttons up her back with his thick fingers. When he was finished he laid his hands against her shoulders and turned her back toward him, tilting her chin upward. “Good,” he said. “Good. Come.” Clara followed as he took up the lamp and made his way between the worktables, heading for the stairs.

“We are going to meet some gentlemen,” Father said, holding the lamp high as they ascended. “You will be well-mannered and do everything they tell you to, do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

He extinguished the lamp as they stepped into the hall, setting it down on a table next to a decorative vase. Jovial voices sounded from behind a nearby door, and Father’s heavy hand clapped down on Clara’s shoulder as he guided her toward it. “Gentlemen,” he said as he pushed the door inward, addressing the half dozen men spread about the room in varying states of undress. “My apologies for the delay.”

“What’s this?” one of them asked, the smoke from his cigarette billowing in wreaths around his head. “She looks like an older model to me. Are you trying to cheat us?”

“You do me a disservice, sir. You have paid for the best, and so I bring it to you. She is older than the others, this is true, but she is much stronger – and a great deal more durable. She will serve you far better in your…diversions.”

The young man’s gaze raked up and down Clara’s body. “Really?”

“Now, gentlemen,” Father said with a sickly smile, pushing Clara forward, “who will start the bidding?”