The tension wire sang a high-pitched warning before it snapped. Drizella's fingers were still wrapped around the brass adjustment knob when the metal whipped across her palm, opening a deep crimson line from thumb to pinkie. For three heartbeats, she stared at the perfect split in her flesh before the pain hit.
"Lady Tremaine!" Elara lunged forward with a clean rag, but Drizella jerked her bleeding hand away.
"Don't stop." She pressed her injured palm against the dark fabric of her skirts. "The calibration sequence is critical. If we pause now, we'll lose the entire alignment."
Blood soaked through the velvet, turning it from forest green to black. The metallic scent filled her nostrils, threatening to drag her back to that night among the mirrors. No. Focus on the mechanics. On the present. She forced herself to examine the failed tension assembly, using her good hand to trace where the wire had separated from its mounting bracket.
"At least let me bind it properly." Elara's voice carried an edge of desperation. "You're dripping on the gears."
"Then hand me the rag and keep working." Drizella snatched the cloth with her teeth, awkwardly wrapping it around her palm while maintaining pressure on the wound. The rough fabric caught on the ragged edges of the cut, sending fresh spikes of pain up her arm. Mother would be horrified. A lady's hands should remain pristine. The thought almost made her laugh.
The workshop's air hung thick with wool dust and machine oil. Through the windows, street lamps cast elongated shadows across their half-assembled creation. Metal components lay scattered across the floor in precise arrangements - Drizella's mind mapped each piece to its final position, a puzzle of brass and iron that would revolutionize everything. If we can just make it work.
"The replacement wire needs to be thicker." She pushed herself to her feet, scanning the workbench. "The stress load is higher than I calculated." Blood had already soaked through the makeshift bandage, but she ignored it, rifling one-handed through their salvaged materials.
"My lady, please-"
"Found it." Drizella extracted a coil of braided steel wire from beneath a pile of punch cards. "Help me thread this through. My fingers are too slippery."
Elara's weathered hands trembled slightly as she took the wire. "You're as stubborn as the machine."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Drizella positioned herself behind the loom frame, bracing her shoulder against the main support beam. "Thread it through the upper guide first, then we'll tension it gradually. The previous attempt failed because we rushed the alignment."
They worked in tense silence, broken only by the occasional sharp intake of breath when Drizella's injured hand brushed against the framework. Her vision swam at the edges, but she forced herself to focus on each precise adjustment. The punch card mechanism is the heart of it all. Without this, we have nothing but an oversized traditional loom.
The replacement wire slid into position with a satisfying click. Drizella reached for the tension knob again, then hesitated. "Your hands are steadier right now. Turn it exactly one-quarter rotation clockwise. Stop the instant you feel resistance."
Elara complied, her movements careful and measured. The mechanism gave a low groan as the new wire took up the strain. Both women held their breath.
"There," Drizella whispered as the assembly settled into place. "Now we can test the card advance." She fumbled with her uninjured hand, trying to slot the first punch card into position.
"Let me." Elara gently took the card from her trembling fingers. "You've proved your point about dedication. At least sit down before you faint."
Drizella's legs betrayed her by agreeing with the weaver. She sank onto a nearby stool, cradling her throbbing hand against her chest. We're so close. Through the pain-induced haze, she watched Elara load the test pattern into the mechanism. Just a few more adjustments, and we'll have something they can never take away from us.
The first threads of the pattern emerged like liquid gold, the punch cards clicking into perfect position as the heddles rose and fell in their carefully orchestrated sequence. Drizella's breath caught in her throat. The mechanical symphony she'd imagined in her mind for months was finally taking physical form, each gear and lever performing its precise role in the intricate dance of metal and thread.
But the noise. Dear gods, the noise.
The machine's thunderous clattering filled the workshop like cannon fire, drowning out even the pounding of her own heart. Each clash of the batten sent vibrations through the floorboards. Drizella lunged for the drive wheel, her bloodied palm leaving crimson smears on the iron as she fought to slow its momentum. The cut screamed in protest, but she gritted her teeth against the pain.
"Someone's coming!" Elara hissed from her position by the window. The weaver's face had gone chalk-white in the lamplight. "There are shadows moving on the street."
Drizella's mind raced through calculations, weighing options with the ruthless efficiency of a merchant counting coins. Two minutes to fully dismantle. Three to hide the components. The night watch makes rounds every twenty minutes. If they've heard...
"The punch cards first," she commanded, already moving. "Strip them from the cylinder. If anyone sees those patterns—"
A sharp rap at the front door cut through her words. "Hello? Is everything alright in there?"
Elara's fingers fumbled with the cards, threatening to tear the precious paper. Drizella shouldered her aside, ignoring the throb of her injured hand as she deftly extracted each card and slipped them into the hidden pocket of her skirts. The front door rattled again.
"City Watch! Open up!"
Thirty seconds until they grow suspicious enough to force entry. Think.
"Keep working," Drizella whispered, then raised her voice to carry through the door. "Just a moment, good sir! I'm hardly decent!" She injected a practiced note of scandalized propriety into her tone while her hands never stopped moving, unthreading the tension wires from the heddles.
Elara caught on quickly, her movements becoming more precise as she attacked the gear assembly. The main drive wheel came free with a teeth-grinding screech that made Drizella wince. Please, let them think it's merely the sound of legitimate machinery shutting down for the night.
"Ma'am, we've had reports of unusual disturbances—"
"Oh, how mortifying!" Drizella called back, pulse thundering in her ears as she helped Elara slide the dismantled frame behind a stack of wool bales. "I'm afraid I've made rather a mess of my first attempt at the spinning wheel. These modern contraptions are so complicated for a lady's delicate sensibilities."
She could practically hear the guard's uncertainty through the door. The excuse was calculated perfectly – what self-respecting watchman would want to burst in on a noblewoman's embarrassing attempts at traditional feminine crafts? Still, she held her breath until his footsteps finally retreated, accompanied by a muttered comment about "women's work."
Drizella sagged against the wall, her injured hand leaving fresh bloodstains on her already-ruined dress. The workshop looked as if a whirlwind had torn through it, with loose threads and scattered tools bearing witness to their frantic dismantling. But the precious punch cards were safe, and the machine's components lay hidden beneath innocent-looking piles of fabric.
"That," Elara whispered into the sudden silence, "was far too close."
Drizella could only nod, her mind already racing ahead to tomorrow's challenges. They would need to find a way to muffle the machine's operation. Perhaps leather gaskets between the gear teeth? But first, she needed to stop this infernal bleeding before she fainted and ruined everything they'd accomplished tonight.