[Moxie is around 10 years old in this one. It's night, at her brother's shop/their home, and he's bent over a mechanical rabbit: filled with gears and small, intricate moving parts, it's automata, incredibly complicated and versatile. He ushers Moxie over, and together they strike a match, lighting the little packed tinder powder so it catches and glows red, flaring a gout of fire up into the machine.
The rabbit flicks an ear, twitches, and then it's moving, the embers breathing warmth into its articulated plates and gears. It looks alive, almost, and Moxie gasps in awe.
"See that, little Wren? Sometimes I think it's a magic all its own -- a new magic, maybe, as the old magic is dying."
"Can I have it, Matty? Is it mine? S'gonna be named Roger!" she replies, apparently deciding that the rabbit is hers whether he agrees or not. Matty just laughs, though, watching the little creature hop around the room -- and catching Moxie (Wren?) as she tumbles after it, guiding her away from the heated furnace and sharp implements and other things a little girl probably shouldn't run into.]
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memory: completing the rabbit
The rabbit flicks an ear, twitches, and then it's moving, the embers breathing warmth into its articulated plates and gears. It looks alive, almost, and Moxie gasps in awe.
"See that, little Wren? Sometimes I think it's a magic all its own -- a new magic, maybe, as the old magic is dying."
"Can I have it, Matty? Is it mine? S'gonna be named Roger!" she replies, apparently deciding that the rabbit is hers whether he agrees or not. Matty just laughs, though, watching the little creature hop around the room -- and catching Moxie (Wren?) as she tumbles after it, guiding her away from the heated furnace and sharp implements and other things a little girl probably shouldn't run into.]