After breakfast, Albrecht stopped by his workshop to check on Hans’s progress. The shaggy-haired boy was feeding wood to the forge. The windows were open wide, the only thing that kept the place from being an oven.

Albrecht stood before his mechanical man—or what would be one, once Hans managed to do as he was told. “Did you get the leg working?”

Hans opened his mouth, and Albrecht could see the excuses coming. He held up a hand. He wasn’t in the mood. He crouched before the leg, examining it. From the outside, all looked in order. And it was a beautiful thing. A metal foot attached to a flexible ankle. A sleek shin so glossy he could see his own face. The knee, the thigh, the pelvis: all clever, all superb. This leg was the mirror image of the other, which worked perfectly. There was no reason this one should not as well. But something was amiss.

When Albrecht had been young and healing from his fall from the tree, he’d thought that all he needed to do was build the outsides of a creature and it would come to life. That its insides, its natural levers and gears, would magically manifest. Jutta had laughed at him for this. He’d punished her for days afterward with surly silence. Once he’d made her sufficiently remorseful, they’d worked together to develop a system for movement. It was a bit like the waterwheel powering the mill, only their operation was fueled by the winding of a key. If everything worked properly, Jutta said, their device would move of its own accord. It would, in its own way, live.

Ever since, he’d wondered what made something live. He knew parts of him were not alive. His hair. His fingernails. He’d cut these without feeling pain. But he knew parts of him were alive. The bone inside his leg, for example. It had hurt. It still sometimes did. Therefore, it lived.

To hurt was to live. He believed this. And therefore, to make something live, he had to find a way to create pain. To harness it. Someday he’d be able to build a vessel that could hold pain, and in holding it, his creation would live. He knew this would not be easy. He’d caused pain to many animals. Too much pain meant death.

He’d built practice vessels from metal. Small things. A rat with wheels instead of legs. A duck that could eat and defecate. Eventually his designs grew more complex, needing more parts, first hundreds, then thousands, each one of them needing to fit perfectly with the others. This was why he’d needed the forge. So he could build more and faster.

“Think of it, Father,” he’d said. “I can build us soldiers who will never die. Who will never bleed. Who’ll need neither food nor water.”

His father had set down his pen and looked into Albrecht’s eyes. “If you can do that, my boy, then the world’s kingdoms will fall to you.”

“But you’re still giving our kingdom to Ursula just because she was born first. That isn’t fair.”

“Your sister will need someone to defend our land. To lead armies. The kingdoms will fall to you; but, yes, your sister will be the one on the throne. This is your mother’s wish. I would have thought you’d enjoy the part with weapons and such. Most boys do.”

Albrecht had wanted to scream. But he knew it would not help his cause. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little windup rat. He’d made improvements to it. Now it was covered in the fur of a rat that he’d killed in a trap. It didn’t smell nice, but it looked very much like the real thing. He set it on his father’s desk, wound it, and watched as the little metal animal shot into his father’s lap.

His father had leapt up. When he realized the rat was mechanical, he’d lifted it off the floor. “The wheel didn’t stay on, Albrecht.”

“I can fix that. It’s easy.”

His father placed the rat in his palm.

“Very impressive, my boy. Very impressive. But will you command an army of rats? Come to me when you’ve built an army of men.”

Come to me when you’ve built an army of men.

The comment had bubbled like acid in Albrecht’s mind for years. Despite his best efforts, he still didn’t have a single metal man who could walk, let alone swing a sword. Hans had been useful. He’d even come up with an ingenious solution for keeping the metal man perpetually powered: wings that would flap and rewind the mechanism as they simultaneously allowed the metal men to fly. If that didn’t impress his father, nothing would.

Albrecht unlatched the leg. He examined the inner workings. He couldn’t see any problems. He opened the chest. One by one, he studied the pulleys and gears, examining them for flaws. He saw none.

The only thing to do was to wind the metal man and inspect the gears in motion. He hated to do it. Any part out of alignment could be damaged or destroy the parts around it. They’d have to start over. They’d done this more times than Albrecht could count. It was wearisome. It was also worrisome.

Albrecht walked behind the metal man. He wound the crank between the device’s shoulder blades, gears ticking as the mechanism grew taut. Hans, sweeping the corner of the room, stopped to watch as Albrecht released the safety.

The man heaved to life. Albrecht stared into his open chest as the man lifted his right arm and then his left. All the gestures were smooth so far. The man turned his head this way and that. He lifted his left leg. Albrecht held his breath. The right leg moved. There was a screech of metal and then a clunk, and the man lurched, his gears grinding.

At once, Albrecht saw what was amiss. He stepped behind the man and fastened the safety. The grinding stopped. He pointed to the offending gear. “This was upside down, Hans. What were you thinking?”

Hans gripped the broom handle until his knuckles turned white.

“Come and look at what you’ve done.”

Hans put aside the broom and came closer.

“Not there. Here. Stand here.” Albrecht pointed to a spot on the floor.

Slowly Hans stood where Albrecht wanted.

“Did you put it in the wrong way on purpose?”

Hans swallowed. “No, Prince Albrecht.”

“Are you certain?”

“You were the one who assembled that portion, Your Royal Highness. Don’t you remember?”

Albrecht struck him, fist to belly. Hans folded forward. “What mechanism inside you allows you to become a wolf? Where is it?”

Hans wiped saliva from his mouth. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

Hans shied back, clearly expecting Albrecht to hit him again. “It is the truth. I don’t think about it any more than I think about making my heart beat or my lungs breathe. It just happens.”

“But you can control it, can you not?”

Hans nodded. “Most of the time.”

“I would like nothing more than to cut you open when you’re turning so that I can understand how you function.”

Hans’s face paled, but he did not blink.

“The truth is, though, I would have a very hard time putting you back together, and you are more valuable to me intact. If you sabotage any of my work, though, I will do it without hesitation.

“It’s a pity your sister also doesn’t have your affliction, or I’d be inside her in a moment.” Then he realized another way that remark could be construed. “I’d like to be inside her in that way too. How would you like that, Hans? Your sister, the consort to a future king?”

Hans’s eyes narrowed. He snarled and fine hairs sprouted on his face and the backs of his hands. Albrecht loved watching this transformation. It never grew old. But Hans disappointed him by returning to his full human aspect.

“Why did you stop?”

“I thought you’d rather I fix the damaged gears,” Hans said.

Albrecht stepped back, surprised at Hans’s insight. He supposed he and Hans could have been friends, had Albrecht wanted it. If Albrecht were going to have a friend, having one as useful as Hans might have suited. He didn’t talk too much, and he displayed good sense.

But no. Friendship was dangerous. You couldn’t count on someone made of flesh and blood the way you could a man made of metal. Everything Albrecht wanted for himself depended on the metal man.

“Fix the gears,” he said.

And then he went to ready himself for the festival.