Pobres Criaturas -

Mrs. Pettle, who had hated Miss Finch with the heat of a thousand suns, found herself stepping forward. “The girl needs a cup of tea,” she said, surprising herself. “And possibly a proper pair of gloves. Those balloon-fabric mittens are a disgrace.”

The Clockwork Heart of Miss Marjorie Finch Pobres Criaturas

The judge, a prune-faced man named Sir Reginald Hoax, declared it “unnatural.” “And possibly a proper pair of gloves

She closed the notebook. “I am here to ask: is there a place in this world for a creature like me? I can learn. I can improve. I can feel—I think. When Socrates is frightened, I feel a pressure behind my ribs. When I saw the night-blooming cereus open, I wept. The tears were saline. I tested them.” I can learn

“Why are you so strange, Miss Finch?” asked little Timothy, who was missing two front teeth and all sense of tact.

Sir Reginald Hoax opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out.

“You are correct, Sir Reginald,” she said. “I am unnatural. I was created in a laboratory in Bucharest by a man named Dr. Alistair Finch, who was my father, my god, and my jailer. He built me from the remains of his deceased daughter—the first Marjorie, who drowned in a boating accident—and supplemented my missing parts with clockwork, galvanic rubber, and the brain of a woman he purchased from a medical college.”