One fog-choked Tuesday, a frantic knock came at her cellar door. It was a young constable, face pale as suet.

Elara didn’t flinch. She opened her satchel. “This will take time,” she said softly. “And you will need to scream into my shawl so the night doesn’t hear.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Elara whispered.

Elara knelt before the automaton. She didn’t see a machine. She saw a patient. “Leave us,” she ordered. Grubb and the constable retreated behind a velvet rope.

But tonight, she wouldn’t stop.

Elara knelt. “What hurts, love?”

For two hours, she worked by candlelight. She unkinked the springs with silk-wrapped tweezers. She polished the escapement wheel with chamois. She rethreaded the pubis plate using a whalebone needle and a silent prayer. Finally, she applied a balm of calendula and beeswax to every friction point—not for lubrication, but for dignity. Machines deserved dignity, too.